Following a suggestion in 2019 from one of our writers, members of the Bayside U3A Writers Group take turns to select a word for writers to incorporate in prose or poetry monthly contributions. It is not compulsory to use the ‘Word of the Month’ in written work, but many members praise the monthly word as offering good motivation for writing poems and stories. It is also enjoyable to read and critique fellow writers’ works using the same word.
During the 2020 Covid 19 lockdown, Bayside U3A decided to increase the frequency and content of their excellent newsletter by publishing fortnightly editions. We were delighted to contribute to the Bayside U3A newsletter every two weeks by submitting members’ poems and short stories using the ‘Word of the Month’.
In 2021, we decided to start publishing ‘Word of the Month’ submissions on this website from time to time.
updated 16 May 2022
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‘JOCUND’
Stephanie’s Metamorphosis
by Evelyn Cronk
Stephanie drifts between sleep and wakefulness. What a perfect day she has had. Her 90th birthday. How did she get so old?
Her family gave her a lovely lunch party in the private dining room at her retirement home. So much joy and laughter – her cheeks are aching from smiling. Five generations in one room. Her oldest child now sixty-seven, and retired. Her youngest great-great grandchild just two months old was in his baby capsule. What happened to cane bassinets, she muses. Much more eco-friendly and suitable for wee babies. The capsule looked as if Joshua could be launched on a flight to Mars in a Space X rocket at any minute.
Stephanie remembers the softness of her baby Willow snuggled safely to her breast in a shawl wrapped and tied to create a pouch. The land where they lived then, was rough; the settlement carved out of virgin bush. No roads or footpaths so a pram was useless. In those days, she and the children’s father James lived in a commune in the Byron Bay hinterland.
This drastic metamorphosis was never in Stephanie’s plan. It had happened on the way home from the annual family holiday on the Gold Coast. James wanted to visit a schoolfriend Thomas, now named Peace, at his home on the farm commune.
James experienced a ‘coup de foudre’. This began his deep and abiding commitment to leave everything of their former lives behind. His well-paid job, their beautiful bayside home, the children’s schools, golf club, tennis club – everything. He took to not shaving, long hair, wearing a sarong, no underwear, leather sandals and smoking dope as if he had been born to it. He changed his name to Arlo.
It was left to Stephanie to return to Melbourne to mothball their lives there. In her naturally cautious way, she organised their affairs so that a return could be effected if necessary. This hardly pacified her horrified parents. She could date the onset of her father’s heart condition to around that time.
She decided to keep most of this strategy from Arlo. The man she thought she would spend her life with, was becoming a total stranger.
Stephanie, searched for her own new identity. She had read that the word jocund had many similes. Cheerful, happy, jolly, merry, bright, glad, sunny, joyful, joyous, light-hearted, sparkling, bubbly, exuberant, ebullient and many more. She added the ‘a’ to make it her own, Jocunda. She hoped the name change would transform her naturally shy, reticent, cautious personality into a person more suited to her strange new life.
Her three older children loved everything about this change of lifestyle. Dressed year round in shorts, T-shirts and thongs, they’d quickly outgrown their shoes and city clothes. School uniforms and ties around stiffly collared necks were forgotten. Each had chosen their own name for this new adventure. Phoenix, Aurora and Indigo. Baby Willow was born a true hippy. Not a transplant, she was a perfect flower child who blossomed in the environment.
Jocunda gave communal living her best shot. She loved baking bread and growing vegetables. Her fingers in the rich dark soil enabled her to feel an unusual calm. Neither had been an option in her busy Melbourne life where each day was run to a timetable. She found teaching the children a joy. They were so natural and unspoiled. Their lives were uncluttered by the toys and trappings of city life. They played together without arguments and cared for each other. They learned useful skills from the adults who all shared tasks on the farm.
Formal schooling seemed unimportant to some of the parents; Jocunda had her doubts about that. She helped the younger children to learn to read and write until she could get them to the local primary school.
She even began to enjoy driving the brightly hand painted VW Kombi full of children into the town. It wasn’t an unusual sight in Byron Bay. Her silver BMW station wagon would have been. She smiled inwardly thinking about parking the Kombi in Church Street Brighton. The natural home for a BMW. Each to its own she thought.
The land was abundant: forests, waterfalls and streams created a feeling of exotic lushness never to be found in suburbia. The wildlife was colourful and varied. She fell in love with the King Parrots with their iridescent plumage and uninhibited calls. She grew used to the presence of the watchful wallabies hidden in the bush.
Jocunda made some friends amongst the women in the commune. In time, she realised some, like her held concerns about their lifestyle. There seemed to be a code of silence surrounding could she say, the ‘open relationships.’ Their commune leader Arrow apparently believed he had almost feudal rights over the lives and bodies of the women. This went against all her growing awareness and support for the Women’s Liberation Movement. Don’t women have the right to be self-determination? He is treating us women like chattels she fumed. Why don’t the men speak up?
Arlo was unforthcoming when she questioned him. She suspected he was quite in favour of partner swapping. ‘Free love’ was the term. It was a delicate situation as clearly some women were in favour of the arrangement. Dissention and disharmony weren’t tolerated, so Jocunda was very careful with whom she tried to discuss this.
