Tag: community memory

Milk and men (no women) and the archive we inherit

I am writing the history of the Jamberoo dairy factory.

The minutes are thorough. Motions moved. Votes carried. Chairmen thanked. Directors named.

The record is male because in that era authority was male.

That is the structure the archive preserves.

From the 1940s through to the 1970s the dairy industry ran on family labour. Women rose for early milking. They fed calves. They sterilised equipment. They kept the production books and the household accounts. They stretched the milk cheque across machinery payments and grocery bills. They managed rationing in drought years. They hosted meetings. They sustained community networks. They carried the emotional load when prices dipped or disease struck.

None of of that appears in the official file.

Board minutes record motions. Newspapers quote chairmen. Legislation names directors. The kitchens and calf sheds rarely make print. Even our local retrospectives, rich in civic detail, move through institutions and office holders.  In the Kiama Independent Our History Supplement the pattern is consistent. Public life is recorded through public roles.

The tragedy sits elsewhere. The women who carried half the enterprise are now largely gone, and their voices were rarely recorded in their own words.

Oral history could have balanced the record. Time has narrowed that opportunity. It is archival reality.

When I read through factory reports and industry correspondence, I can trace leadership decisions with precision. I can follow drought policy, milk zones, compensation debates. I can name the men who chaired meetings and negotiated with ministers.

I cannot hear the conversation at the kitchen table when the milk price fell.
I cannot see the private calculations made after a vet bill arrived.
I cannot read the words of a woman who rose at 4 am and went to bed after the books were balanced.

Half the enterprise sits between the lines.

Wanting to change that makes sense. It shifts the lens forward rather than back. It asks who is documenting women’s lived experience now, while those voices are still present. It asks whose work is counted as leadership.

If we are serious about industry history, we record the boardroom and the calf shed. We record the motion and the margin. We record the lived experience

Interviews, recorded conversations, written reflections. These are not embellishments. They are structural repair.

An industry history written only through formal office leaves half the story implied.

I am writing “Milk and men (and no women.)”

The next chapter needs different sources. I hope those voices can be found

Jamberoo history humour and the joy of taking ourselves seriously

Jamberoo has a lot to be proud of and it certainly never lacked confidence.

According to the local correspondent for the Kiama Independent in the late 1800’s what it sometimes lacked was musical ability, favourable weather patterns, and a shared view on how to handle young men with too much energy and not enough supervision. The local newspaper shared his views with a straight face.

In 1887, the colony entertained the idea of calling itself “Australia”. Jamberoo mulled over the proposal and showed little enthusiasm.

The local correspondent described the idea as one of those foolish notions the colonial government picked up from time to time. The idea raised eyebrows, conversations carried on at the pub, in the butcher and baker’s shops, and through sewing groups, while the paper moved on. Readers kept pace or fell behind.

In 1890, Jamberoo floated the idea of forming a local band. The correspondent attended the meeting, listened carefully, then reached for the claws. He reported that a gathering of half a dozen Jamberoo cats produced sounds more pleasing than those scraped from the dead fellow creatures used to make catgut strings.

Visitors received a public service announcement. Arrive during band practice and you would understand immediately what the fuss involved. Action taken, reputation adjusted.

The same year delivered frogs. Not a few, not a rumour, but thousands. Captain Garde of the steamer Illawarra stood on deck at Shoalhaven Wharf when objects struck him like hailstones.

Daylight revealed frogs across deck, wharf and water. They fell for ten minutes, arrived in good health, then carried on hopping towards Wollongong as if aerial travel formed part of normal routine. The paper reported it as routine which made it funnier than any embellishment would have.

Then came the larrikins. Jamberoo sat inside a wider Kiama problem that escalated from nuisance to civic emergency. Bridges suffered damage. The town pump broke twice. Horses bolted after deliberate scares. Church windows shattered.

One New Year’s Eve saw 40 to 50 men and boys roaming, singing, hooting and pelting buildings. The court imposed the maximum fine. The community debated stronger measures and ordered a cat o’ nine tails by steamer. The cat arrived.

Threats followed. Actual flogging rarely did. The town demonstrated enthusiasm for symbolism and restraint in execution.

