Chalky Downunder

By Linda L. Collins

In Chalky Downunder, Linda L. Collins adjusts to life in Australia while teaching social studies, English, geography, and art to kids.
Collins learns about America from a foreigner’s perspective, the differences in the school systems, traveling to other parts of the world after her stint there was up, trying to find meaning in her life and finally returning to the U.S. for good having "learned to love and to be loved by people" along with "responsibility and commitment" and "the joy of working hard, of working together.” Collins finds the meaning of it all.

About the Author
Linda L. Collins has always been fascinated with Australia since childhood. She went to college in the late 60s with the idea of becoming a teacher, though it wasn't something she really wanted to do. She graduated in three years instead of four, but she had trouble finding a teaching job near home. She decided to go to Australia. After a rough layover in Hawaii, she got to Australia where she interviewed for and got a teaching job.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RoseDog Books
• Release date: Apr 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798888126066

Book preview

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

Ground Hog Day, 1972

As the plane soared higher and higher into the sky, I couldn’t help but wonder what the next two years held in store for me: a strange country, new friends, a new job. It would either be the most exciting and rewarding time of my life, or it would be the most miserable two years anyone could have had away from things familiar, and of course, Mommy and Daddy’s loving care.

The neighbors gave me a wonderful going away party. It was too late to back out now. For some reason, I was approaching this whole thing without any fear at all. It just seemed like something I needed and wanted to do. It was part of a growing up process, a right of passage; it was a spreading of the wings and a lashing out at things unknown. I decided to go to Australia with no more contemplation than it takes to buy a new dress or order dinner in a restaurant, which was very unlike me, who usually thought about things until they were wom out, and then would end up not doing anything at all. This new decision making process was certainly not like me. It felt right; it felt good; it felt like the natural thing to do.

There were no preconceived ideas of what my life would be like in Australia. I remember my childhood fascination with the animals and the aborigines in the outback of Australia, when I was in Miss Luckey’s seventh grade English class. Whenever we had freewriting in class, I always wrote about the animals or some other unique aspect of life Downunder.

Before I left, I did not read any more about the people or the life there. I felt that my expectations would be too high, and then I might be disappointed. I decided to take everything and everyone as I found them, And learn to roll with the punches, so to speak! This was something I hadn’t learned to do in college. I worked full-time and went to school full-time the first two years of school. I wasn’t really all that enthused about going to college, but I knew it was the only thing to do, if I ever wanted a secure place in the world. I was naive enough, to think that a college education would ensure this. Boy, was I wrong!

I had completed Business College, as I promised my parents I would, before I started at Penn State University. My parents held the belief that, If all else fails, you could always become a secretary. If perhaps, you never marry, God forbid, you at least will have a profession; good secretaries will always be in big demand.

This really didn’t mean much to me because, of course, I would someday marry and have a family, at least I thought so. Being a secretary, especially in Washington, D.C., or pursuing any kind of career in business or otherwise, didn’t really interest me that much; I never thought of myself as being a career woman. My sister always knew what she wanted to do. From age four, she knew that someday she would be some kind of a doctor, there was never any doubt about it. I really didn’t have my sights set on any one profession in particular. I liked people and wanted to do something with and for them. I didn’t really want to be a teacher, but when I was young in the 60’s, new fields for women were just beginning to open up. The only professions I thought a woman could choose were a teacher or a nurse. It never occurred to me to be anything else.

I worked very hard to get through four years of college in three, and thought I would at least be able to find a teaching job after graduation. Wrong! Schools in my district weren’t taking any applications for at least two years. There were no jobs in my immediate area, I did not have a car of my own, to drive to distant districts. At that time, I really didn’t want to move away from home just to teach. After graduating in 1970, I spent one whole year substitute teaching in four local school districts, and sitting at home by the phone waiting for Mr. Wonderful to call.

At the time of my graduation, there was obviously a glut of teachers, about which the college failed to inform us before graduation. Many of the kids I graduated with either went into the service, graduate school, or relocated with their families to areas where jobs were more plentiful. Fayette County, Pennsylvania was an extremely economically depressed area, so my chances of getting a job, any kind of a job, were pretty slim.

The service seemed like the answer to my problem. Perhaps the Air Force would be interested in me. My mother was in the first nursing techs corps in the Army, in 1941; she loved being in the army, so it was always a vicarious thing with her, that I should someday also be in the service. My dad was also in the Army during the war. I took all the tests for Officers’ Candidate School, passed with flying colors, took the physical, and was all ready to leave, when the recruiter called to inform me that I would not be going, because of a curvature of the spine found on the X-rays. I was devastated, but such is life! At least that’s what I tried to make myself believe.

