My First Ninety Years: Memoirs of a Melbourne Boy

By Don Miller

Academic Staff; Political Science Dept, Melbourne University 1962- 1995, Creator/Director, Melbourne Centre for Ideas (MCI) 2006- 2017. Workshops on ‘Wild Thinking

Published books by the author:
Pervasive Politics: a Study of the Indian District
The Reason of Metaphor
Time and Time Again
The Will to Win
Neighbours And Strangers

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jan 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669885399

Don Miller

Ph.D. awarded in clinical psychology from the University of Utah in August 1966. Dr. Miller has written movie scripts and other books. Detailed synopses of his works can be found on his website. He has a full time practice in Chula Vista, California, near San Diego.

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Copyright © 2022 by Don Miller.

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Rev. date: 03/09/2022

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I ushered in the Depression, I would occasionally joke, born as I was on July 20, 1930. I have no idea why I fabricated such a connection, despite its historical inaccuracy. I doubt if people smiled at my wit. At best they learned my age.

I am a Melbourne boy, born in St Kilda, that bustling, multicultural, ever-transient beach resort – in its early days with a touch of naughty weekends, a la ‘British Brighton’. Actually I lived my first eight years far from that madding crowd; at the north edge of St Kilda, two houses short of Middle Park. 4 Lock St., a quiet suburban nook of no significance, just before one reaches South Melbourne. That at least had a reputation - home to an AFL team (Australian Football League). In essence, we three young Millers spent our early lives in Middle Park.

Nothing ever happened in Lock St, as far as I knew. It is possible that two houses in that short block had a car. One certainly was owned by the ‘gentleman’ (our family’s unwitting deference to obvious wealth?) on the corner across the road. His land looked like a small public park, full of old trees; land perhaps four times the size of our block. Dad cycled to work, like most men then did. He worked for many years at Kendalls Wine & Spirits, Toorak Rd, South Yarra, and as manager for a long stretch. Little of that did I know till later in life. Unfortunately I know not much more about him. This is not because of a poor memory, it is rather a matter of an inarticulate father in the family setting. Not elsewhere, I suspect.

Two local spots were high-lights in our young lives – that of Joan, the eldest, Eric, then me. Around the corner was Mr. Robb’s ‘lolly-shop’. We had a family ritual; I don’t recall when it began. Each Friday evening the three of us spent three-pence buying lollies at Robbs. It took time, carefully choosing half a penny’s worth of each delight, aiming to end having twenty four sweets covering six varieties. Each step requiring consensus – which was never lacking. We were harmonious in most things we did together. We would divvy up our treasure as soon as we returned home.

Of far greater significance, two short blocks due west, lay Middle Park beach and Port Phillip bay. While I have no idea how exactly we filled in the winter months, there is no doubt how we lived our lives throughout each summer: every minute, seemingly, at the beach. It cost nothing. With mother, always fully dressed, supervising. She never got wet, as I recall. Not even her feet! Of course, she was a country girl, probably she could not swim, or simply was not interested in bathing. I had never previously thought of that possibility till now. On rare occasions, I stress the adjective, dad came. Being lifted up on to his shoulders and then diving off was always fun. At times he would send us off to the kiosk to buy two chocolate ‘two-in-ones’ which we divvied up between the four of us.

Most times our simple challenge was to swim out to the small, wooden man-made island decking, about fifty yards from the shore. We would just sit there for a while, dangling our feet over the edge, before jumping back into the water - I never was a diver. Then climb up again on to our sun-bleached wooden resting spot. Other kids would be up there too, but we never spoke to them, nor they to us. We three were an island of and to ourselves. We were all so happy at the beach.

But profound things can swirl around you without expectation. One day, sometime in the late 1930’s, I witnessed history (almost) changing. I found myself on the cusp of a radical shift in ‘moral’, ‘decent’ values in Melbourne town. Did it come earlier or later elsewhere, I wonder. Let me tell you now.

I was a skinny boy, usually shivering after leaving the water. So on most occasions I would walk about twenty paces to rest against the warm concrete wall of the Council’s changing rooms. It faced due north and the sun poured its rays on sun-baking bodies. Mum was never keen on the idea – she said that spot was full of ‘not nice’ people.

One afternoon as I basked against the wall I heard a whistle, a long, sharp one. What on earth was it? I suddenly noticed all the men sitting against the wall quickly pulling up their swimming togs from around their waist, to cover their chest. A minute later a Beach Inspector appeared, his office clearly labeled on his white coat, slowly walking past, making sure no man was exposing a (semi) naked body. The watchdog had saved the day with his whistle; a role carefully planned obviously. I suddenly understood my mother’s displeasure with my innocent cavorting with the ‘indecent’. Photographs taken at that time at the beach clearly show Eric and me, even at that young age, ‘properly clad’. I wonder how much later it was before boys and men began wearing swimming trunks, legally. I can’t recall. I also wonder how much longer my mother maintained her discomfort at all that naked flesh. Her whole life, I suspect.

