My day at the Special Olympics Winter State Games 2013

July 5^th 2013.

9.00am           

I wake when my son calls my name. My alarm hasn’t gone off. I am half an hour late already. Ten minutes later I start the car and we drive away. I am still eating a hastily peeled banana, doing up my vest and still without make-up. I have my vitamins in my pocket and a bottle of tap water. We drive within the speed limit to our destination across town.

10.00am

We arrive at our destination with plenty of time before the 11am start of the ten-pin bowling for Special Olympics Winter State Games. We purchase a hot drink and await the start of the event. We search and ask for a program for the day’s events to try and ascertain when my son’s event will occur. None is available.

11am

Everyone is at the venue. Nobody knows where he or she is assigned or when each is supposed to commence. A Power-Crazed Despot (PCD) whose role is to organise the players still has not posted a program. Everyone is dependent upon him to announce to which lane they are assigned. If they walk away they will not hear the announcement and will miss their call. Many are forced to stand, because there are insufficient chairs. We strain to hear his verbal pearls. Keep in mind that all these athletes have intellectual disabilities and some have hearing disabilities also.

11.30am

Some of the players commence practice and finally start the competition. Others still do not know where or when they will be bowling. PCD finally admits that the rest of the players will not start till after 1pm. I grit my teeth as I could have enjoyed another hour or two at home. I take my son for a walk, as the tension in the venue will only aggravate his anxiety. We buy lunch.

12.30pm

We return to the venue to find there is nowhere to sit and the games are running late. We go outside and sit in the car.

12.55pm

We go back inside because we don’t want to miss any announcement about new games. This time we take in our folding chairs. We find a corner in semi darkness and wait. Athletes, parents and carers cover every surface. I have a ding-dong confrontation with the PCD, but to no avail. He will not tell me when my son might expect to bowl. And he will not tell me when, after 9am tomorrow, we might expect to start the team bowling competition. My god! He has had all the names and stats for over a month to organise these 98 athletes!

1.55pm

My son’s name is called and he is assigned to a lane and commences practice. This lane, of course, is nowhere near where we were sitting, so I collect all our bags and chairs and try and find a position within sight of his lane. I find a spot behind people standing to watch the game. I can barely see the scoreboard. I cannot see the bowlers.

I watch. I talk to other distressed parents and carers. I wait. I have now been at the venue for just on four hours!

4.00pm

My son finally finishes his three games. We commence waiting for the results and presentations. Some other competitors have only recently commenced their games.

5.10pm

An announcement finally calls us to the café, where the results and presentations for my son’s grading will begin. Haggard athletes and carers jostle for position. A person without a loudspeaker shouts to announce the winners. My son gets second place. He is happy. I commiserate with others, who are still waiting for their events to end or their presentations to commence.

5.15pm

We drive home in the rain.

6.05pm

We arrive home. I still have not put on my make-up.

Total time bowling – 2 hours

Total time driving – 2 hours

Total time waiting – 5 hours!!!

Joy oh Joy! We get to do it all again tomorrow.

What could have happened?

1. We could have had a program emailed or posted to all athletes and families before the day of the event. Everyone will make allowances for events running late, but we should not have to tolerate being treated like naughty children for having the temerity to ask what to expect. It is strange to me that the region that PCD is connected to, knew not to arrive till just before they would be bowling. Their athletes arrived calm and refreshed a short time before their games.
2. We could have had a number of programs and lane allocations posted at the venue that athletes could follow and refer to, as required. None appeared.
3. We could have been treated with respect for our time and effort to get there, instead of devaluing the time and commitment of athletes and their families. Sharing information and some preparation by PCD would have made everyone aware of where and when they were playing and improved the atmosphere greatly.
4. When it is known that a crowd will be present for an event, additional chairs could be procured or hired, or attendees could be encouraged to bring suitable portable seating.
5. Petty officials, who obviously have a chip on their shoulder, should not be allowed to continue in their role. Their manner makes it a frustrating and exhausting experience for all concerned.

Special Olympics Australia is a worthwhile and excellent organisation. My son has benefited from his participation. I have volunteered in various capacities. Unfortunately SO suffers from a lack of suitable officials, coaches and office bearers. Much falls to too few. A small number use their position to gather and hold power to the detriment of the whole organisation. It spoils the experience for all. It could, in time, tarnish the profile of the whole organisation, and also deter others from volunteering for these roles.

Sandcastles - Autism and Down syndrome

It is a hot, Melbourne, summer day some years ago.  Large chunks of the population have moved from the city to the bay side towns, along the Mornington and Bellarine Peninsulas to benefit from the coastal breezes.

My husband and I lounge on folding chairs in the shade of a boathouse, watching our two small boys playing in the sand. 

