Tag Archives: Books

Martha Greene: The Mysterious Force in Rockstone’s Growth

Leave a reply

In the 1930s, Rockstone was a quiet town. Its streets were lined with simple homes and a handful of shops. The townspeople were hardworking, humble folk who didn’t expect much from the world beyond their borders. But Rockstone had its own peculiar history, and every now and then, whispers of something bigger stirred in the air.

Martha Greene had lived in Rockstone all her life. She was the kind of woman people liked to call wise. She didn’t speak much, but when she did, people listened. Martha ran a small post office near the town square. Her days were spent sorting letters and packages, listening to the comings and goings of her neighbors. She knew everything about everyone.

In 1935, a new fervor swept through Rockstone. The New England New State Movement was gathering momentum. Politicians and local leaders like David Redford were pushing for the creation of a new state in northern New South Wales. They wanted Rockstone to be at the center of it. People talked of opportunities, of growth, of the town finally getting the recognition it deserved.

“You heard?” one customer said to Martha one afternoon. “They’re saying we could be the capital of a new state.”

Martha raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

David Redford, the loudest voice in favor of the new state, visited Martha one day. He was a persuasive man, known for rousing speeches. He came into the post office, smiling wide.

“Martha, I’ve got a petition going,” he said. “We’re collecting signatures to show the government we’re serious about this new state. I know you care about this town, so I figured you’d be the first to sign.”

Martha looked at him, her face calm, betraying no emotion.

“David, do you think all this change will really make things better here?” she asked quietly.

“Of course,” Redford said with enthusiasm. “It’ll bring jobs, schools, attention. We’ll be a real city. Bigger than we’ve ever dreamed.”

Martha nodded slowly but didn’t pick up the pen he had placed in front of her. Instead, she asked, “What about the land, the people who don’t want all that?”

Redford hesitated. “Progress doesn’t always make everyone happy, Martha. But it’s for the greater good.”

Martha handed the petition back to him. “Sometimes, progress isn’t what we need.”

She didn’t sign the paper. David Redford left with a puzzled expression, but he wasn’t deterred. He collected signatures all over town, and soon enough, the petition was sent to the government.

Not long after, rumors began to circulate. Martha, who had always been a private woman, was said to be working against the movement. Some said she had a secret petition of her own. Others thought she was hiding something far more important. One night, a man named William Trask, a local farmer, claimed to have seen lights in Martha’s house late at night. He swore he heard her talking to someone.

“I don’t know what she’s up to,” he told anyone who’d listen. “But it’s not good.”

Martha remained silent, tending to her post office and her small garden. She offered no explanations, and the whispers grew.

One evening, David Redford came to confront her.

“Martha, there’s talk going around that you’re collecting signatures against the movement,” he said, his tone hard. “What are you really up to?”

Martha looked at him, calm as ever. “David, I’m not against progress. I’m just not convinced it’s the kind we need.”

Redford narrowed his eyes. “Then what are you doing?”

Martha sighed. “You’re asking the wrong questions. It’s not what I’m doing—it’s what the town is becoming.”

Redford left, more confused than before. But something about Martha’s words bothered him. He started to look deeper into her activities, asking around town if anyone had seen her meeting with outsiders or corresponding with political figures. Nothing concrete turned up, but the air of mystery around Martha grew thicker.

A week later, there was a break-in at Martha’s house. The thief didn’t steal anything of value, but he ransacked her home. Drawers were pulled out, papers were strewn about. The only thing missing was a small chest that Martha had kept under her bed for years.

The town was in an uproar. Some believed the chest contained letters from high-up officials, proving Martha had been working secretly against the movement. Others thought it was something more personal, a relic of a past relationship or a business deal gone wrong.

Martha, though shaken by the break-in, kept quiet. She didn’t reveal what was in the chest, and no one asked her directly.

As days passed, rumors swirled. William Trask, who had always been suspicious of Martha, insisted that the chest had something to do with the separatist movement.

“Mark my words,” he told his neighbors. “There’s more to her than meets the eye.”

Others believed the mystery was simpler. A woman like Martha had lived a full life, and maybe the contents of the chest were simply her personal affairs, none of anyone’s business.

But then, in a twist no one expected, Martha made an announcement. She called for a town meeting at the local hall. When she stood before the gathered crowd, her voice was steady.

“I know there’s been a lot of talk,” she said. “And I know you’re all curious about what was in that chest.”

The room fell silent.

“What was inside were letters from my late husband,” Martha continued, her voice calm. “They were personal, and they meant a great deal to me.”

A murmur spread through the crowd, but Martha held up her hand.