The view out to sea was always a delight; occasional ships appearing on the horizon heading its way to Port Melbourne. Closer in, the endless darting to and fro of yachts – most, invariably, emanating from the Royal St Kilda Yacht Club (now Royal Melbourne Yacht Squadron). The St Kilda pier, to our left, stood-out clearly as the major arm of a calm bay, sheltering the moored yachts. By now, 2021, new rock walls extend north from the end of the pier for close to sixty metres offering shelter to dozens of boats – and of course radically changing the nature of tides along that strip of beach.

The yacht club was where dad ‘lived’: Friday evening, all day Saturday, all day Sunday. He was a very competent skipper, obviously, by the display of silver cups on our home shelves earned as skipper for wealthier yacht-owners. I sensed dad, ‘Eddie’ to the outside world, was most likely a popular club member. The Petrel being his most persistent winning craft, as I recall. I remember drawing it often, clearly with unwitting pride. Some figure like E 4 on its mainsail (I suspect I have never used that word before).

He took Eric and me out on the bay on two occasions. Once, unofficially, and most surprisingly, during a Saturday race. Not to be in the way, we two had to stay below in oilskins. The weather was rough. We did not enjoy that experience at all. And once on a Sunday we were taken out fishing. Neither of us caught a fish, and we both tangled our lines. We did not enjoy that as well. That was the beginning and end of our yachting and fishing lives – and the beginning and end of dad’s attention to his children. Yachting genes jumped a generation however; Damien, my elder son of my first marriage, is a keen and competent yachtsman. He has to live without yachting however, living at he does not far from Canberra – more of that later.

Dad died, at the age of eighty-two. I was then forty eight, married and living in Eltham. He was apparently just home from fishing on a typical Sunday, when he suddenly experienced a burst aneurism in the groin. His fit, gnarled body looked as if he could have lived for another ten or more years. A leg amputation from the hip the only possible life savior, we were told at the hospital. The three of us agreed with the doctor; life like that would be unthinkable for dad. He was allowed to die peacefully, without pain. I visited him the next day, and sat for some time holding one of his big, fat fingers – unawares to him. I had seen little of him since my marriage. However, I am pleased to say, that during the last year of his life (as it turned out to be) I drove from Melbourne University where I worked, to St. Kilda, every second Tuesday, for lunch. It was the same meal each time; lamb chops with mashed potatoes and green beans. Nevertheless history repeated itself at the end of his life; we still had little to say to each other. It was my fault as much as his.

Dad, however, would have been quietly thrilled that the Commodore and Vice-Commodore of the yacht club turned up for his funeral, with club colours to be draped over the coffin.

Was it this that gave me the idea to have dad’s ashes scattered on the bay – his watery home and grave? Furthermore, I suggested it should be done from the boat which was his Sunday fishing craft, in the company of his two Scottish mates. Joan and Eric liked the idea, but did not want to join me. I do not blame them; they had ‘had’ dad for many decades, I had not. The next Sunday I found myself meeting two ‘Jocks’ on board and, as we motored away from the moorings I asked them what was the normal drinking ritual on a day’s fishing. ‘Scotch followed by Drambuie’ was the immediate reply. This confirmed what we had thought; dad had recently stopped, or at least radically reduced drinking beer. So I now suggested that, in respect, we follow his tradition that day. A bit reckless?

The Scots did little fishing that day, perhaps in respect for dad. For a similar sign of respect, I followed, approximately, their drinking ritual. I shudder to think how many times we lifted our glasses in his honour. At the appropriate time of day and point of bay, we scattered the ashes. Then we returned to shore. I felt pleased with what had been done and I thanked them sincerely. They were obviously satisfied as well. I got into my car, drove very, very carefully to my home in Murchison Square, Carlton, where Jan, my second wife, was to introduce me to two of her old friends - they were to have their first dinner with us – three weeks into our marriage. I managed to eat the meal, then I sat on the couch next to Joanna (not necessarily her name). Instantly my head dropped onto her shoulder and there it stayed for the whole evening. I awoke next morning, still alive and in one piece. I had mastered the day without accident. A miracle.

A plaque on the Club’s wall announces dad’s name and that of two others as the longest memberships ever – fifty five years. That is about forty years ago, so his record has possibly been broken by now. One day I must check.