Then, one moonlit night she woke and realised the man’s body that was heavy on her, was not Arlo’s. She fought her way out of the bed and ran to find him. He was with a group of men smoking dope and quite out of his head. She shouted to get him to listen to her. This was a breach of protocol. No one shouted here. It was all peace, love and brown rice. Arlo slowly turned his half-hooded, unfocused eyes upon her. Pungent smoke curled from the joint he was toking. In that silent moment, Jocunda had the unwelcome thought that her husband looked like a snake.
He replied, ‘your turn baby,’ and turned away from her.
*
Stephanie smiles remembering reactions to the photo board she had made for the party.
‘Granny, who is this beautiful woman with long hair and wearing a caftan?’
‘No bra either,’ said another. ‘I can see through the material.’
‘Aw gross,’ muttered a grandson at the photo of a man clad only in a banjo.
‘Everyone is swimming with no clothes,’ shrieked a great granddaughter.
A close up of the young woman with flowers in her hair. ‘Is that you?’ they crowded around her. ‘She looks like you.’
Stephanie smiled. ‘That was Jocunda.’
© Evelyn Cronk 2025
published 10 February 2026
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‘SOFTLY’
Soft Sell
by Carol West
The soft sell comes just as Serena’s life is spiralling out of control.
Is your life filled with busyness and stress rather than balance and harmony? Does it lack
purpose? Then our holistic wellness centre is here to revive your mind, body and spirit.
An email trail of listed expectations and assurances follows. Health strategies and personal goals are clarified, wellness programs agreed to. It’s an expensive personal audit but what the hell? Serena intends to tackle the 10-day detox with the same rigour and pace as when making business decisions — full tilt. It’s time she gave herself a career-boosting health advantage.
Bare feet glide softly through pennies of sunlight that dapple smoothly brushed pathways as Serena is gently led to her suite retreat. Overlooked by a verdant rainforest, every inch of jungle backdrop has been carefully calibrated.
Five days of humidity, heat, health treatments, while others make decisions for you, loosen Serena’s iron-grip control on life. A small dossier of her dietary requirements eliminates menu choice but going to the restaurant to watch others eat becomes torturous. No matter how artfully presented, her food regime is mainly an organic, liquid one that’s rich in living enzymes. Mostly sourced from retreat gardens, it reinforces their farm-acy rather than pharmaceutical approach to good health.
Now half-way through, she sucks it up but sitting in her luxurious suite, Serena begins to question the true price of the wellness soft sell. At what point does depriving yourself of delicious food and an excellent wine carte, which the resort is internationally known for, turn the soft sell into a soft cell?
Carol West © 2025
published 14 August 2025
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‘DISCOMBOBULATED’
Grave Matters
by Jan Storey
I’ve been walking amongst the dead lately. Raking over the scant traces of their lives, trying to piece together fragments of evidence to build a picture of them, like trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle with many parts missing.
Under the bare earth where I stand are the bones of two infant boys, their lives prematurely ended as a result of dysentery. Their 42-year-old mother lies with them, victim of a cerebral haemorrhage. Seven years after she died, their father joined them, fatally exhausted by some thirty years of labouring in underground mines.
One hundred and sixty years have passed since the first child was interred in this naked ground. I stare at the bare earth and wonder if there are any remnants of the clothes they were wearing or perhaps a sliver of gold encircling a bony ring finger. There is nothing above ground to identify their presence deep within the yellow clay. They were too poor to fund something lasting. So, I have to rely on cemetery records to locate their resting place.
I walk to a nearby gravel patch shaded by a tree. It is a peaceful place, the sole sound emanating from small birds flitting between the shrubs. Here seven people lie beneath my feet: four children under the age of six, their father and two grandparents.
The two families are linked by marriage and I carry their combined genes. Perhaps that’s why I feel unexpectedly strange, discombobulated you might say, as I pause at their burial sites to wonder about their everyday lives. Would they welcome my fossicking in their lives or the personalities my writings ascribe to them? Did they ever imagine their descendants’ lives would be so very different from their own?
I find myself pondering whether my descendants living 160 years hence will search for evidence of my life as I have for my ancestors. If they do, where will they look for traces? In my case there will be no grave site to visit. Perhaps they will scour social media archives if such things exist or walk the Bayside streets where once I lived and worked.
On the other hand, I may be just one of their many long-forgotten ancestors whose lives hold no interest for them.
© Jan Storey 2022
published 1st September 2022
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‘ELEGANCE’
Elegance
by Vicki Endrody
Effortless, timeless icon of style, that’s Audrey Hepburn! And here’s her advice on how to look nice:
Life is a party … so … dress like it! Chanel shared her views and added this chit:
Every woman needs a little black dress; add some pearls with an up-do and you’re sure to impress.
Givenchy’s muse, Audrey showed us poise and such grace nibbling pastries for breakfast at that Tiffany place. Eliza Dolittle also had class so no one batted an eyelid at ‘Come on … move your arse!’