“But,” she said, “there were also letters from politicians, supporters of the movement. They wanted me to work against Rockstone becoming part of the new state.”

Gasps rippled through the room.

“Did I help them?” Martha paused, letting the question hang in the air. “That’s for you to decide.”

The room fell into a stunned silence. No one knew whether Martha had been playing both sides all along, or if the letters were merely offers she had refused. In the end, Martha left the stage with the same quiet dignity she’d always had, leaving the mystery of her true intentions unsolved.

Eliza Dunn: A Pioneer of Warrnambool’s Wisdom

Leave a reply

The land of Warrnambool is ancient. The Merrigundidj people lived there for over 35,000 years. They built stone and timber weirs called yereroc across waterways. These weirs helped them trap eels. They knew the land, its rivers, its secrets.

At the mouth of the Hopkins River, there was a place called Moyjil. There, the Koroitgundidj people lived in a village near what is now Tower Hill. The area was rich in life, with kangaroos gathering to drink at a waterhole called Kunang. The hill known as Puurkar held significance, as did many other places in the region.

Then came the Europeans. The first to explore the land were mariners, men of the sea. In 1800, Lieutenant James Grant sailed the Lady Nelson along the coast. Two years later, Matthew Flinders came with his ship, the Investigator. French explorer Nicholas Baudin followed. They recorded the land, but it was the whalers who truly settled.

By 1838, Captain Alexander Campbell, a Scottish whaler, took possession of 4,000 acres near the Merri River. He built a farm there. The township of Warrnambool was planned soon after, in 1845, and the first land was sold two years later. The Post Office opened in 1849, marking the town’s growth.

Warrnambool grew fast. Whaling gave way to farming, and then came more settlers. Roads were made, and the town spread. But the people of the land—the Merrigundidj—were pushed away. Their weirs crumbled. Their village was gone. The town remembered them only in names: Kunang, Wirkneung, Peetoop. The past lived on, but faintly.

Among the settlers, one woman left a lasting mark. Her name was Eliza Dunn. She wasn’t rich. She wasn’t famous. But she was wise.

Eliza lived near the mouth of the river. Her family had come to farm. She helped in the fields, mended clothes, and kept the house. But what made her special wasn’t her work—it was her understanding.

One year, the rain didn’t stop. The river swelled, and people feared it would flood their homes. Some spoke of moving. But Eliza said, “Wait. The river will find its way.”

Her words seemed simple, but people listened. Eliza watched the river, walking its banks each day. She spoke to the elders, both settlers and the few Aboriginal people who remained. “It will break to the east,” she told them. “It has done so before.”

Her knowledge came not from books, but from listening—listening to the land and those who had lived with it. Sure enough, after days of rain, the river swelled eastward, sparing the town. People marveled at Eliza’s foresight.

One day, she stood by the river, speaking with a young woman from a nearby farm. “How did you know?” the young woman asked.

Eliza smiled. “The land speaks. It tells us what it needs. If we listen, we can live with it.”

Her wisdom spread. Farmers began to consult her on matters of the soil and seasons. When to plant, when to harvest. “What does the land say?” they would ask. And she would answer, always humbly, always with care.

But Eliza’s story was not just about land. She was also known for her kindness. One winter, a traveler came through, cold and hungry. He knocked on Eliza’s door, seeking shelter. She welcomed him in, fed him, and gave him a place to sleep.

“Why are you so kind to strangers?” a neighbor once asked her.

“We are all travelers,” Eliza replied. “Some of us just don’t know it.”

Her words carried weight. Simple truths, spoken softly. People remembered them long after she was gone.

Eliza passed away in her home by the river. She was not rich. She was not powerful. But her wisdom lingered. The town grew and changed, but those who knew her never forgot her words. Her story became part of Warrnambool’s history.

Years later, when the river swelled again, people remembered Eliza. They watched its course, knowing it would find its way, just as she had said.

And so, Warrnambool grew. It became a place of farming and trade. The land, once home to the Merrigundidj, changed hands many times. But the memory of the land’s first people, and the wisdom of settlers like Eliza Dunn, remained. The town carried their stories, woven into its fabric, just as the river wound its way through the hills and out to sea.

Eliza’s words lived on. “The land speaks,” she had said. “If we listen, we can live with it.”

Discovering Mataranka: From Elsey Station to Tourism

Leave a reply

Mataranka, a small town with a big history, was born out of the harsh Northern Territory landscape. Its roots lie in the pastoral industry, and it all began with the establishment of Elsey Station. In 1879, Abraham Wallace, a man of ambition, claimed the first pastoral lease in the area. With his nephew J.H. Palmer, they drove thousands of cattle through treacherous terrain from Bowen Downs to the Gulf, finally settling by the Roper River at a place called Warloch Ponds.

