Accept that i too was the church that all victims of

accept that I too was the Church, that all victims of abuse was the Church
abused! "Suffer little Children to come to Me! But woe to those who
scandalised one of these little one!"
When a boy I saw dimly what was happening. Without language, power and
protection I had to wait for growth and understanding. I had to wait for
maturity, for the right TIME.
"When I was a child I used to talk as a child, think as a child, reason as a
child; when I became a man, I put aside childish things."
Now I see clearly. Against abuse TIME was our champion. One day we would
become adults. The only power we had as abused children was in TIME. In
TIME the realisation of what happened grew with an ever growing, glowing
clarity. With TIME darkness became light. Society, finance, legal redress,
establishment, governments: all have failed. "Jesus, wash us yet more, and
cleanse us from their sins," as I drift back in TIME.
A little white van driven by a diminutive, tubby, middle- aged Christian Brother
named Thomas McGee in 1949 drove me from Subiaco to Castledare. He
was a good man, dressed in the black suit that Brothers wore when out of
their monastery. He also wore a black business hat. Brother Thomas always
seemed hassled. I was to find out as time passed. For the present he suffered
from too many kids and too few staff.
Castledare was big, big buildings, wide roads, big trees, lots of lawns, a big
water tank on a high tower that attracted a great flock of pigeons. Big beautiful
gardens surrounded by never-ending, chest high, soft green hedges. Big
asphalt spaces connected the never-ending buildings. Castledare was
situated in the middle of a big farm. I could walk among a herd of giant, tame,
Friesian cows.
There was a friendly, happy, ginger Irish terrier named Danny. The whole back
half of his curly hair body waggled with joy when with us. Jim, the farm hand,
owned a temperamental blue heeler but before long I was one of only a
couple of boys who could pat it under the careful supervision of Jim. A one
man dog for a lonely, tall farm hand who always dressed in work clothes.
Chickens, calves and a few pigs added variety to the population of the dairy
farm. Corn, vegetables and pastures were the crops grown under the high
sprinkler irrigation system. On hot days I loved to get drenched under those
sprinklers.
I loved the wonders of the milking shed. I was always attracted to the chaff
cutter. The big, brown, speeding leather conveyor belt powered by a noisy,
smelly, oily engine operated a shaft that turned the twin guillotines. Bran,
molasses and pollen were added to the chaff in measured quantities and
given to each cow to entice lots of milk.
We came out of the feeding shed our faces covered in powdered pollen and
molasses. The smells of cow, urine, mud, dung and chaff are universal for all

dairy farmers. Almost getting bogged down in the oozy mud and cow manure
of the holding yard, quickly taught me to avoid that area. I used to watch the
milk bubble up into the little upside-down glass as it passed through the pipes
to the separating machine. Milk and cream were separated. I loved to drink