Today would have been my father's 100th birthday.
He was born on 5 June 1926 in Douglas on the Isle of Man and passed away in Queensland Australia on 4 August 2015, aged 89.
His voyage through life was one that many children today would struggle to imagine. He grew up during the Depression. He wore wooden clogs. He scrumped apples. He followed coal trains to collect fallen coal. He knew what it was to go without and what it was to work.
He was part of a generation that could wield a shovel, get dirty, work hard all day and still find something to smile about when evening came.
Like all of you reading this, I have a special place in my heart for my parents. If you did not, you would probably be elsewhere, shouting about the end of civilisation, the end of the planet or the latest fashionable cause. Instead, you are here.
That makes you what I call "One of Us."
People who still honour the privilege of life. People who treasure family. People who understand that a childhood gifted to us by loving parents is one of the greatest blessings we ever receive.
This is my tribute to my Dad.
The same, but different, to yours.
Read more: The Voyage of a Century
THE DUSTY GULCH GAZETTE
Special Sister City Edition
Reprinted by Permission from the Dry Creek Clarion, Wyoming
For more than two hundred and fifty years, Americans have been told a simple story.
A group of angry colonists boarded ships in Boston Harbor and dumped tea into the water. Read on ... you will be shocked.
Read more: How The Boston Wheelie Bin Bash became the Boston Tea Party.
Part 2 of the Cane Series
I’ll admit, before diving into this series, I hadn’t given much thought to how the sugar industry shaped our Constitution. Like many Australians, I knew the name Sir Samuel Griffith from maybe from a university crest or a street sign..but not much more. Yet, as I followed cane’s tangled path through Queensland’s past, it led me to a moment in time when sugar, race, labour, and law collided. And at the heart of it stood Griffith: barrister, Premier, and constitutional architect.
What struck me wasn’t just what he said, but why he said it....and what he hoped Australia might become.
On 31 March 1891, during the charged debates that would shape the nation's Constitution, Griffith rose to speak on a subject that had long troubled him.... the importation of black labour into Queensland's cane fields. He warned:
“...the introduction of an alien race in considerable numbers into any part of the Commonwealth is a danger to the whole of the Commonwealth... upon that matter the Commonwealth should speak, and the Commonwealth alone.”
It was a defining moment. Not just in law, but in the struggle to decide what kind of country this fledgling Australia would be.
Australia's White Australia Policy was a set of laws designed to restrict immigration by people who were not of European origin, especially targeting Asians - mainly Chinese - and Pacific Islanders. Those laws aimed to maintain Australia as a predominantly white, British-style society.
The roots of the policy trace back to the gold rush era of the 1850s, when thousands of Chinese immigrants came to Australia seeking prosperity. Their success in the goldfields primarily resulted from them taking all available ground, leading to tension with European miners and culminating in violent protests such as the Buckland and Lambing Flat Riots.
In response, the Colonies (now States) imposed taxes and other restrictions targeting Chinese arrivals. By the late 19th century, labor unions opposed low-wage competition from Chinese workers in industries including furnituremaking and market gardening, further fueling support for restrictive immigration laws.
Read more: Blackbirds and Cuckoos - the White Australia Policy
They say Australia rode in on the sheep’s back.
But if you’d been standing in the cane fields of north Queensland, sweat in your eyes and the hum of harvesters in your ears, you might’ve thought otherwise. While the outback echoed with the bleat of woolly sheep and the click of shears, another Australia was rising... sweet, smoky, and sharp-edged.
This one rode not on the back of a sheep, but on the swing of a machete.
The machete: tool of the land - now the weapon of headlines and a handy distraction from what’s really going on.
Our country, which owes so much to the machete, is now very worried about them. And rightfully so.
So it got me thinking about sugar... its history and its contribution, good and bad, to our great nation of Australia.
It all began on a quiet afternoon in our neighbourhood park.
Cricket season had ended, leaving a vast, grassy oval entirely to ourselves.
My big brother picked up a sheet of writing paper, folded it with care, and launched it into the breeze.
