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I began my career 50 years ago in what seemed the most Dickensian of
institutions. What I lacked in making this judgement was the perspective
of history. It was the late 1950s, and the state paid what was in those
days the equivalent of less than “4 a month per child for the complete
residential care package. And what a package! What we lacked in
professional staff and know-how (when compared with today's
expectations) we made up for in a truly impressive program of activities
and experiences “such as we could all envy today! There were sports
fields (properly laid out and maintained cricket oval and soccer fields,
including practice fields where we had no reason to avoid the
over-fastidious groundsman), competition-sized swimming pool, tennis
courts, gymnasium (with facilities for all known indoor sports), acres
of lawns and gardens, plenty of “cowboys and crooks" territory, horses
and pastures, areas where the kids were welcome to keep all manner of
pets, from rabbits to snakes! And the sports fields were only the
beginning. The refectory doubled as a hall, with stage and everything
needed for shows of all types, large chapel with choir, music rooms with
pianos and other instruments, a full cadet detachment with military band “and all of these extensive facilities were enthusiastically used by
the staff and children. The youngsters themselves usually graduated from
these campus-based events and experiences to their local school or
community teams and clubs. They participated in Toastmasters courses,
river rafting groups, mountaineering activities, camping ...
I could go on. Suffice it to say that 90% of the “real work" of the program was located in the interactions between the staff and youth in these activities “and they were the type of activities which the kids could take away with them into “real life" whenever they left the program. They had accumulated a range of essentially normative skills and interests which would “work" in the real world. Of course there were psychological, special education and medical support staff, and though these children were very similar to the kids admitted to residential care today, such specialist staff probably busied themselves with 5% of the kids. Talking of numbers, that’s what we were really up against “not enough staff for the number of kids. Ratios were appalling: in many programs in those days there was one staff member to anything from twenty to forty children! Half-jokingly (and that also means half-seriously) a colleague and I came up with the ideal child-staff ratio for boys” programs: 2:23. That’s right, two staff to twenty three kids. The reason behind this? One staff member could run a proper eleven-a-side soccer match while the other would be available for some one-on-one time with whoever needed this at the time!
From out of this rich soup, a cameo comes to mind.
On one occasion we were planning the annual Christmas Carol Service. I
had recently heard some music which featured a lone, evocative bell-like
chime which I thought would fit well in one of the carols we were
preparing. I searched around for such an “instrument" but had no luck.
One of the kids in the choir came up with his own discovery: a thick iron bar,
struck with another iron bar. This combination made a most unmusical
clang which sounded more suited to a railway yard or a blacksmith's
forge than a Christmas carol, but it was an idea. Furthermore, I
realised that I needed something which would sound in a particular key:
in this case, a G or perhaps we could transpose the tune into A flat or
even F? Then another choir member produced something nearer to the mark.
He came into the choir room with a large somewhat rusted iron crowbar,
suspended by a piece of cotton. He proudly struck the crowbar with a
heavy steel chisel-like tool “and lo, we had a chime! Still a rather
metallic and industrial and half an octave away from where we needed it,
but it was clever progress.
Next afternoon six or seven of the choir members came with me to the
program’s extensive workshop where we enjoyed a hilarious comedy of
errors trying to explain to Mr van Graan the estates manager (a sturdy
fellow who spoke a different language and clearly had not a note of
music in his bones) what we were looking for. The lad who had produced
our first crowbar assumed a proprietary interest in the proceedings, and
said what it was we were looking for.
"You want a crowbar?” the man
responded, incredulously. “No, man! What do you want a crowbar for?!”
Mr van Graan looked on uncomprehendingly (and by now very suspiciously),
waiting for more clarity. He looked at me as if to say “you’re the only
other adult present; are you somehow responsible for what is going on
here?” Or perhaps “Can you give me a clue here?”
I looked at the kids. This was a good arena for negotiation. One of them
picked up my cue and attempted to put the issue beyond all question: “It’s for “It came upon a midnight clear,” he said and sang out a
clear G. “See?” This was too much for Mr van Graan whose powers of
translation had clearly run out. He was battling to find the meaning
among the words and sound effects.
A practical man, he turned away and walked over to a rack on which there
stood a collection of crowbars, old and new, big and small. “Is this
what you want? But if you tell me what you want to do with it, I can
advise you on the best one for the job.”
One youngster picked up the closest one and struck it. Several kids sang the note which it made, but shook their heads and he put it back.
“Too low,” said one. “We need a shorter one.”
Another agreed: “Maybe the pitch goes higher the shorter the crowbar."
"Like an organ pipe," added another.
A
shorter cowbar was tried, the physics of the selection way beyond “Mr
Van". After a quarter-hour of
musical crowbars accompanied by the kids singing out in the key of G, we
arrived at a creditable sound in roughly the correct key and asked “Mr
Van” whether we might borrow the crowbar for a week or two. Normally
nobody got out of his workshop with any tool without having signed
for it in blood, but he was still so baffled by even the purpose of our
visit (and still sure that he was the butt of a not very funny joke)
that he agreed and showed us out of the workshop with a relieved wave of the hand.
The experience had two sequels. First, of course, was the general
appreciation of the community when our Christmas carol was charmingly
accompanied by the hard-won chime. The other was more moving.
Some months later my birthday came around, and
many people, kids and staff, were kind enough to make me some modest
gift at a celebratory party. After the collection of books, hand-made
objects, neck-ties, handkerchiefs and things, Mr Van approached me, and
with great solemnity (and his own awkward embarrassment) presented me with – a new shiny black
crowbar.
The tune of “It came upon a midnight clear" came to mind.