The elder boy, Duane, plays in the shallows like a beached whale and rolls his slick, wet body in the warm sand. He also enjoys toting buckets of seawater up the beach to watch the liquid disappear into the sand. His short, pudgy body waddles as his sand laden bathers sag beneath his crotch. He is content and happy in his activities.

The younger boy, Miles, is equally content to play alone. His solitary play is unlike his older half brother. Miles’ lightly tanned skin and agile body make him physically indistinguishable from other beach users, but this five year-old boy has autism. His repetitive activities are ritualised and obsessive. He sits in the shallows absorbed in the gentle lapping of the waves on the beach as he flaps his hands in excited delight. Then he moves to the dry sand and sifts handful after handful of the warm grains through his fingers, watching the play of light as the sand tumbles to the ground.

Duane moves towards other children as they enter the beach. His natural gregariousness impels him to seek playmates. His Down syndrome, is no impediment to his social urges and the other youngsters are unconcerned and accept him as he is. Soon he has gained their support to build the ‘biggest sand castle in the world’.

Meanwhile, Miles returns to the shallows to watch the waves lap against a small dinghy that is beached nearby. He gives no sign that he is aware of the noisy castle builders.

As parents we keep a watchful, yet lazy, eye on all the children as we enjoy the opportunity for quiet shared conversation. 

Two more sandy urchins approach our section of the beach. They walk along the shoreline collecting shells and other ‘treasures’. They could be brothers with their sun-bleached hair, bronzed, lean bodies and matching swimsuits. Nearing Miles they note his proximity to the dinghy and perhaps think they would like to float in the shallows, if given the chance. 

As the duo approach the lone water-watcher, my husband casually rises and ambles to a position close enough to assist any conversation, as Miles’ social skills are limited and his language consists of repeating the last few words he has heard, a characteristic known as Echolalia, common in children with autism.

Making conversation, the older of the two boys looks directly at Miles and asks, ‘Is this your boat?’

Miles barely acknowledges their existence. He remains with his back to the pair. He merely echoes, ‘Your boat.’

The first boy shields his eyes from the sun and leans impatiently closer. ‘No.  It’s not my boat. Is it your boat?’

Again the echo returns, ‘Your boat.’

His questioner shrugs and turns to his companion.

 ‘Let me try,’ says the second boy. ‘Is this your boat or somebody else’s?’

Immediately the echo returns, ‘Somebody else’s.’

The second boy smiles smugly. ‘See. I told you he didn’t know who owned the boat.’

They pass the water-watcher and move on to the castle builders. Soon they are enlisted to the common cause.

My husband returns to his chair, chuckling. As parents of children with disabilities, we sometimes become overwhelmed with the enormity of the task we face. 

Somehow Miles negotiated a situation, which could easily have sent him screaming from the beach. Instead he gave his parents a gift.

 ‘That’s the longest conversation he’s had so far!’ my husband reports gleefully. 

By Lisbeth Wilks 

Boiling the Peas - with a son with Autism

It was any other Saturday afternoon. I put a pot of frozen peas in water, onto the stove, ready for dinner on my return later in the day. Roy was gardening and Miles was on his regular railway jaunt. What could go wrong?

Next morning, we were having a rare breakfast together when I saw a piece of mustard coloured paper taped to the wall. It was attached with sticky tape, and was definitely out of place. It was at eye-level, near the switch for the overhead fan. Why was it stuck there?

As I walked towards the offending paper I said, ‘What’s this doing here?’

Suddenly I was aware of Miles’ face. His look of horror foretold that disaster might be in store, if I removed the paper. His fears held some foundation.

As I removed the paper a fist-sized hole was revealed in the plaster.

It was obvious who had performed this remodeling of the plaster, but why?

A forensic investigation was called for.

But first, my 32-year-old son with Autism had to learn (once more) that actions have consequences and that he would be responsible for paying for the wall to be repaired.

Keeping a straight face, the judgement was delivered and Miles retreated to his bedroom to tend his bruised ego and possibly comfort a sore hand.

A short time later, with an eye to detail and strategic questioning of my personal demolition subcontractor, I deduced the sequence of events that took place the previous day.

It appears that Miles returned elated from his day riding the rails and, for the first time in his life, decided to help get dinner ready. His effort in this respect was to turn on the stove under the peas. He then walked away. Pleased with his contribution to the smooth running of the household.

Sometime later, Miles returned to the kitchen to find the pot of peas boiling furiously and spilling over the stove. This was obviously not meant to happen.

Miles had the presence of mind to turn off the heat and remove the pot from the element. But this did not adequately remove the tension from the situation. Miles’ anxiety was now at the point of boiling over also.

To relieve the tension, Miles did something he rarely does. He hit something. That something was the wall. Usually walls are sturdy surfaces that can withstand a small pounding, but this wall collapsed under the force of his adult fist.

When Miles realised he had compounded his problem, he employed some problem solving skills we had not previously seen.