Audrey wasn’t just an actress, she had substance and was smart; as Ambassador for children she really played her part, saying:
Nothing is impossible, and with wit and wisdom explained, because the word itself says ‘I’m possible’; her sincerity wasn’t feigned.
Colette looked for such qualities on the hunt for her new star, but this special person eluded her, though she searched both near and far. Finally meeting Audrey she giggled gleefully, ‘At last my leading lady is found … You are my Gigi!’
Elegance, Audrey rightly once said, is the only beauty that never fades. And elegance, my fair lady, is what you gave us in spades!
© Vicki Endrody 2021
published 10 April 2021
Elegance
by Sandra Stirling
Jean slowly rode the motorbike along Flinders Lane, careful to dodge the men and women pushing long racks of clothing along the footpath and even on the roadway. Trucks, big and small, wound slowly past the grand buildings and warehouses where vast areas of space stocked every imaginable line of clothing for men, women and even children.
Parking her motorbike, Jean gathered her dresses carefully wrapped in cotton material from the sidecar and walked several hundred yards along the narrow footpath, passing the small kiosk selling drinks and sweets, and the haberdasher whose wares were on display in the tiny shop window. Entering the large building, she waited for one of the clanging lifts to descend. Jean entered and pushed the button for the fourth floor, watching the heavy cable through the cage door pull the lift to her destination.
‘Ah, Mrs Stanton, a pleasure, a pleasure,’ greeted the small foreign gentleman as Jean emerged from the lift. ‘Here, give to me this great parcel. It is heavy I am sure.’
Jean happily handed over the package. ‘Thank you, Mr Epstein,’ she smiled, releasing the parcel.
‘Come now, let us see what you have for us today, Mrs Stanton’.
Jean followed the little man across the faded linoleum floor to the large cutting room table, one of many in the centre of the huge warehouse area. Daylight shone through a small, wire-covered window, catching the dust motes that floated through the air, together with tiny threads of material produced by the flying scissors of the girls cutting the large swatches of materials at the other end of the room. There was a low hum of chatter and the sound of scissors clacking through the silks, linen and satins flowing across the large benches.
Undoing the package, Mr Epstein carefully examined the made-up dresses with their colourful matching collars and cuffs, some with tiny buttons, others with carefully hand-sewn trimmings around the pockets and collars. The styles were very smart, mid-calf length, equally at home in a business setting or a luncheon with friends during the day, and each reflecting Jean’s own sense of style and elegance. She was meticulous in ensuring that the final product was well finished, no hanging threads or loose buttons or carelessly inserted pleats, and made of the best quality materials, linen being an especial favourite of hers.
Carefully, Mr Epstein touched the dresses, moving each one aside and looking at another. There were six designs in all. Turning, he pushed his small round glasses to the top of his head and smiled at her. ‘Yes. Yes. Very satisfactory, Mrs Stanton. We will have no trouble in selling this range, I can assure you.’ He nodded reassuringly, captivated by Jean’s brown eyes and charming smile. And Mr Epstein was not a man easily captivated, as his staff would quickly and willingly attest!
Jean thanked the buyer, delighted to receive his order for the number and style of dresses required. Smiling briefly at the girls who looked up from their work as she passed, she was glad to return to the ground floor and the hustle and bustle of Flinders Lane.
© Sandra Stirling 2021
published 10 April 2021
Elegance
by Sue Hardiman
School holidays always brought a trip to the city. Mum, my brother Peter and me – all dressed in our best clothes. Mum wore her best dress or suit – weather depending, coat in cool weather and always hat, gloves, handbag and looking elegant. Peter in school suit and best shoes. I wore a green twin-set and grey pleated skirt, beautiful suede shoes and a camel coat. In warmer weather I wore my best frock, a cardigan and flat leather shoes. When Dad visited the city he wore his well pressed Fletcher Jones slacks, shirt, cravat and sports coat, and he too looked elegant. Today he would be considered an eccentric.
We would catch the first Off-Peak train from Glen Iris and some 25 minutes later arrive at Flinders Street, head off to Mr Glynn at Capitol House for a haircut and the day was ours.
A trip to Myers, then Foys and the best part of the outing was Gibbys for lunch. Sandwiches like no one else made, a sundae for the kids and a beautifully presented pot of tea for Mum. Beautiful linen napery and always served by a lady in a Gibby’s uniform and the ladies were always elegant. On the way back to Flinders Street Station we would call in at Ball and Welch to buy 60 denier stockings for me to wear to school and any school attire Peter required. Then a rush to catch the last Off-Peak train back to Glen Iris. And over dinner we would tell Dad all about our adventure and show him our purchases.
In later years I rode my Vespa into the city, parked out the front of Myer and headed off down the various arcades. Mum would turn in her grave – nothing elegant about attire. I wore a pair of knee-high joggers, sneakers, a T-Shirt and fitted into the crowd – the only difference mine were washed and ironed. The male shoppers certainly did not look like they had stepped out of a Saville Row magazine – unpressed shorts, un-ironed T-Shirts, unwashed sneakers.
© Sue Hardiman
published 10 April 2021
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Bayside U3A Writers Group 
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