Ambition ran alongside all of this. Jamberoo carried pride in hills, cows and distance from coastal bustle. The paper described it as picturesque and impractical in the same breath. Big ideas surfaced anyway. The district dreamed, announced schemes with confidence, then watched resources thin out. Earnest campaigns appeared, gathered momentum, then quietly dissolved. The effect stayed visible. Later jokes carried extra weight because the groundwork was already in print.

When the nation’s capital was being decided, Jamberoo put itself forward as the Bush Capital. Supporters pointed to green hills, dairy country, space, calm, and distance from Sydney politics. The argument reflected how Jamberoo saw itself. Sydney politicians continued their search elsewhere. The paper recorded Jamberoo’s confidence and the broader response in close succession, then turned the page.

Smaller moments filled the margins. Visitors received warnings about local music. Outsiders earned suspicion, hospitality, then criticism in columns. Public enthusiasm surged, committees formed, and minutes followed. Jamberoo showed itself lively, observant, and fond of commentary on its own behaviour and not happy with Kiama Council governance.

Jamberoo took itself seriously. Very seriously. Reading the paper now, you’re reminded how fortunate it was that these debates stayed on the page and in the pub, rather than being amplified in real time. A band meeting, a capital bid, frogs from the sky, all of it received careful attention and confident opinion. Social media would have been carnage. Half the district would still be making its case.

BTW Did you know this? I didn’t.

Before Federation we were know as The Australian Colonies and legally and politically, it was six British colonies, not a country. On 1 January 1901, the colonies federated to form The Commonwealth of Australia

Why are people listening differently when local history is told through lived experience?

My experience has shown me that telling local history through lived experience draws a response rooted in recognition rather than nostalgia.

People are asking how using history to share lived experience changes the way decisions, relationships, and reputation are understood in the places they know well. From there, the questions deepen.

I am being invited to speak to community groups about history, and the invitations keep coming. Each one begins in a similar way. People say they know the dates. They know the names. They know the family trees. What they want to hear is what life felt like. Over time, a pattern has emerged.

The curiosity has grown alongside a book I am writing. It is historical fiction set in my village of Jamberoo around Federation. An elderly widower marries a much younger woman when circumstance leaves them both with few options. The marriage unsettles the family. Relationships strain. Friendships shift. The town steps in and fills the silences.

At its heart, the book is about the courage it takes for a woman to live outside the version of her that a community has already decided on, before they’ve even met her.

That story catches attention because it sounds familiar. Every community recognises how quickly private lives become everyone’s business . Reputation circulates. Memory lasts.

When I talk about the book, I also talk about the research behind it. Family histories tend to preserve facts with care. They record births, deaths, marriages, places, and dates. The outline survives. What slips away is the experience of living inside those moments.

You know what happened. You rarely know what it demanded of the people involved.

That is where people lean forward. They recognise the pressures of the time, the work that filled the days, the skills people relied on, the compromises they made, the losses they experienced, the way change landed differently across households. Place returns to the centre of the story.

At that point, I see it each time I ask a simple question. Who here keeps stories? Hands rise. Photo albums. Letters tied with ribbon. Boxes in cupboards. A drawer nobody else opens. People understand the responsibility straight away.

One story I often share involves a suitcase. A man kept his family’s letters and photographs inside it. When he died, the suitcase passed to his son. The son treated it as something to look after. Inside were photographs of my own family I had never seen. My history survived through someone else’s care.

Experiences like this are common. They rarely get spoken about.

Today, that care can extend beyond cupboards and drawers. Digital spaces allow stories to travel. Ordinary lives become searchable and discoverable. A single record can reach families, researchers, and future generations who have yet to realise what they are looking for.

Each invitation I receive leads to a different conversation.

People want to hear about their own backyards. Their streets. Their arguments. Their decisions. Their innovations. They want to recognise themselves in the record.

What I bring to these conversations is a way of looking at history through lived experience. History shaped by choice, effort, and consequence. The facts still matter. Meaning travels alongside them when someone takes the time to carry it forward.

Who will be laughing at us in a hundred years

Old newspapers are a gift. They show us a community concentrating very hard on the business of being right about the small things.

In Jamberoo in the late 1800s, people worried about the name of the colony. Australia felt flimsy. Too casual. Too much like a place where people might relax. A proper society, it was argued, required a name with authority and a whiff of empire. Something that would sit comfortably on official letterhead.

The name survived. It now appears on passports, Olympic medals, and road signs without incident.