Miles went to his room and found a sheet of A4 paper that had nothing written or drawn on it. This, in itself, is a minor miracle. He then found a felt pen that he felt approximated the colour of the English mustard paint on the kitchen wall. He must have spent some time on this as he completely coloured that piece of paper with mustard ink.

The next step was simple. Attach the paper to the wall.

We always keep sticky tape around the house, so it was not difficult to locate the tape and use it to attach the paper to the wall.

Voila! Mum would never notice.

In fact his plan did work for about twelve hours.

Roy and I returned from our day’s activities.

I prepared dinner without noticing the peas had been pre-cooked.

The evening was spent in other areas of the house.

The next morning, when the evidence was revealed, the facts were so amazing that we saw humour in the incident.

The wall was patched, repaired and repainted.

Costs were covered.

Life goes on …

Lisbeth Wilks, 2011

Dad's 'Bobby stories'

When I was a child my Dad’s bedtime stories were very popular.  They were all about his boyhood.  The stories usually involved his dog, ‘Bobby’, and came to be known as ‘Bobby Stories’.

Bobby was a middle sized brown dog of dubious parentage. He was skilled in bringing slippers and papers to his master and fetching sticks and balls.  Bobby’s loyalty was unquestioned.

Bobby with his master, Alex and his
three older sisters.

‘Bobby Stories’ made an impression on me and, when I had my own dog years later, I called him ‘Bobby’.

When we were feeling devilish, we teased dad to tell us the story about how his mother caught him sawing the legs of the dining room chairs. Dad feigned shock that we knew about this secret of his past, but he saw the funnier side of the anecdote.

Alex, at work with the toy saw. (Approx. 1914)

The Handkerchief

A simple everyday item, like a handkerchief, can send an unsuspecting sniffler time travelling to memories of childhood. Long forgotten times and incidents that lie buried in the subconscious for years can be carefully preserved within the folds of a thirty-centimetre square of linen. We keep articles of clothing or we grow out of them and pass them on. Occasionally we are the recipients of items from a relative or friend, that pass into our possession and lie in our drawers as small time capsules, waiting to explode their store of memories at unexpected times.

Betty and Alex on their wedding day, 1945.

That thankless task, the ironing, precipitated a rush of visions stored in the depths of my grey matter. I was ironing, with nothing to break the monotony. Between the shirts and jeans I extracted one of my husband’s handkerchiefs. He retains the old habit, looked upon favourably again by the environmentally conscious, of carrying pockets of hankies, for himself and forgetful family members. No tissues touch his gentle nose.  He always has a hanky in his pocket, after years of training by his mother.

I embarked upon the pile of handkerchiefs of various colours and stages of deterioration. Some barely a step away from tying up the tomato plants next summer. In the pile was a good quality, white linen handkerchief of the old style, with a half-inch hem and a blue ‘A’ embroidered in the corner. My husband’s name is does not start with ‘A’ and most of his handkerchiefs, if they have an initial, have an ‘R’. This handkerchief probably belonged to my father, Alexander. 

I am unsure how this handkerchief came into our possession. It may have been scooped up in the general cleanup after my parents died in late 1982. Probably shoved in a bag, or lost among the papers of his old roll top desk, or in the pocket of an item of clothing that has long since gone to the charity bin.

This the hanky could have been used to bandage those grazed knees that we had as children. Dad would lick the corner to clean up the wound and then carefully fold the handkerchief to bandage the afflicted knee or elbow, then, after working his minor miracle, he’d send us to mum for a more antiseptic treatment.

Was this the hanky Dad used to tie the knots in the corners to provide a hat on a hot summer day, when he was sitting on the beach before ‘Slip, Slop and Slap’?  He lay in the sun and baked like a beetroot, then rolled up his trouser legs and paddled in the bayside waters. I can’t remember him swimming. Just lying on the beach on one of those folding deck chairs, that you still see at old holiday homes along the Mornington Peninsula. Dad would read the newspaper, then fall asleep, and we would bury his pale, white feet in the cold, wet sand. His feet were the only thing that didn’t burn. He regretted his sun bake later when the sunburn glowed. Our childhood was full of the fishy smell of the ointment mum put on his and our burnt backs, legs and arms. 

Was this the handkerchief Dad tied two threepences into the corners for my sister or I to take to Sunday school? Our parents sent us to Sunday school without coming too. Did Dad know his daughters cashed the three-pence at the milk bar on the way to their Sunday appointment? Only two large brown pennies made it to the collection plate. 

Other memories of handkerchiefs flooded into my mind. Dad’s sneeze matched his rather large nose and large black eyebrows. He made a huge explosion when he feigned a sneeze into his large white hanky and then produced a penny, an Easter egg, or a lolly from behind the ear of a startled child. He would wave a hanky to attract our attention across a crowd of cousins, a signal to come and join an adventure, out the window or under the table. 

