The sliding doors moment that helped me find my passion

When I was a teenager in a small country town in western Victoria in the early 1970s, I attended a talk hosted by the local historical society. It changed everything.

When Bernard Salt was 16 the local historical society hosted a speaker, and he was captivated. Picture: istock

When I was a teenager in a small country town in western Victoria in the early 1970s, I don’t recall anyone using the term “community” to refer to the town and its people. And yet the community was everywhere: it was tribal and familial and supportive, especially when it came to sport.

Later in life I came to the realisation that some people might find this level of familiarity (where everyone knew everyone) suffocating, but I loved it. It was us against the world. There was nothing Terang (pop. 2,400) couldn’t offer. There was a club for every kind of sport, including table tennis and darts, plus a dramatic society that put on plays.

There was nothing 1970s Terang couldn’t offer, including a club for table tennis ...

... and darts.

When I was 16 the local historical society hosted a speaker who’d written a thesis on the volcanic geology of nearby Mt Noorat. I was captivated not just by his knowledge but by the concept of researching and writing a thesis. He brought his thesis to the talk; it was perfectly written, illustrated and beautifully bound with gold lettering. It was a thing of mastery and of beauty. I knew in that moment I wanted to write a thesis one day.

I knew nothing about PhDs and Masters degrees at the time. I look back at that lecture and see that it was a sliding doors moment. Eventually I would have learnt about the mechanics of higher education, but at that age the impact of this knowledge was profound. I could see what might be within reach.

When I was 12, I asked my father quite innocently why he hadn’t gone to university. He genuinely (but not unkindly) scoffed, “Only rich people go to university!” He explained that you had to pay fees to go to uni, to which I thought, “Well, that’s unfair to country kids because we can’t live at home and study even if we could afford the fees.” (In fact it was my quite brilliant mother who should have gone to university, but sadly that was never going to be possible in her world.)

It was at about this time that Gough Whitlam came to power promising fee-free tertiary education. I was an early recipient of a fee-free teaching degree. I covered my living expenses by working part-time as a bartender, waiter and dishwasher. But I didn’t teach. I went on to do a Masters, requiring a thesis that was always going to be beautifully bound with gold lettering. It was on the quirky subject of social division in Melbourne in the 1880s, using data, maps and contemporary health reports.

I can’t remember the circumstances by which I turned up at that historical society event featuring a speaker on geology. But I was indeed a member of the historical society, because from an early age I was quite obsessed with the social evolution of Australia.

People who are focused on obscure topics usually find a pathway that suits their interests. But without the influence of others, and a broader community that celebrated a diversity of interests, I wonder what I would have done with my life. The fact is, I found a pathway to my passion via a seemingly bland but actually quite riveting geology lecture.

A supportive community can create opportunities that, even with the best will in the world, are never going to be found from within the family home. And that is the power and the benefit of community: it can showcase pathways not previously considered possible.

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