That was his life, and I am sure he enjoyed every second of it. He did not give much thought to fathering however. Not that he ever was a nasty man – unpleasant yes, coming home late Saturday evenings, a bit agro. We three, when young, would have our bath (weekly?) as quickly as possible then hop into bed – out of the way. I cannot recall ever been really growled at; and he certainly never ‘laid a finger’ on any of us. In fact, I can confidently say that no-one ever raised his or her voice in anger in our household. He did come home from the club, however, invariably a bit inebriated, often grumpy. He and mum frequently argued; indeed, it was far from being a successful marriage. Only recently Eric told me that after I had left home, Joan played a positive, mediating role between the two parents. It was never a really happy home; not that we, as children, felt the unhappiness to any degree.

I have suddenly remembered a rare moment of dad that, in a way, shows him in a slightly lighter mood – not that he was ever ‘a laugh a minute’. When we, the three or four of us (including mum), would solemnly made our ‘New Year Resolution’ every January, dad would announce loudly his: ‘drink more beer’. It never varied.

I have two clear, early memories of Eric, but only a later one of Joan. This is an appropriate occasion to clarify something. The other day (in 2020) a friend, hearing I was writing my memoirs, innocently said ‘I imagine all the members of your family are reminding you of episodes in your early life that you have forgotten’. If only! I have no-one at all. Distant relatives and my immediate family became ‘strangers’ to each other a long time ago.

The only one alive in our family in 2021, is Eric, now ninety three. He had to be placed in an aged-care home two years ago because he never recovered, mentally or physically, from a hip operation. He had been for many years a bachelor in his home, near Noosa, Queensland. Melbourne weather was too cold for his weak chest. He struggled to put a few words together recently. Eric died early this year, 2021. We were there when it happened. We had been warned.

Dear Joan died in 1996 after two cancer operations. She had been a lovely aunt to our two girls of my second marriage, Madeline and Harriet. When young they always looked forward to having a Friday evening picnic on the floor in her Kew apartment, watching a film Joan had carefully chosen for them.

Our parents never cultivated extended family relations. So I am a lone Miller from that generation, and since two major operations over the last three years, my memory is no longer the most reliable weapon. I write this memoir according to what I do remember. Full stop. I want to accomplish an adequate history here for the generations to come. Little Axl, Harriet’s son, is about two and a half years as I write this at the beginning early in 2021. He will read this one day.

But back to the beginnings. I celebrated Eric’s first day at school by preparing a small feast for him that afternoon. A slice of bread with honey, and a glass of water. There was no butter used, I suspect. This was the early days of the Depression; butter may have been a luxury, I imagine (I might be wrong). I put the food on a plate, on a tin tray, and sat it somehow in the backyard. I think Eric appreciated it. He was never flamboyant.

My first day at school began dramatically. Dear mother had given me a special piece of cake for the morning break. But I was impatient, so some time or other during the morning (naturally I had no watch to check) I asked the teacher, a nun, (boys were admitted in this convent school until Grade 5) if I may go to the toilet – carefully hiding the cake in my pocket. The toilets were a smallish structure a good fifty metres (‘yards’ then) from the main building. I faced a problem. I needed to relieve myself, but I wanted to eat the cake immediately as well. A serious dilemma for me because we had been strictly taught by our devout, Ballarat- born Catholic mother, that you are feeding the devil if you eat in the toilet. I believed her. I had little option! I suspect, eighty years later, that that was not a matter of hygiene on her behalf, rather a moral ploy to discourage boys from loitering in the toilet – that is, from fiddling with certain bits of their body - you know, ‘naughty bits’. So there I was, prancing from foot to foot to prevent wetting my pants, shoving more and more cake into my mouth to hasten matters, when a nun called out to me ‘come in at once’, and I suspect the devil was loitering around, probably laughing as he continued to tempt me.

Later on that first school week, during lunch time, Eric was bullied and I saw him creep into a ‘cave’ in the bushy, tree - laden playground. I crawled in after him but he was upset, and he pushed me out. I did not feel cross with him. I just felt sad.

Joan features in a later, more dramatic episode. I would have been six or seven perhaps. We were playing a game - we never had other children to play with; I was chasing her down the hallway. She slammed the hall door behind her. Without stopping, I pushed it open with my left hand, smashing the red coloured glass panel common in interior doors at the time. Blood immediately flowed from a dangling middle finger.