I remember my Mum borrowing one of Dad’s hankies to race at the annual Sunday school picnic. The picnic was in an open field. After the ride in the box-shaped furniture van, countless choruses of ‘Ten Green Bottles’, and sandwiches wrapped in the paper that used to come around the loaves of bread, there were races. Mum was not prepared to run fifty yards for the amusement of assorted, tired and sticky urchins. This was not the place for anything as serious as a running race. She made it a Dusting Race. My Mum lined up, and, with the help of Dad’s hanky, started ‘dusting’ her way to the finish. This was a curious surprise, as her housekeeping skills had not previously held such a high profile. Mum wasn’t lazy. She merely had other priorities.

A lowly handkerchief has many memories sewn into the flimsy fabric, a square of immortality, waiting to evoke long forgotten stories.

By Liz Wilks

The Carmichael Family of Stony Creek (South Gippsland)

The involvement of the Carmichael family with Stony Creek commenced with the marriage of John Carmichael and Isabella Campbell in 1846, in Shieldaig, in the highlands of Scotland.

The young couple emigrated to South Australia in 1849 with three children, Alexander, John and Michael. After the early death of Isabella, John and his young family unsuccessfully tried to make their fortue around the goldfields of Southern Australia.

The family grew up with little, if any, education and John (Jnr.) became a drover, teamster and a shearer, travelling the countryside to obtain work until the mid-1870s when he met and married Elizabeth Niven and settled in Berwick.

Around 1879 he, with many others, came into South Gippsland by way of Morwell and selected land in the East Dumbalk area. Upon grant of the land he works for the next couple of summers to clear a small portion, walking in from Mirboo North with supplies, as there was not sufficient feed to keep a horse on the propertyhe had named ‘Hilands’.

About 1882 he brought his wife and two young daughters to ‘Hilands’, going out to work clearing for neighbours and attempting to produce from his land enough to live on. He also worked with the survey teams , line clearing and helping clear the lines where the road now runs from Dumbalk East to Stony Creek.

The construction of the Great Southern Railway line, towards the end of the decade, gave him the opportunity to sell his produce (butter, eggs and meat) to the large numbers of railway workers camped along the line.

John, his father, joined John Jnr and his later death was the first burial in the Meeniyan Cemetery in 1894.

Margaret married Donald Henderson and lived on an adjacent property for a short time. Alexander lived most of his life at Dunkeld in Western Victoria.

John  and Elizabeth raised six daughters, Eva (Mrs W. Martin), Ilma (Mrs E. Wills), Belle (Mrs W. Barton), Janet (Mrs D. Coutts), Mollie (Mrs E. Gunson), Ruby (Mrs E. Campbell and three sons Duncan, Colin and John (known as Rod). Colin was killed in a fall from a horse at the age of 14.

Belle, with husband William Barton

Duncan, as well as being a farmer, was also a well-known livestock auctioneer in the Stony Creek and surrounding districts, prior to enlisting in the first AIF (Australian Infantry Forces) during the First World War. He ended the war with the rank of Lieutenant in the Fifth Light Horse Regiment. Mollie and Ruby also served overseas as nurses. (As a child, I remember Mollie and Ruby living in Melbourne in 1984 -LW).

Rod joined the bank in Stony Creek and later served at their branch at Terang, before returning home when Duncan enlisted.

After the war Duncan and Rod expanded operations of the family farm. They rented and bought properties around the district. They were mainly engaged in grazing sheep with large numbers of Merino wethers running on the plains country around the Stony Creek-Buffalo area, part of which had been selected by their father, in the name of one of his daughters.

Duncan and Rod were also very involved with football at Stony Creek. Duncan played in a premiership team in 1911 and 1920 and Rod was in the premiership team of 1920 also, and also in the Meeniyan-Stony Creek United premiership team of 1925. Their social life revolved around Stony Creek.

In the late 1920s they both married. Duncan Married Joyce Martin and they raised three children: Mollie (Mrs K. Day). John and Rory. After Duncan’s death in 1942, the family continued to farm until the 1960s, when they sold and moved from the area.  John (Rod) married Nina Helms and raised three children; Colin, Peter and Diane (Mrs D. James).

After World War Two, Rod and his sons, Colin and Peter, commenced clearing the country between Stony Creek and Buffalo. At the same time they became involved in the re-establishing of the Stony Creek Racecourse. Colin and Peter also played football with Stony Creek and Colin acted as secretary to the club for a year also.

The Grandstand at Stony Creek Racecourse in 1911.

Peter moved to Gloucester NSW in 1968. He had two sons, Rod and Lachlan.