Undaunted, I went to the Army Recruiter, thinking maybe they wouldn’t be as picky as the Air Force. Wrong again! I failed the physical, this time, because of a circulatory problem. They never even told me what it was, just that I was unacceptable physically for service.

At this point, I thought the world was out to get me. All that hard work and struggle in Business College and university, seemed to be for nothing. School was not easy for me, and my family had no money to send another child to school. My parents paid for my Business College, but from then on, I was pretty much on my own.

Mom and Dad were always extremely supportive in anything I wanted to do. They didn’t force me to go to school. Anytime I wanted to quit, I could have and they would have been supportive, but I wanted to make them proud of me. Because my sister knew what she wanted to be, it was only reasonable that whatever my parent’s could afford went for her education. That was quite all right with me, because I knew she would become something great someday.

As the world was falling down around my ankles, or at least I thought so at the time, I accepted an interview for an accounting position with the American Red Cross in Connellsville, Pennsylvania. I thought this would sustain me until a teaching position became available in my area. I bought a new trench-coat and a navy-blue suit for the interview. My medium length hair was beautifully done on top of my head in a French roll with curls around it. I had just left the beauty shop and was crossing the street to the Red Cross Building just as the light changed. I started out into the intersection only to be splattered by a torrent of doo doo from a huge flock of pigeons passing overhead. It was in my hair, my shoes, and all over my glasses, the belt on my trenchcoat became a nice little shelf full of doo-doo. I stood in the middle of the intersection, unable to see anything, crying in frustration and humiliation. A little old lady grabbed me by the hand and quickly led me to the other side of the street. She tried to wipe off my glasses, but they were too messy to clean. Knowing that I was going to be late for the interview, I quickly ran into he 5 & 10 Cent Store down the street, hoping they would let me use their restroom One look at me and the lady said, Definitely not!

I was so disgusted and embarrassed, I ran to the parking lot, rolled all the windows down in my dad’s new car, and slid in the driver’s seat, still covered from head to toe with the miserable, smelly stuff, which smelled a lot like hot sulfur and burning tires mixed together. I drove eight miles home and jumped into the shower, shoes and all.

After composing myself, I called the interviewer at the Red Cross to explain my absence. All I could hear was laughter on the other end as she said, Oh sure lady, tell me another one!

So what, I didn’t get the job; it really didn’t break my heart! I decided it was just one of those things that wasn’t meant to be. I couldn’t picture myself doing boring accounting anyway!

Dunbar, which at one time was a hustling, bustling wealthy town, is now almost a ghost town. There is little financial or social opportunity there. It is a depressed area of depleted mines, gravel quarries, sand pits and a defunct railroad center, Jobs are few and far between. Young people usually leave as soon as they graduate from high school; few ever retum, except to visit family. There are several factories in outlying areas, but there is little job opportunity in education or any other profession. Most of my old friends had long-since departed the area, so there was really no reason for me to stay there any longer. I thought America was the land of opportunity, but no one would give me a chance to succeed. I needed to go out and look for an opportunity, if not in this country, then somewhere else where my services would be appreciated. I had to lash out and make an opportunity for myself, it obviously wasn’t going to come to me. Perhaps, I was not a very good citizen, but I had enough of people messing around with my life. Thus, my decision to go to Australia. Let’s face it, things couldn’t have gotten any worse for me! I had no where to go but up—up, up and away!

CHAPTER TWO

Honolulu, Hawaii, February 1972

It was a long trip with much time for contemplation about this big move. I only knew, I felt like I was in a mental and social vacuum in Pennsylvania, and if I didn’t get some mental stimulation soon, I would suffocate. It was no longer a question of  Is this the right thing to do? It was a question of  I have to do this for myself!

The plane landed exactly as scheduled. I wasn’t impressed with the DC 10 we had from Los Angeles to Honolulu. It was great being able to walk around freely without having to climb over people, but because the plane flew at such a high altitude, it made my head and ears hurt something terrible. The pain shot right up my arm and into my ears and head. The landing was excruciating, but I thought a nap and some exercise would fix me up.

