The pandemic has given us all lots of time to reflect on our lives and on those around us in our community. Our personal history oral or written comes to mind from time to time but it stays in our hearts, for better or worse.
I’m a retired social worker who lived on the spectrum with mild ASD; my diagnosis came late as it often does for women. I married, divorced, gave birth twice and educated myself gaining a bachelor of social work from our Tasmanian university while subsistence farming on 8 acres of land in the north of the state to supplement family income. My husband – an English migrant – and I were ‘working poor’. The bank was charging over 17% interest on our mortgage and we all scraped from the soil to feed ourselves.
Now aged 68 I live in a pretty seaside town in an isolated rural area in the far south of Tasmania on the edge of a glorious beach. Lockdown in this isolated community was more than OK for me. The word community however doesn’t do justice to the diversity of human endeavour and existence.
The good the bad and the ugly live here. Let’s open the pages of this ‘book of folks’ and take a look at those who live and work in this Tasmanian town.
People here swim in the melted ice from Antarctica in winter. They serve us with cheerful smiles and attitudes of generosity.
Some with Asian faces others of European decent. Some are indigenous but most are Anglo Saxon. Those employed in shops mostly work without complaint as they extend their services to include home delivery of food and groceries to the sick or elderly people in lockdown.
A young, scared woman in her thirties told me it would be safer for her to be at home with her family, collecting government allowances, than serving in the shop where we talked. The hairdresser, mechanics, postal workers, chemists and medical professionals are still there, helping us all working with sometimes difficult delivery processes that supply community behind the scenes to get our basic needs met.
I walk the beach for exercise each day and on one occasion I spoke to one of these brave locals, a winter ice breaking swimmer. My concern I told her was for the environment. I asked her politely if she might consider parking her car off the coastal reserve and walk the extra 4 metres across Crown land to access the dunes and arrive at the beach.
I explained my reasoning and mentioned I was not alone in my concern as residents watched our beloved reserve become increasing impacted by vehicle traffic damage. She was she said ‘entitled’ to park on the reserve and that she had checked her decision to park there with Crown Lands. She mentioned she had seen the vehicle barrier residents had taken upon themselves to install, and which Crown Lands later asked local residents to remove.
As we walked along the beach I agreed with her that this was indeed the view of Crown Lands; a management decision that local residents believed to be short sighted in view of this degradation. An excellent picnic shelter with a flat grassed area and a toilet block was within three kilometres at the next beach further north. The woman kindly said she would respect my and other residents wishes and in future would park her vehicle on the roadside. I thanked her and we went our separate ways.
She did park on the roadside for a few weeks but later reverted to her preferred parking position on the coastal reserve. I observed this while I was out doing my daily walks and collecting rubbish.
Then something happened that changed her mind about where she parked.
I am known locally for my efforts with many others to daily comb the beach collecting what is euphemistically termed ‘marine debris’. It is more appropriately named as what it is, garbage or industrial waste sometimes carelessly handled at sea and ending up on the shore.
On this occasion I bent to collect a very shiny piece of jewellery. It looked like a gaudy piece of child’s jewellery and I gave it scant attention. It was, I decided, ‘unsightly rubbish’ on the reserve. On close inspection later back at home, I noticed it was marked 18carat gold. It was quite beautiful, and perhaps even antique. My mind started to think of its owner and even how it might look on my own wrist.
I decided to take the bracelet to the police station to hand it in, hoping simultaneously that the owner might claim it and be happily reunited and also that they might not.
I was quite taken with the beautiful bracelet. I left my name with the property office and waited to hear back or be able to legitimately collect it and claim it as my found item if it were not.
The owner did approach the police and in discussion with the police property office the owner was the same ‘winter swimmer’ with whom I had discussed the parking position of her vehicle! The Police Property Officer told me this woman had been missing her bracelet as it was antique and had significant sentiment to her, connecting her to romantic memories.
The bracelet’s owner remembered me and I am glad to say she now parks her vehicle on the road rather than the reserve.
This I thought is my bit towards building positive, strong and healthy community.