Colin is still farming in the Stony Creek –Buffalo area. Colin had a son, Andrew. Andrew had a son, John. John is the fifth generation of Carmichael to have been born in Australia and to have lived in the Stony Creek area,

By Colin R Carmichael (1985)

‘Patanga Park’

Buffalo, Victoria, 3958

Belle's four eldest children
Hermia, Betty (Lisbeth), Phoebe and John
The three youngest children were
William, Duncan and Colin. (not pictured)

Alexander Geddes Senior - My elusive Grandfather

My memories of my grandfather, my father’s father, are of a thin, crotchety, bald man who spent much of his time in his garden, which was laid out with military precision. As a retired draper and small businessman, his home was still stacked with suitcases of linen sheeting, damask and other fabrics. Each case was labelled ‘Property of Alexander Geddes Esquire’.

            Alexander drove an immaculate car called a Graham Paige, which had a back seat like a Chesterfield couch. Sometimes, as a child, I sat in that car as it drove a slow and stately journey to the local shops or to church. It was the sort of vehicle that caused people to stop and look. It was already a vintage car in the 1950s.

Grandpa's Graham Paige

Grandfather was very old when I was very young. There was not much he had in common with a small girl, his adopted granddaughter. On one memorable occasion, a family argument resulted from him accusing me of breaking the seat in the outside toilet; something my mother admitted to doing while trying to admire his garden through the doorway. I regret that her admiration for the foliage did not wait until she had removed herself from the confines of the ‘smallest room’.

Alexander, Linda and Myrtle with Catherine and Alexander Snr, and Cousin Graeme

This petty incident, and the alleged matter of some money owed by my grandfather to my father, resulted in my parents not speaking to my Grandpa for many years.

When I next saw Alexander I was a teenager, ushered to his deathbed. He looked frail, in the large bed and darkened room. He barely acknowledged my father or I, although some truce had been called to accommodate this momentous occasion.

As years have passed I have wondered what was my grandfather’s background.

On my mother’s side of the family I was arrayed with intricate detail of the family history, especially the generations who came as settlers to the virgin Antipodes to farm tracts of land and produce large communicative families where everyone knew everyone else and saw each other regularly. Even on my paternal grandmother’s side the detail was available about settlers and farmers. But Alexander never offered information about his background, and I never asked.

Alexander and Catherine Geddes with their children: Alexander, Myrtle, Linda and Anne

By the time I became curious, it was too late. My parents’ generation had died. My two cousins on my father’s side seemed to have vanished. My only records of his existence were faded photographs and a photocopy of his marriage certificate.

From these meagre mementos I deduced that his mother’s name was Jane Paterson and his father was Thomas Geddes. His father was a miner in one of the hundreds of pits (coal mines) in Lanarkshire but he had already died by the time Alexander married. I do not know if Thomas and Jane were married.

Geddes drapery store in Melton

My grandfather was born in 1874 in Airdrie, within an area called Monklands which is part of the larger county of Lanarkshire. Alexander was born, raised and emigrated to Australia during the reign of Queen Victoria (1837 - 1901). He was a product of a time of stifling etiquette and class structure. As a miner’s son, he had no business having dreams beyond his station. Airdrie was then a village between Edinburgh and Glasgow in the Scottish Lowlands. 

It was recorded that Alexander was born on the thirteenth of August, but his superstitions caused him to always claim the fourteenth as his birthdate.  Apart from the record of Alexander’s birth, little else exists apart from his presence, recorded on the passenger list of the SS Australia, which left Brindisi, Italy in 1996 on route to Adelaide and Melbourne. He also voted in the 1899 Australian Federation Referendum where he was listed as a draper in Melton. The mystery remains.

Lisbeth Wilks

If it is to be, it is up to me - Put you hand up for a committee

Miles aged 3

Ten two-letter words with a simple message. Some years ago I heard an Australian Sporting Champion say that these words changed his life.  He realised that if he wanted something to happen it required some effort from himself.  These words can have equal value for parents of children with disabilities such as Autism Spectrum Disorders.

            In this era of ‘economic rationalism’ and ‘user pays’ it is obvious that ‘nothing comes of nothing’ and if we want to improve the services, conditions and future options for our less-abled family members we have to be prepared to take some action ourselves.

            But I hear you say, (Dare I say it?) “I’m just a parent! We need experts to run committees, form plans of action, make decisions and tell us what to do.”  Our sense of self worth has taken a battering over the years.

            My response is that as parents of disabled children we have undergone a rigorous, intensive training in many areas of expertise.  We have learned to manage our time to fit in all the requirements of coordinating our family’s special needs with a balance that gives rights to all our children.   We have developed creative strategies and adaptability to cope with the demands of living with a person with autism spectrum disorders.  We have learned to plan and organise and run our households whilst sometimes going outside our homes to seek employment.  These are valuable skills.

            Then I hear you say, “What can one person do?”