I asked the taxi driver to take me to a medium priced hotel, so he dropped me off at the Ala Moana Hotel. It was not exactly what I would call medium priced, and it wasn’t very friendly at all. I knew I was out-classed when I saw a woman walking down the steps dragging her mink coat. I stayed a couple of days, and then decided I would check into another hotel, hopefully a cheaper one with some atmosphere. I checked into a hotel on Waikiki, one that was a little less expensive, and it was right down on the beach. The management seemed to be friendlier, and so were the other guests.

There were no rooms available until 3:00 p.m., so I couldn’t officially check in until then. I walked along the beach for a while thinking that a little stroll might make me feel better. I was feeling very much alone, because I couldn’t hear and my head was pounding. I just wanted to be left alone to take some pictures and see the sights along the beach. I was seriously thinking about finding a doctor who might be able to help my ear problem. The clerk at the desk said that I should go over to Pearl Harbor to see a doctor, because I would have trouble finding one in town on Friday afternoon. He made the appointment for me, and off I went leaving my luggage at the desk for safe keeping.

I still had a couple of hours before I could get into a room. The doctor saw me right away. He gave me 10 little decompression pills for $10.00, and told me not to fly anymore. What a silly thing to say to someone on an island. By the time I got back to the hotel, it was after noon. I had a little lunch out on the open patio restaurant; it was beautiful and so relaxing sitting in the warm sun. After lunch, I decided to walk down the beach again and take more pictures. My head was beginning to feel better, but my ears were paining and felt full. A native Hawaiian approached me and asked if he could walk along the beach with me.

He said he would show me some interesting things to photograph. I really didn’t want to talk to anyone, because I had trouble hearing, but he seemed nice enough, so I let him walk with me.

He did show me some lovely landscapes and seascapes to photograph. He seemed quite nice. I really didn’t know why he was hanging around, but at 3:30, I told him I had to check into the hotel.

By the time I reached the hotel, my bags had already been taken to my room. All I wanted to do was lie down for a while to see if the pills the doctor gave me would work. My shoes were full of sand, and I was dressed much too warmly for the tropical Hawaiian climate. I kicked off my shoes and took off my heavy wool jacket and skirt, and laid down on the bed. It was 4:00; I remember thinking how noisy it was on that floor. There was a very loud humming sound right next to and underneath my room. I later found out that it was the only single room in the entire hotel, which just happened to be by the laundry.

The roar from the laundry lulled me into a sound sleep, which was broken by a knock at the door. I jerked awake and immediately ran to open the door. I had no towels or washcloths when I checked into the room, so I called the desk and the clerk told me he would send some up. Naturally, I thought it was the maid at the door. The man on the beach came bursting in with a bottle of whisky under his arm. He was very obviously drunk and was feeling aggressive. He grabbed at me and kissed me so hard, he cut my lip. I got away from him and ran over to the other side of the room. I threw a lamp at him, which flew out of my hand and fell vertically to the floor, because it was still plugged into the wall. He was ripping at my slip as he said terrible, vulgar things to me. He slammed me up against the wall, and hit me on the side of the face.

Immediately, I could feel my eye starting to swell. My lips burned and were also swelling. By this time, I was hysterically screaming and throwing things like a madwoman. I thought if I made enough noise, someone would hear me and come to investigate. No such luck, the roar of the laundry motors below prevented anyone from hearing me.

It was also winter break, or some college holiday, and all the kids were outside surfing or swimming. I climbed out on the ledge thinking that if he wouldn’t let me alone, I could jump into the pool directly below me three floors down. Hysterically, I kept screaming at him, I don’t want to hurt you, why do you want to hurt me? It was a stupid thing to say, but I never encountered anyone, who was so bent on doing me bodily harm. I came to the stark realization that there are nasty people in the world, who don’t care one bit about me, or anyone else. Coming from such a small town, where everyone took care of each other, it was hard for me to grasp. Finally, he said, O.K., I go, just stop screaming! He walked out the door, and was gone.

I laid down on the bed and must have fallen asleep in shock. When I awoke, it was dark outside. I rolled over to look at the clock; it was 10:00 p.m. How could I have slept that long? I felt weak and dizzy, needing something to eat fast. I washed my bruised face and put on sunglasses to cover my big, black shiner. I got dressed and went downstairs to find something I could eat.

The restaurant was closed, but the bar was still serving sandwiches and steaks. As soon as I sat down, the manager came over to my table. He immediately asked what happened to my face. When I started to tell him, he walked over to the end of the bar, where the Chief of the Honolulu Police Department was sitting. The officer came over and sat down at my table. After asking me a few questions, I suddenly remembered a tattoo on the man’s arm. It spelled out the name MANUKA. The officer knew of him, and said that he had been in trouble before for the same kind of thing. He told me how lucky I was. The Lord was looking after me for sure.

