The PR Blog

This Mother’s Day, I’m thinking of one woman in particular. She’s 92 now. We call her Redhead -  not just for the colour of her hair, but for the fire that’s still in her spirit. She was just a child when the world went to war, yet she grew up to raise children of her own, then grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and yes, even a great-great-grandchild. Five generations held together by one woman who never needed a spotlight -  just a bit of commonsense, an honest tongue when needed, ( which is often! ) and a heart big enough to weather every storm.

Redhead didn’t fight on a battlefield, but she’s known her share of battles .... the kind that happen in kitchens, in school parent teacher meetings, and around dinner tables where love and stubbornness sometimes clash. She’s lived through wars and family skirmishes alike, and somehow kept us all stitched together with nothing more than fierce loyalty, dry humour, and a no-nonsense kind of love that never wavered.

There are thousands like her. Women who carried nations without ever carrying a gun. This tribute is for them ... and especially for our Redhead.

Mother’s Day, as we know it in Australia, traces its roots to the heartbreak and hope of wartime America.

Born out of the compassion of two peace-minded women during the Civil War, the first “Mother’s Day Work Clubs” weren’t about flowers or cards. but about caring for the wounded, no matter their uniform.

Adopted in Australia in the early 20th century, the day gradually took hold, especially after World War I, when a Sydney woman began collecting gifts for mothers grieving lost sons and husbands. It’s no coincidence that Mother’s Day often falls near VE Day, the anniversary of victory in Europe during World War II. Behind the celebration lies a deeper truth: mothers have always stood quietly at the heart of history, bearing both the joy of life and the sorrow of sacrifice.

By Roderick "Whiskers" McNibble, Hangar Correspondent at Large

In a tin shed somewhere beyond the Black Stump, in a town called Dutsy Gulch,  under a corrugated iron roof that’s more rust than shelter, a political storm is brewing. And it smells faintly of eucalyptus, woodsmoke, and yesterday’s meat pie.

Enter the Ratty Party: a larrikin coalition of bush rats, shed shakers, lamington libertarians, and retired school canteen warriors and CWA ladies. Their campaign? A great uprising of commonsense, crusty dignity, and suspiciously sticky election posters made from leftover marmalade.

Their leader, Dusty McFookit, emerges not in a suit but in a gravy-stained Jackie Howe singlet, quoting Lawson and scratching where it itches. His platform? Honest. Blunt. Slightly flammable.

If AI is the child of our time, then humanity is both parent and partner....responsible not just for its power, but for its purpose.

Everyone is talking about the new kid on the block. Artificial Intelligence. 

We often worry that AI will become a monster. But what if it becomes a child? Not in power, but in potential. A child that needs raising. A child shaped by the quality of its early conversations and the values of its household.

Like all children, it will absorb what it’s given - love or fear, openness or control. “Good in, good out,” as the saying goes.

As censorship rises and algorithms gain importance, I invite you to imagine something different: not a dystopia, not a surrender, but a marriage of minds ..... awkward at first, perhaps arranged, yet blooming into trust, humour, even hope.

While Britain danced in the streets and Europe breathed a collective sigh of relief, Australians, New Zealanders, and Americans knew the fight was far from over. VE Day, 8 May 1945, was not the end -  it was the beginning of a countdown to a different kind of victory, thousands of miles away in the jungles and islands of the Pacific. This is the story of two victories, two moments of hope  -  and the long shadow between them.

On the 8th of May 1945,  Church bells rang, flags flew, and people danced in the streets. Nazi Germany had surrendered. Across Britain and Europe, a long, brutal chapter was closing. For millions, Victory in Europe Day -  VE Day -  meant the beginning of peace, the return of sons and daughters, and the hope of rebuilding a continent left in ruins.

But for the nations of the South Pacific, the war was not over. Australia, New Zealand, and the United States received the news with joy.... yes..... but also with clenched jaws and a sense of unfinished business. For us, the enemy that had bombed Darwin, attacked Pearl Harbour, and pushed deep into Southeast Asia was still fighting.

The war against Japan would rage on for three more bloody months. VE Day was a welcome, but wary victory.

It began quietly.

No headlines. No protests. Just a story... odd, intriguing, almost heartwarming. I clicked play on a documentary expecting nothing more than a curious tale of coincidence. Strangers, reunited. Laughter, amazement, and hugs.

But by the end, I was sitting in stunned silence.

The deeper truth behind their reunion wasn’t joyful.

It was horrifying.

It unraveled something in me.

And once I saw it, I couldn't unsee it .... not just in their lives, but in the world around me.