            My reply is, “Work out what you want and find others who want similar things and work together.”

            A committee is an ideal example of a group of people who want things to happen and are prepared to act together in the hope of  achieving their goals.  A committee is always looking for new input, new ideas and renewed energy.  Your effort is vital.

            You’re getting edgy now.  I can tell you’re shuffling your feet and muttering, “I haven’t the time.”

            I say, “Who has?”

            We are all busy people made busier by the demands of our special families but if we all take that attitude nothing will improve.  There’s another cliché I can throw in here - ‘If you want to get something done, ask a busy person’.  Your time management skills should allow you to find a few hours a month for a common aim.

            What better way to realise a personal goal (and convey the value and needs of people with autism spectrum disorders) than to work for improvements in this area?

            Each of us is on a journey that has a choice of destinations and many stops along the way but, (here’s another cliché) ‘Every journey begins with the first step’.  It’s nice to have travelling companions.  Your first step could be to go to an Annual General Meeting and decide to be part of a group of people who want things to happen for people with disabilities and their families.

Liz Wilks

Is that a chocolate bar in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?

‘Nine out of ten people admit to being chocoholics. The tenth person is probably lying.’

These are the words of Suzie Wharton, a tiny woman in a red and black hat that resembles an upturned truffle case.  She is the author of ‘Spoil Yourself, A Chocoholic Guide to Melbourne’ and has been guiding chocolate lovers around Melbourne for over six years.

As a self confessed chocoholic, I was eager to join the fun. I have known those endorphine highs that a true chocolate addict experiences when the theobromine hits the system. I have thanked the Aztec god, Quetzalcotl, who bestowed the cacao tree amongst his people and led King Montezuma II to offer a taste of his favourite recipe to the Spanish conqueror Cortes in 1519. Chocolate then crossed the Atlantic to Europe where it was developed by a succession of Dutch and Swiss chocolate pioneers until, in 1879, Rudolf Lindt added milk to give us the chocolate sensation we know today. But that’s all history. The tour awaits.

We assemble at the tourist information booth in Melbourne Central for the Chocolate Indulgence Walk. It is fun guessing which the other likely tour members might be.

Our group consists of families from interstate, people visiting Melbourne from rural areas and locals out to have fun in their hometown. The youngest member of our group is a schoolboy from northern New South Wales, who saw the tour on the internet and booked as part of his family’s visit to Melbourne.

Twenty-six eager participants are issued with a red dot to show they belong.

‘Chocoholics have more intelligence and are friendlier than other people,’ Suzie declares.

We are reassured to hear that.

New Zealand Ice cream is our first stop. Suzie assures us it is an Australian company. We partake of a single cone of Chocolate Ecstasy to the sound of quiet contentment with sighs and the occasional slurp as an accompaniment.

‘Chocoholics need to look after each other by keeping everyone else clean. Point out if someone has chocolate spilling down. It is a waste of chocolate to leave it on the outside,’ our guide advises.

Suzie uses an all day sucker with her name in a candy swirl on one side, as a beacon to her followers. As we trail behind she uses her mobile phone to call ahead to warn the next stop of our impending arrival.

We arrive at the Myer truffle department. There is an amazing range of truffles available, from Pink Ladies to chocolates shaped like penguins and prawns.

The sampling has our group warming to the experience and beginning to relax into the adventure. We are all on our best behaviour passing around the tray of samples, no elbowing each other aside for the last sample.

‘What do you think of the cherry liqueur?’

‘It’s chocolate isn’t it?’

‘Do you like the Turkish Delight?’

‘MMMMMMMMMMmmmmmm.’

Suzie claims she always puts herself out to assist other chocoholics. She travels the world to locate new chocolate tastes and outlets. New ways are investigated into how to open other people’s chocolates without breaking the seals. Guidance is offered to chocoholics who have to make important life decisions, like choosing between a hazelnut swirl and a strawberry delight.

Our hardy band of chocoholic adventurers are encouraged to savour the flavours. ‘Think of what is in your mouth, not where the next chocolate is coming from and who you might have to share it with.’ A titter of recognition ripples within the group.

Having done my homework I know that chocolate is a beautifully disguised vitamin supplement containing iron, zinc, calcium, riboflavin and niacin. It has very little caffeine or cholesterol. The tannin content is said to prevent tooth decay. The only note of caution is the 28 percent fat content. We can work that off with the aphrodisiac qualities, I guess. Chocolate produces the chemical Phenylethylamine in the body that giving the sensation of being in love.

From Myer, our group of potential lovers head to the Royal Arcade. We stop mid arcade to admire the historic renovation work in progress and are provided with a Cadbury Picnic ‘to keep us going’.

After a pause-to-appreciate we turn down a side arcade to a small Darryl Lea store. More samples, including Chocolate Shells, Rocklea Road, Caramel Snow and jubes are freely passed around.