Beach behaviour also drew close attention. Men bathing in underwear sparked outrage. Editorials were written. Public standards were defended. The issue hinged on fabric, fit, and the preservation of decency. The town believed civilisation rested on correct swimwear.

Electricity prompted years of debate. Poles were discussed. Tariffs were dissected. Who should pay occupied many meetings. When power arrived, streets were lit and grievances brightened along with them.

Women voting caused genuine concern. Serious men warned it would alter women’s nature, upset social balance, and weaken chivalry. These arguments were delivered with confidence and a straight face.

Marriage advice was also a public service.

In 1886, the Kiama Independent offered bachelors a guide to finding a wife. It advised men to observe women closely in the morning. To check her hair. Her dress. Her energy levels. To assess whether she complained of cold, executed unreasonable projects, or wrote too many letters. A man was cautioned against leading a woman to the altar if she showed signs of extravagance or ambition. A good wife, readers were assured, would not be a boaster and a slattern. This bible of rules was apparently the gold standard.

This guidance was published earnestly. Presumably clipped. Possibly discussed over tea.

At the time, all of this mattered. These were serious conversations held by serious people trying to protect their world from decline, disorder, and women who might write letters.

Seen from here, the intensity is impressive.

Which brings us to the present.

We have our own certainties. Our own moral alarms. Our own debates conducted with absolute conviction. We argue about productivity, visibility, optimisation, self branding, and being constantly available. We hold strong views about how people should live, work, partner, parent, age, and perform success.

Future readers will find these pages too.

They will smile at the confidence. They will marvel at the energy. They will wonder how so much attention landed in such particular places.

History tends to be generous. It shows how people worked with the ideas they had.

The more useful question is which of today’s decisions will still make sense once everyone involved is dead and no one is defending them.

Those choices are rarely the ones anyone is busy congratulating themselves for.

They do not come with rules.

And they show zero interest in what a woman looks like before breakfast.

 

If Google cannot find you, did you even happen? Putting Jamberoo firmly on the digital map

Source Facebook 

Marketing guru Gaye Steel is a friend and mentor. In passing, she said something that made me smile and then made me act. If you are not on Google, you do not exist.

She was talking about what lasts.

A digital footprint carries a story beyond the last person who remembers it. Beyond the neighbour who knows. Beyond the family who tells it at the table.

Gaye is someone worth listening to because she has spent decades making big organisations move, not talking about it. She understands what cuts through because she has been responsible for ideas that had to work in the real world, at scale, with no room for excuses.

At McDonald’s, Gaye was at the centre of market defining innovation. She led the launch of products that reshaped the brand’s Australian offer, including Flake n Cone, McFlurry, McOz, and the first Family Meal Deal. These initiatives strengthened McDonald’s market leadership and showed her ability to translate consumer insight into large scale commercial success.

Gaye Steel taught me that good advice is meant to be used. So I used it, nudging a few Jamberoo legends onto the internet and leaving enough breadcrumbs that when someone types a name into a search bar, something comes back.

Think of it as historical housekeeping, with a keyboard. A way of making sure the people who shaped this place do not quietly slip out of view.

Geoff Boxsell and Kevin Richardson are a perfect example. Between them, they created the formula for spreadable butter, something that changed how Australians eat at breakfast. For years they were far too quiet about it. Hardly anyone in Jamberoo knew the full story.

Geoff Boxsell gets his first Instagram moment at 86 and somehow makes it look effortless. Read the story in Region Illawarra here 

Now the world does.

There are Google pages. Radio interviews. TV interviews  Podcast stories. A national audience hearing how two local blokes solved a practical problem and changed a national habit. The story has moved from sheds and factory floors into the places people actually look.

Listen on Apple Podcasts

This work also connects back to why I started digging so deeply in the first place. When I spoke with Dr Tony Gilmour, who has been documenting local history for years, I told him I wanted to ground my book in what Jamberoo was like in the late 1800s and early 1900s. He warned me there was not a great deal of Jamberoo history written down.

If the record is thin, what we add now carries weight. Digital footprints are not about promotion. They are about continuity. They give future storytellers somewhere solid to start.

Jamberoo’s residents are proud of our village. Always have been. What has changed is that we are now firmly on the digital map as well. Our stories are there, searchable, linked, and ready to be found.

And that feels like a good thing to leave behind.