He wanted me to fill out a complaint for his arrest, which meant that I would have to stick around until the trial came up. That was literally impossible, because I had an interview with the New South Wales Department of Education in three days. I called the airport and packed my bags, I was getting out of there as soon as I could. So much for this great Hawaiian paradise!

I didn’t want to be alone in my room, so I sat out on the well-lit patio where I had lunch earlier in the day. It was warm and a light breeze was blowing. You could see ships passing in the calm star-lit night.

The manager sent a coke and a finely chopped steak over to my table. He knew I couldn’t open my mouth wide enough to chew a piece of meat. I really needed some protein, fast. It hurt, and I had to push the morsels through my clenched teeth. It felt like my jaws were glued together. The ice-cold Coke felt wonderful on my sore, swollen lips. With my black eye and fat lip, I sat there in a daze thinking about what had happened, trying to piece things together. The nice manager refused to take any money for dinner. He was embarrassed and outraged that something like that would happen to a guest in his hotel.

As I was thinking about the man and what had happened, and how stupid I was to fling open the door, not knowing who was there, a Hawaiian approached my table. I was very rude to him. He said that the manager told him what happened, so he came over to offer his sympathy and express his disgust for Manuka. I told him that I wanted to be alone for awhile. He sat down anyway, and proceeded to talk to me. I wished I had met him earlier; he seemed extremely sensitive and concerned about my welfare and my probable negative impression of Hawaii and its native people. He said that he wanted to make it up to me, because he felt so angry about what happened. He wanted to take me for a walk up town. I had enough walks for one day—enough to last a lifetime!

The manager came over and said that he knew this fellow well, and that he would take care of me. I had two more hours until it would be time to go to the airport, so I did take another chance and go for a walk downtown with him. I was surprised that he even wanted to be seen with me as terrible as my face looked.

We went into a shop that was still open. He bought me a lovely white orchid corsage, a pearl on an oyster shell, a German beer stein and several other beautiful, expensive souvenirs. He couldn’t do enough for me. We walked until I got tired and wanted to go back to the hotel. He sat with me until it was time to go to the airport. As I left in the taxi, he said he would write to me in care of the New South Wales Education Department.

He told me that he would come whenever I needed him, for whatever reason, he would be there for me. I had a friend in college who always told me that For every rotten egg you find in life, there are two good ones waiting to help and befriend you. I wanted to believe this is true, and that this was just a bad piece of luck. The police officer told me that if I had jumped into the pool from the third floor, the impact would have killed me.

I arrived in Sydney the next day, very tired and emotionally worn out. headache and earaches started all over again, after another eight hour flight. The pills didn’t help at all. How was I going to get through my interview in Sydney?

There were several other girls on the plane, who were part of a recruitment program from all over the world. They asked me to tag along. They were hoping to get posted in nearby city schools. I was just hoping to get a job—any where; it really didn’t matter to me.

Now I know how people must have felt at Ellis Island, being herded into groups and then again, herded into small apartments. A representative from the Education Department checked us into a youth hostel. The room was so small; it was wall to wall cots. We couldn’t even get our bags into the same room. We all decided, first thing, to take a hot shower after the long flight. We were soaking wet with no towels, or wash clothes to be had, so we dried on toilet paper. We had no cooking utensils or bed clothes, so it was stupid to stay there.

I checked out with a couple of the other girls, took a taxi into Sydney, and checked into the Darlinghurst Hotel at King’s Cross; the first vacancy we could find. One girl was from Mexico, one from Canada and the other was from South America. We were all exhausted, so after getting settled and eating some lunch, we crawled in the sack for a few hours sleep. It was dark when we woke, so we decided to go up town to King’s Cross for something to eat. Each one of us tried something different. Everything was a little strange, but it was exciting trying new things to eat, having new friends and seeing new things in a new country. I felt alive and content, even if my face still looked awful.

Darlinghurst was like a small town; the sidewalks must have been rolled up at 10:00 P.M., after our sparse, but unique meal, we topped the evening off with an ice-ream cone. We walked around a huge, lovely, old fountain and window shopped until it was very late. I didn’t realize we were in downtown Sydney. A little old man walked up to us and said, You ladies had better go home; it is dangerous for you to be here so late. It didn’t seem like a dangerous place to us, but we heeded his advice and went back to the hotel.

