It’s the way Shepparton was — a few decades ago. You didn’t know everyone in town (at least, I certainly didn’t know everyone) but you knew of people. There were many familiar names to which you couldn’t put a face. However, you knew someone in their family or some of their friends. They weren’t strangers.
To me, Tim Vibert was one of those people. I knew of his parents and I knew his brother Peter, to a degree. Today, however, I know a great deal more about the family since writing about Vince and Nancy Vibert, just last month. It was while I was reading about his parents that I came across Tim’s story.
Tim no longer lives locally but the story had intrigued me, so I contacted him (with Peter’s help). In response, he sent me a book he had written. This arrived on Friday and I read it on Saturday — despite the fact that I was supposed to be cooking for the family to arrive for a birthday party (Sunday). Without doubt, it is a unique story, but I have questions for him and must source some photos. Forgive me, be patient and join me next week!
For now, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to just have a chat.
As I wrote that last sentence, I was reminded of something you may find mildly amusing.
I am not a Facebook person. I joined because my whole family was chatting and I felt left out. However, I never used it. When I put my name out there, a few people asked to be friends and I said yes to everyone because it seemed rude to say no. When a friend asked me why I wasn’t using it, I gave her an honest answer. There was an assortment of ‘friends’ — some I barely knew, others who were close and precious. And there were some who I knew to be very different to me — with different values, different goals and different beliefs. My answer to my friend was this: “I have nothing to write about that would interest all these different people, I’d offend half of them.”
Dear God, I hope that isn’t true!
There was another unusual incident related to my writing; this one much earlier, in 1992. A friend and I were in Los Angeles for a seminar. When the taxi pulled up at the hotel, the driver warned us not to walk to the left. If we wanted to walk, he said, pointing down the street, we should walk to our right because it was safer. After the second day of the seminar, we went out the front door of the hotel and saw a notice for a ‘Spiritual Fair’ — but it was down the street, to our left. Remembering the taxi driver, we hesitated; we didn’t need to go, did we? Then three men from the seminar came out of the hotel and asked us if we wanted to go left. “If so,” they said “we’ll walk with you.” And they did. When we went inside, we found that the entry fee was fairly steep — and we decided we didn’t need to go. Or did we? Then two young men came out of the fair and handed us their tickets. They said they were going to dinner and didn’t need them anymore. Perhaps we did need to go — but why? We wandered around the place for a short time, not finding anything particularly interesting — and we were also hungry. So we headed towards the exit. However, just as we were leaving, a clairvoyant came out from behind her crystal ball and stood in front of me. “Why aren’t you writing?” she said. She glared at me and I replied that I had nothing to say. She made a noise that sounded like ‘hympph’ and stalked back to her seat. My friend started giggling: “You mean we came here, despite the obstacles, for THAT?”
Dear God, I hope that was also wrong.
Back to school
During the week, one of our readers called. She was chatting about artificial intelligence and what it could mean for jobs. However, she also mentioned that her granddaughter was starting school — and that brought back memories. That first day can be quite traumatic.
My own first day was far from that — although it probably was for my mother. I never asked her. I had been looking forward to school for a long time; there had been no kinder for me. As my mum chatted with a friend in the schoolyard, I was eager to get inside — and impatient. The little girl, belonging to the friend, was nervous. Her mother explained that, when it was time to go home, they would meet at the gate. Rosemary asked, “Who will brung me to the gate?” I remember looking at the gate, clearly visible in the corner of the schoolyard, and saying, impatiently, “I’ll brung you to the gate, Rosemary.” I so wanted to get on with this new adventure.
This memory is very clear to me but, what intrigues me about it is the language. Could neither of us say ‘bring’ or ‘take’?
This started me comparing the first day of my son and grandson.
I was an overly protective mother — especially with my eldest. (Today they’d call me a ‘helicopter mother’.) And he knew that! In the schoolyard, I was holding his hand as if I’d never let it go. He said, “I’ll get used to it, Mummy. I got used to kinder.” It was apparent that he had more courage than his mother; so I took him to where small people seemed to be gathering and left him there — running to the car so he wouldn’t see me cry.
But, how come, at age five, he could speak correctly — whereas I could not?