At every stop we attract a crowd of curious onlookers also hoping for a chocolate handout and volunteering to support our cause. But they do not belong to the Society of the Red Dot. They must walk away empty handed.

As we savour the delights, Suzie explains the different ingredients, such as quality cocoa butter, that goes into producing finer chocolate. Old Rudi Lindt would have known that longer mixing and kneading gives a smoother texture, but it was a revelation to some in our party.

‘The chocolate is beginning to kick in now,’ observes my husband. ‘We’re getting noisy.’

A large family group from Adelaide is wishing the patriarch ‘Happy Birthday’. This tour is part of their celebrations.

Winding through the alleyways and arcades of Melbourne we make our way to the Chocolate Box in the Australia Arcade.

Suzie draws our attention to the heightened intensity, as we taste first white, then milk and finally dark chocolate.

When we sample the Hazelnut Belgian Chocolate, Giandura, it moves an ample matron to an orgasmic squeal as it melts in her mouth and she rushes to buy a take-home supply. We also sample the Raspberry Chocolates that consist of a raspberry jube dipped in white chocolate. Yum!

Gathering purchases for later indulgences we move on toward our final destination. While passing Federation Square we learn of a new chocolate shop to open there in the future.

Finally we arrive at the Cafe Vic in the Arts Centre at Southgate. 

Larger groups in our tour party are shown to tables of six or eight while smaller groups are seated at a long refectory table and continue to chatter about chocolate appreciation and chocoholic support groups. We are served with enormous slices of chocolate cake and cream and our choice of drink. Some hardy souls even choose hot chocolate. I prefer something lighter. I am beginning to feel a little over satisfied.

Suzie speaks to us of chocolate recipes and other chocolate adventures before saying farewell and heading to her next group, the Chocolate and Other Desserts Walk, which is due to start at 2.30pm.

My husband has the final words. ‘I don’t think I’ll need tea tonight. I’m chokkas.’

By Liz Wilks

Details:

Contact: Suzie Wharton Ph. 9815 1228, 0412 158 017

TALKABOUT TOURS

14 Rae Street HAWTHORN VIC 3122

Facsimile: (03) 9818 0999

Email: talktour@ozemail.com.au

Website: www.chocoholictours.com.au

The Party

My childhood memories are full of sunny days idealised by a replay process that prefers to edit out the rainy days, leaving only images of baked moments, preserved for immortality. It’s funny but I can only remember sunny parties even though all our birthdays fell in winter. Time has hazed those images like a photographer smearing Vaseline around the lens to soften the edges of his photographs. 

We anticipated parties with delicious excitement.

The lamingtons were made by the assembly line of aunts laughing in the kitchen during the week.  A blend of chocolatey fingers, coconut, sponge squares and gossip. The chocolate crackles crunchy and inviting in colourful paper patty cases. Fairy bread came with thick white slices and a liberal sprinkling of colourful spots. Butterfly cakes with cream and jam, and there in the middle, among a collection of cream filled sponges, would be the cake announcing the birthday or the Christmas or the ceremony involved.  As well as these culinary delights there would be a big metal trough filled with ice, which kept the drinks cool, beer for the adults, lemonade and ginger beer for the children.  Mum had the kettle going non-stop to provide a steady stream of cups of tea for those adults not inclined towards alcohol.

All week Mum had slaved behind the scenes setting the standards for over-catering that were a feature of family gatherings. Her favourite china cups with the matching saucers and plates and the little silver spoons were cleaned and polished and ready.  The floors were cleaned and the toilet was spotless. 

Mum went to the hairdresser the day before the party.  The hairdresser clipped her hair with little metal butterfly clips that made the dried hair looked like the waves on Port Phillip Bay. We loved to feel the stiff ridges with our fingers. Mum thought it was very fashionable. She had dark hair and wistful eyes. She loved music and often played the piano at family parties.

Dad blew up the balloons. Between every couple of balloons he leaned against the wall to regain his breath and control dizziness. My sister and I were delegated to drape crepe paper streamers about the house and backyard. Our chubby fingers arranged balloons into bunches to dangle down in the way of balloons before helium was a required commodity at children’s parties.

Small paper hats were at the ready.  No colour coordinated parties here. An uninhibited chorus of colours greeted our party guests.  

My sister and I wore pleated skirts and white cotton blouses with bunny rabbit embroidery. Our hair was neatly tied with ribbons.  I was eight and my sister was about six.

Guests arrived in their party best. Mothers walked in still removing the last bit of soap from a child’s face with the spit on their hanky or licking their fingers and trying to train a cowlick. Their children tried to break away from their mother’s grip and seek the freedom of the pack. Fathers strode in behind their broods and complimented our mum on her hairdo. Mum blushed and told them to go and have a beer.