I asked the clerk to wake me at 7:00 A.M. He replied, Oh, you want to be knocked up at 7:00 o’clock, do you? I was absolutely shocked and horrified to think he would say something like that to me. I was so embarrassed, I just walked off without thanking him. The next morning at exactly 7:00 A.M., there was a knock on my door. I then knew what it meant to be knocked up.

That morning, Monday, I went for my interview at the Department of Education. Since my appointment wasn’t supposed to be until the next day, and I wasn’t with the recruitment program, I had to wait. While I was patiently waiting for my turn, I saw many people come and go. I was appalled at the way some of the girls came dressed for their interviews. Many were from other countries besides the U.S. and Australia. They came with no bras, floppy beach sandals, stringy long hair, and short, short skirts. I must have looked really matronly in my high heels and dark brown suit. Sitting next to me was a very young, petite girl, who was wearing a lacy, floppy wide-brimmed sun hat with long, narrow, yellow ribbons hanging down the back. She wore a very short white cotton, skin-tight dress, no stockings and flimsy sand shoes. I was shocked at her overly casual appearance.

I graduated from a rather elite, private business college. The administration was very strict about hair and dress. We had daily inspections of our clothes, shoes, gloves and hats, along with inspection of our nails and posture. Mrs. Durbin, from the business college, would die, if she could see how these girls were dressed for such an important interview. I remember my mother’s reaction to the style of dress at my graduation from Penn State. She was just disgusted at their scruffy appearances, and wondered why their parents would allow them to dress so poorly. I must admit, I was ashamed of my fellow classmates, but that was the style of the day.

Eventually my turn came. The interviewer was very interested in my teaching credentials, and how I got my puffy lip and black eye. I told him I was in an accident in Hawaii. He seemed to believe my explanation—he left it at that! He hired me on the spot and posted me to Braidwood, New South Wales. He told me what train to catch, and said that the principal would pick me up at the station in Goulburn on Thursday.

After the interview, we decided to go to the Taronga Zoo in Sydney. We searched and searched trying to find the right street. I stopped this little man on the street to ask for directions. He said, Oh, you want the manly fairy! I walked away wondering what he was talking about. What is a manly fairy? We pondered this unique concept for a moment wondering if this was another Aussie communication gap, which we had fallen into again? We giggled at the thought of what exactly is a Manly Fairy. We did not realize that we had to catch the Manly Ferry" to get across the peninsula to the zoo. The joke was on us.

My head was still roaring and I still could not hear well, so I called a friend of my sister’s, who lived in Gordon, a Sydney suburb. He didn’t hesitate a moment. He still had patients to see, but he said that as soon as he was finished, he would drive over to pick me up. It was about 7:30 p.m., when he and his wife and children arrived at the hotel. They insisted I check out and stay with them until I had to leave for Braidwood. I was really getting homesick at this point, so their invitation sounded wonderful to me, even though, I didn’t know either of them very well.

I had met them both in Iowa a year or so before at my sister’s graduation and wedding. I knew Greta better than Ron, but both treated me like family. Ron took us out to dinner, and then home for a chiropractic adjustment.

The next morning, I felt like a new person. His adjustment was just what was needed to clear my head and ears. I appreciated their kindness to me, almost a total stranger. We went sightseeing the next day. I also shopped with Greta, who loves to shop almost as much as I do, and then we came home in time to fix dinner for the kids and Ron.

The next morning, I went to the movies with Megan and Fiona, their daughters, who were ages 12 and 8. On the way home, school-aged kids were quickly filling our train car. It was noisy and warm in our car. The kids, even the girls, kept saying, damn this and hell that. I was really surprised, because parents practically slap their children silly, when they don’t speak proper English, and here were these kids swearing up a storm in public. I had even heard the girls, Megan and Fiona, say things like that, so matter of factly. I asked Greta why the kids talked that way. She said, These words are considered slang, and not what we would call swear words. Although, she didn’t like hearing her girls use those words, it was common for kids to speak that way.

I was learning so many new and strange things about the Australian culture, and its people. Sometimes, it seemed too much to handle at one time, but it was fun learning about another way of life.

On Wednesday, we went on a picnic and to the Three Sisters, which is a very steep rock formation in the Blue Mountains Park. The rocks did resemble three sisters sitting side by side. We rode horseback and walked