General News
21 April, 2026
GOOD OLD SCHOOL DAYS: A trip down memory lane
In the early 1870s Maryborough Primary School no 404 was a “hell hole”! It was infested with rats, bats, mice and lice.
The plumbing was rusted and leaking and the septic system was a breeding ground for bacterial activity.
The roof leaked and was near collapse.
The grounds were small and were unstable former mining works.
On February 24 it was restored and extended.
At the grand opening 1607 children from the district attended and consumed 168 gallons of ginger beer.
Almost a century later I took up a temporary position in 1965. It was as it was in 1874 — nothing had changed except for the portables at the front and rear.
It was freezing in the winter and roasting in the summer.
I find it hard to believe as I stood at the principal’s office door that it was over 60 years ago.
Harry Gibbs, the principal, was a calm figure, who managed an ageing staff with a “fatherly countenance”.
I was 21 and fresh from the vibrant sea-side city of Warrnambool.
I started with an infant grade of 48 children in a small dungeon-like room. I had half a day to prepare.
No natural light made it into the room as the windows were slits 10 feet above the floor.
The wooden desks were dilapidated and unsuitable for the bemused infants of every variety.
There was few resources except for the First Primary Reader.
On top of this, I had the district inspector’s son who had been expelled from kindergarten for bad behaviour.
Bette Main, a legend in her own right, and Mrs Bell assigned me with the task of managing him.
Miss Magee was the infant mistress who smiled benignly at me. Her advice was simply “keep them busy!”
My big voice had to be modified. At first it frightened the students and I had to make three changes of underwear on the students.
In my inexperience, I read The Hobyahs from the reader and scared the living daylights out of the kids.
The next day Harry Gibbs cautioned me to be careful with my content.
No mention was made of “young ginger”, the inspector’s son breaking a window. He had also perfected the art of farting at will. Unfortunately one of his gaseous exchanges turned solid.
Amazingly the lad took a liking to me and became a model student much to his father’s amazement.
As a result he gave me a promotable assessment, a precursor to getting a permanent position.
On the last day of term one, Harry informed me that I would be changing grades as Mrs Bell was returning from leave.
I was to work jointly with a grade that comprised the most talented students from grades three to six.
Fortunately I was to share the class with the gifted Bill Richardson, a delightful human being and a brilliant mentor.
Bill was a musician, poet and a calligrapher. He could turn a dull blackboard into a work of art.
The room was mundane with three bare walls, and windows above the students’ height. The floor was wooden and noisy, the desks were antiques and carried the scars of a century of carvings. They were extremely uncomfortable and left and right handers had to be seated appropriately.
The students vied for “monitor” roles. These included filling in the ink wells, delivering the school milk, clearing and setting the fireplace, emptying the bins, cleaning the blackboard and dusters, the limited sports equipment was kept pumped up and accounted for.
I can’t remember Harry Gibbs coming into the classroom. He made all his announcements through the public address system.
Harry was in his element when Governor Rohan Delacombe and Sir Edmund Herring (Maryborough’s son) unveiled a plaque.
Corporal punishment was administered regularly although Mr Richardson never reverted to it.
The women teachers worked under archaic conditions. Under the government rules they didn’t receive superannuation, held few senior positions and had to retire on getting married.
Male teachers had to wear jackets and ties and could only remove their jackets if the principal made an announcement.
Women were to wear limited make-up, no slacks, and skirts at least six inches below the knee.
Harry Gibbs was a returned serviceman who advanced through the ranks.
A large honour board dominated the wall in the last classroom.
It featured all the teachers who had enlisted and those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
After the war provisions were made for returned servicemen. Short courses were created for public servants and teachers and soldier settlements were taken up by many.
We must state the motto “Lest We Forget”.
In my youth I was fascinated by the tales of returning soliders.
One story was of a German emigrant by the name of Otto. He was a German U-boat commander. He was extremely clever and brilliant mechanically. He was able to put up with the taunts of the local larrikins.
Otto deserted the German navy by swimming ashore and becoming an allied prisoner.
After the war he emigrated to Australia where he found work on the Laanecoorie Reservoir. On retirement he settled in Railway Street, and like many of his peers he had a total dependence on cigarettes and alcohol.
Harry rarely discussed his military days except to say that many tens of millions of people were killed. The tragedy is that these casualties were ordinary people like you and me. They had families and ambitions the same as us.
My dad worked as a military orderly and told of the hideous diseases, beriberi and malaria. Beriberi brought excruciating pain with even the gentlest contact. Local hero, Sir Edmund Herring overcame two bouts of malaria.
Amazingly in my primary days military disposal depots were all the go. It was common to see men in heavy khaki overcoats and army boots. Our next door neighbour bought an army jeep. Even army tanks were on sale although I can’t remember seeing one on the road.
In an age gone by almost every family was touched by war. A mass exodus of migrants from Europe seeking a better life enriched the Australian culture and brought a thirst for equality and freedom from oppression.
Hopefully these aspirations are fostered by future generations.