By the time my grandson started school, that first day had become much more humane. His mother asked me to go along because she didn’t know how strong she would be. However, it was much easier. We took him into a school room, got him colouring something (about which he was not the least bit interested) and waited with him until a new little friend came to chat. He had not said a word; was simply going through the motions that were expected of him. Stoic, perhaps, like his dad? He never liked school — just went through the motions for 12 years.
However, I clearly remember that he had no language difficulties and was, normally, a reasonably well-spoken chatterbox. (He still is!)
I was not present when the chatterbox’s daughter faced her first day. However, for her parents, it was a day that brought relief. They live next door to the primary school and Willow had been nagging to go for almost 12 months. She is tall for her age and regularly complained because she was bigger than many of the children she could see in the schoolyard. As for her understanding of the language? Well, the last time she was here, she spoke to me about the ice cream having an “interesting aftertaste”. No problems there!
So, were Rosemary and I behind the game in relation to the language? Or is there some sort of evolution running beside intelligent design? I know, for a fact, that Willow is nothing like me — as a child (with the exception of our shared eagerness to learn). I was shy, insecure and obedient. Willow questions everything but accepts reasonable explanations. Last year, at her parents’ wedding, she walked on to an empty stage, went to the microphone, and told approximately 100 people that she was going to sing a couple of songs. She was five years of age, totally comfortable and laughing at her own jokes. I’d have run a mile before doing that. I’d run a mile now!
The Vikings
I’ve been watching the second series of The Vikings on Netflix. I didn’t fancy series one because I knew it would be cruel and bloodthirsty. The second is just as bad, in that regard, but it’s holding my interest for two reasons. I had not known of the ‘worship of the old gods’ practised by the people of northern Europe; it was over-taken by Christianity but not without cruelty. Also because it was set in the same period as their raids and eventual, though brief, success in England. I do love history.
It may seem totally irrelevant that I have a problem with my left hand — but it isn’t. A tendon in my left hand is pulling my ring finger forward and weakening my little finger. This is a mild form of what has existed in my family for generations. My great-grandmother, my maternal grandmother, my mother, aunt and cousin, all had it — to some extent. My great-grandmother said that “everyone” in her family had it. This most likely common health occurrence prevented my mother from knitting and handcraft. It threatened to prevent my cousin from playing cricket; at 72 years of age, he was still a fast bowler. So, he went to a specialist to have the nuisance fixed surgically. The specialist told him that this was a problem brought to England by the Vikings.
Doubtless there were many occasions when a Dane, Norwegian or Greenlander encountered a young English woman. They first invaded in the late eighth century — continued their raids for more than 200 years but gave it up in 1066. And all of this explains my interest in this brutal series.
I don’t recommend it unless, perhaps, you have a tendon tightening in your hand. You know who to blame!
My family
While we are chatting, I’d like to explain something to you. At least three people, over the past couple of months, have said that ours is a “wonderful” family. I must make it clear that our crew is just like yours — just like every other family. I usually mention our family when we have a birthday gathering, but I don’t tell you when things go wrong. That’s because it isn’t just my story to tell.
They are ordinary and in some cases very private people. They have had broken hearts, occasional financial difficulties, situations where they hate their work — all that stuff. What gives me so much pleasure, and yes, pride in them is this: they are all, without exception, good at loving, supporting and encouraging one another. They are stronger together.
Michelle Obama has written that a strong family lends strength to others. Maybe that is true; maybe the families that emerge from this one will have the same values — maybe they’ll even laugh at the same things — and be stronger together. (I’ll be watching from another place.)
My very ordinary family had a great day together today (Sunday). It was quieter because the chatterbox had to speak at a conference and couldn’t be here. But little Willow was, with her loving hugs and contagious laughter; swimming despite the rain. It was good!
Please tell me!
I’d love to hear your memories of the first day of school or any tales about your family. (Better check with them first!)
Let’s chat again next week; I’ve a story to tell. May it be easy, my friends.
Marnie.
Email: towntalk@sheppnews.com.au
Letter: Town Talk. Shepparton News. P.O. Box 204. Shepparton 3631.
Phone: Send a text on 0418 962 507. (Note: text only. I will call you back, if you wish.)