Fortunately, cousin Roy was visiting (he was fun – what a change; laughter was not a Miller family characteristic); he rushed out into the street, hailed a passing cyclist who willingly surrendered his bike, and we cycled, with bleeding me on the bar, to the nearest doctor. Looking at the bloody wound, he said he could not fix it, but he wrapped up the hand well and sent us off, still on the bike, to Prince Henry’s hospital. There, a doctor stitched my left middle finger together, gave me sixpence for being brave, and sent us home - on the bike. I cannot remember what happened to that bike and its generous owner. I do hope everything was Ok. That middle finger is still disfigured.

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W e were the product of a ‘mixed-marriage’: mother a devout, young Catholic girl from Ballarat, or Ballan to be precise, a regional stronghold of that faith. Father also was of country stock, from Echuca, on the Murray river. He called himself, when required, a ‘Callithumpian’. I have always assumed the word meant one who couldn’t ‘care a fig’ for any religion. I’ve long wondered about the history of that word. Just now, in 2021, I have finally consulted the dictionary. It refers to groups making loud noises with the use of cans etc, in celebration of God. Well I am confused. And it will have to stay that way. I am puzzled.

His elder brother was a dour church-going Seven Day Adventist (uncle Roy), a non-alcoholic businessman; an importer of dried-fruits, a packet of which constituted his annual Christmas present to all our family, year after year after year. The only meeting for the year, by the way. I had no regrets; he was so proper and boring. He would, however, always inquire, as I remember, about mum’s cousin, Roy. Same name, but what a contrast. He, in fact, was an informal SP bookie in his spare-time (a common Catholic practice then, I believe). Mum would refer to him, on ‘proper’ occasions, as being ‘in the book trade’.

Dad’s younger brother, Erich, was a relaxed youngish man we saw little of. A pity. My brother Eric was clearly named after Erich; both names in turn denoting the small Danish touch in our heritage. Dad’s mother (or grandmother) came from a small Scandinavian island; and, somehow or other, was persuaded by dad’s dad (or grand-dad) to come to Australia with him in marriage. What he was doing in that part of the world in the late nineteenth century, I have no idea. In fact that was of little interest to me until quite recently – that is until a series of Danish films, one after the other, showed on television, SBS of course; each one being a small masterpiece; such as Unit One, The Eagle, The Protectors, The Killing, The Bridge, Borgen, The Legacy (and now in 2021, The Team). So lately I have a habit of casually, or, depending on the mood, dramatically, dropping the information that ‘I am part Danish! Then sometimes adding – ‘an eighth, or maybe a sixteenth’.

How of earth did this odd couple, my parents, marry? Joan, their first child, was born in 1926, so their marriage occurred in the early twenties; a period of extreme sectarian bitterness in Australia, fired by the excessive manner of Daniel Mannix, the Catholic archbishop of Melbourne, who, among other provocations, preached that Australian Catholic boys should be fighting for Ireland, not for the English, in the first world war. How did this innocent, proper, religious girl almost leave the faith in a way, by marrying such a man – a ‘heathen’? I will never know; but it intrigues me. All I ever learned about mum’s background was that her father was a ‘saint’ – full stop. A photo she kept of him (but none of her mother!) confirmed a lean, delicate, youthful, ‘Jesuit’- style face, as if straight from working the Chinese paddy-fields seeking conversions. Mum certainly sanctified him even if the Vatican didn’t. And why on earth did dad choose mum? There must have been something about her - something which we all missed. We still have the photograph of their wedding. They both looked good.

Joan was educated entirely in a Catholic convent school, St Fintans, in Grey St, St Kilda. It accepted boys until Grade 5, so that it where my schooling began, as I have already mentioned. What I do remember, warmly, is the smell of peppercorn and eucalypt trees at the back of the boys’ playground which we climbed at every opportunity. Our hands would be sticky and soiled as we returned to class. Did we wash them before going inside? I don’t remember; but I suspect not. I still remember that heady smell.

The second early schooling event was simpler, yet more miserable. In grade 1 or 2 we were introduced to pen and ink. Very early in an education, it now seems to me, especially so because the pens had long pointed nibs which made scratchy writing likely; and ink wells which frequently overflowed. To be designated ink-monitor for the day, by the way, was the most sought-after reward. I was messy. I am still. But one day, my teacher (I have forgotten the nun’s name), exasperated with my smudgy page of work, said ‘take your book, go to Grade 6 and show this disgusting work to your sister’ (or something like that). Which I did, feeling ashamed of myself but feeling much more upset to embarrass poor Joan. I had no choice.

I have often ever since felt ‘poor Joan’ about my sister! Brought up by my mother to be inevitably, but unwittingly, a ‘spinster’ no doubt. To my knowledge Joan was taken out only once by a young man, to the pictures. Later that