Aunts and uncles mingled in comfortable familiarity. Included in this group were a couple of maiden aunts, prim and protected and well into middle age. Our cousins came in sizes from six up. The older cousins had subdued their natural instincts for rowdy behaviour and lounged around talking about Bill Haley and Chuck Berry. The younger ones moved about like a large flying carpet, undulating and swirling around and over all obstacles. Every cousin had the family traits of loud voices and wide-open faces, freckled noses and stocky bodies. My childhood memories are full of large family gatherings with herds of cousins stampeding through the house and garden. My sister and I adored all thirty-two of them.

Add to this gathering a smattering of neighbourhood children and their parents. The children’s hair was slicked back; their faces clean; their shoes uncommonly shiny; all as different as my cousins were similar.

The neighbourhood children were a mixture of individuals. There was Alan from a couple of houses away. He was shy with mousy brown hair and glasses with thin metal rims. I remember he liked to take the buds off the poppies in another neighbour’s garden, and she would come out of her house yelling and waving her duster and chase him down the street. There was Janet’n’Susan. Rarely seen apart, these two sisters lived a little further up the street and were our friends from school. They were normally quite outgoing but the sudden sight of multiple cousins seemed to daunt them and they stood holding hands and needed to be enticed into the games by Dad or one of the uncles.

Hovering near Janet’n’Susan was Jill.  My ‘bestest’ best friend from the house on the corner, a block away. She had straight blonde hair that her mother cut using a pudding basin as a guide and she was small and a little on the skinny side. Finally there was Murray, who spent his weekends with a lady down the road and weekdays at an orphanage a few miles away.

When the party list was being compiled Mum would say, “Now don’t forget Murray. He’d like to come.” We’d nod our agreement. Mum always felt sorry for Murray.

Dad organised the games and entertainment. He was often away on business but he never missed a family celebration. He was tall with thinning dark hair and large bushy eyebrows. He loved a joke and he loved kids. Sometimes Dad showed ‘Laurel and Hardy’ movies in the double garage and encouraged all the kids to ‘boo’ the villains. On one memorable occasion Dad drank a little too much beer and re-emerged from the house with his coat on backwards pretending to be a priest. He blessed the assembled gathering to the great amusement of his surprised congregation. His daughters thought he was handsome, so he probably was.

Now remember, it was sunny. It’s important to the story because it was hot too. As the party progressed, the day reached its projected high temperature and many drinks were consumed. A maiden aunt, Aunt Myrtle, as I recall, was serving the thirsty hoards from a trestle table positioned in front of a trough of liquid refreshments. Aunt Myrtle was dad’s sister.  She was tall and spindly with bumpy hair. (She was the type of aunt who gave you a tin of talc for your birthday when you really wanted a colouring book.) Aunt Myrtle was not wise in the ways of the drinking public, having never let liquor pass her lips. She did her job efficiently and carefully asking each child their desired beverage and serving each request to the best of her ability. Beer was available for the adults and lemonade and ginger ale were for the children. Some of the thirstier children were seen gulping several glasses.

Bottles bobbed in the melting ice and the constant immersion meant a number of labels soon lost grip of their bottles and floated about on the surface of the mini Antarctic Ocean.

Dad had been yarning with the men in the tool shed when he went to the trough to retrieve another beer and met the unexpected sight of a child staggering towards him with a sack from the races on his head. 

Suddenly children began to behave in the most unexpected ways. Pre-pubescents lurched around the garden giggling. Others settled under bushes snoozing. Children staggered towards laden tables or unsuccessfully tried to negotiate obstacle courses with eggs and spoons. Fearlessly they discovered the effect of putting ice down the backs of unsuspecting adults. 

The party threatened to deteriorate into chaos.

The reason for this strange commotion became apparent when excess empty beer bottles were found in the crates of empties. 

It became apparent that Aunt Myrtle was unaware that ginger beer came in similar brown bottles to the beer that was destined for adult palates. Oblivious to the difference between beer and ginger ale, she had calmly, innocently and helpfully served children with the next brown bottle of amber fluid. 

Urgent action was required. Aunt Myrtle stopped serving. She was mortified to think a lifetime of abstinence had led to her mistake. 

Children were hurriedly seated and encouraged to eat as much as possible and have another drink of ‘real’ lemonade. For some, the whole procedure was so overwhelming they closed their eyes and laid their heads on the table.

Mum later explained that the food and lemonade gradually diluted the effect of the beer for most of the children. When parents bundled their offspring home to sleep away their inebriation, small flushed faces departed on unsteady legs, guided by adults amused but anxious that their small charges avoid gaining a taste for the delights of alcohol at such a tender age.    

                   

It is not surprising that many of the children could not remember how they got home from the party, when they woke in their beds the next morning.

By Lisbeth Wilks (Many years after the event)

Two sisters, ready for the party.