The area was wild and untamed, and so were the men who came to work it. Wallace didn’t live long to see his dream prosper. Eight years after founding Elsey Station, he ended his own life, leaving the station to change hands many times over the years. The Station, however, became legendary, largely due to the story of Jeannie Gunn, a woman who came to this rugged land as the wife of Aeneas Gunn in 1902.

Aeneas was the new manager, and Jeannie was the outsider, but she quickly fell in love with the Territory. She witnessed her husband’s sudden death within months of their arrival, a tragic event that could have broken her spirit. But Jeannie was strong. She stayed long enough to absorb the stories and characters of the land and later wrote them into what became one of Australia’s classic books, We of the Never Never. Her words immortalized the people she met: Henry Peckham “The Fizzer,” Jack Grant “Horse Teams,” and Happy Dick, to name a few. Though she left the Territory, it never left her.

By the 1920s, the town of Mataranka was slowly coming to life. After many years of debate, the railway arrived in 1928, though it didn’t stretch far. It stopped at Birdum, a full 80 kilometers from Mataranka. The townsfolk joked about it being the end of the line, but in truth, it marked a new beginning for the settlement. The town was surveyed, streets named, and enterprising residents set up shops and businesses. Among them were Chinese storekeepers like Charlie On, and Mrs. Fisher, who turned her boarding house into the Elsey Inn, a landmark that would stand the test of time.

World War II brought change to Mataranka as it did to much of the world. Over 100 military units were stationed in the area. Mataranka became a hub of activity—headquarters, workshops, even ammunition dumps dotted the landscape. Amid the wartime hustle, the Native Affairs Branch assigned Aboriginal men and women to assist the Australian services, where their skills earned high regard. During this time, a memorial to Jeannie Gunn was erected at the Elsey Cemetery, near her husband Aeneas’ grave. Many of the real-life characters from We of the Never Never found their final resting place here as well, forever part of the region’s history.

When the war ended, another chapter in Mataranka’s story began. The hot thermal springs that had been a respite for soldiers during the war became the focus of a local man named Victor Smith. Smith, seeing potential in the clear, warm waters, returned in 1946 and set up a tourist resort. By 1949, he had built cabins, and travelers began flocking to the springs. The small town was now on the map, not just for its history but for its natural beauty.

Mataranka’s fame grew in the 1950s when the movie industry took an interest in the area. Parts of the film Jedda were shot here, but it was the adaptation of Jeannie Gunn’s We of the Never Never in the early 1980s that truly connected the town with its literary past. A replica of the old Elsey Homestead was built for the film, a physical reminder of the early days that still stands at Mataranka Homestead today. Tourists can watch the movie at the homestead’s bar, seeing on-screen the same land that had been captured in Jeannie’s words decades before.

Among the town’s notable women, one stands out—Rosa Dixon. Rosa wasn’t famous like Jeannie Gunn, but she was an integral part of Mataranka’s evolution. In the late 1920s, as the railway made its slow way south, Rosa saw an opportunity. She set up a small store, selling goods to railway workers and passing travelers. Her store quickly became the heart of the community.

It was in the 1930s, during a particularly harsh dry season, that Rosa did something remarkable. Water had become scarce, and the springs were no longer flowing as they once had. People were starting to leave, fearing that Mataranka would become a ghost town. Rosa, however, had a different plan. She hired local Aboriginal workers to help her dig a well near her store. It wasn’t easy, and many doubted it would work. But Rosa was determined.

“Keep digging,” she told her workers, day after day, as the sun beat down and the soil turned to dust. “The water is there. We just need to find it.”

Weeks passed, and still no water. Some of the townsfolk began to lose faith, but Rosa kept going. She had a quiet confidence about her. “Water always finds its way,” she said. “And we will find it too.”

Finally, one morning, a trickle appeared. The workers cheered, and within days, they had struck a steady flow of water. Rosa’s well saved the town. People who had left began to return, and Mataranka started to grow again. Rosa became a local hero, though she never saw herself that way.

“I just did what needed to be done,” she would say when people praised her. “The land gives us what we need if we’re willing to work for it.”

Rosa’s legacy lived on long after her passing. Her well remained a symbol of resilience and hope, and her store continued to serve the people of Mataranka for many years.

Today, Mataranka is a small town, but its history runs deep. From the founding of Elsey Station to the arrival of the railway, from wartime service to the rise of tourism, and from Jeannie Gunn’s timeless words to Rosa Dixon’s quiet determination, Mataranka has always been a place where the spirit of the land and the people shine through.