That simple paper glider soared for a few glorious seconds before landing softly - and just like that, I was hooked.
The paper glider quickly evolved.
Read more: From Paper Planes to Powered Flight: My Childhood Obsession with Aviation
I have a relative heading off from sunny central Queensland to further a career in the southern depths of Australian Tassie winter wonderland. I am assured that she has a great puffer coat and ugg boots and a good attitude.
Good luck with that. It set me thinking about a time when I did the unthinkable and headed across the ditch to teach ....
Back in the 1990’s I was asked to “ help out “ at an educational facility in the " balmy " southern city of Invercargill in New Zealand. Just a few months, over winter, to be a relief teacher for someone who was “ sick. “ I obliged.
When I fronted up, I discovered that my predecessor was on sick leave because of a nervous breakdown from teaching the classes I was taking over. Strange how that wee fact was left out. As the cool April weather closed in, the days shortened and the southerlies blew in from Antarctica, I began one of the most memorable attacks of frostbite I have ever had.
OK, chillblains, but you get my drift.
By Roderick ( Whiskers) McNibble, Chief Mud-Slinger & Power Failure Correspondent
While the nation was still reeling from the latest Prentis Penjani “liar liar pants on fire” special (charred to a crisp, as usual), and the Honklander brides saga had gone full media blackout, something much louder went BOOM in the valley.
Those two mighty Gulch Valley chimneys - 170 metres of old-school coal muscle - came crashing down in a controlled demolition that shook the dust right off our swags.
And in true Dusty Gulch fashion, the locals have turned catastrophe into a sing-along.
Read more: Dusty Gulch Blackout Special : Lights Out But the Lights on the Hill are Still Blazing
In a quiet Australian town, long ago, stood a modest weatherboard house. It had three ordinary steps at the front, but the four wooden backsteps leading down from the kitchen verandah opened onto a boy’s entire universe.
Fifteen paces ahead - thirty with seven-year-old legs - stood the dunny, its tippy tin tucked beneath a leafy vine. Once a week came the Night Soil Man, brave, dependable, and somehow larger than life. He would swap the full tin for a clean one without fuss, as if performing a sacred duty for civilisation itself.
Beyond the gate sat a green Morris Minor sleeping in a garage crowded with ladders, tools, bits of timber, old paint tins, and mysteries only fathers understood. In the far corner of the yard, chooks scratched and clucked around the veggie patch, occasionally escaping into forbidden territory whenever the gate was left swinging open.
Those backsteps were this boy’s favourite place in the world.
We recently had a situation where an article was submitted to our blog, and I gave it ' an edit. "
Firstly, let me be clear: I am not a journalist and I have no formal education in writing, save for 8 years of learning the hard way in the school of hard knocks. I look back on some of my earlier posts and shudder - as Dad would have said " What was she thinking? "
Sure, I have done on line courses in writing, and I have tried to hone my craft. But it was experience and comment feedback that was my greatest teacher.
The first thing I learned was that there is a difference between writing historical pieces, current affairs and nostalgia.
Nostalgia is the hardest, yet strangely enough, the easiest if you just let it flow. Maybe that is true in all writing, but in nostalgia, it is much more important in my opinion.
There is an old saying among writers that readers can smell dishonesty long before they can explain it. Not sure who said it but it was not me. Or Maybe it was.
I think the same is true of nostalgia.....
Once upon a time in the land of OUR country, freedom was a rare commodity.
The citizens were bound by countless rules, regulations, and, worst of all, forms.
There were forms to fill in, forms to let us sleep, and even forms to dream. Dreaming without proper authorisation could lead to severe penalties, including being sentenced to fill out more forms.
In the heart of OUR Country lived Bob, a rather jovial and friendly man who had grown tired of the endless paperwork.
One particularly dreary Monday, Bob found himself buried under a pile of reports. As he sifted through them, he stumbled upon a peculiar form labeled “Application for Freedom.” Intrigued, he read the fine print:
Read more: A Passport to Forms Forever Land or a Fairytale Nightmare?
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