Michael Fallow
Amalgamation into a larger club has ensured the Invercargill RSA can continue to do its work. reports.
When the chips are down, mates matter. The Anzacs knew that. The chips were down for the Invercargill RSA when it made the difficult decision in 2005 that it didn’t have a resolutely independent future.
The finances weren’t stacking up and they couldn’t turn it around.
But that wasn’t the end. The city’s RSA exists now as a section of the Invercargill Workingmen’s Club. An honoured part, what’s more. It hasn’t been subsumed to the point of anonymity.
Consider this wee ceremony. The workingmen’s club goes into darkness every Friday night at 5pm, or 6pm on the last Friday of the month.
The conversational buzz stops and the Ode is read, followed by a minute’s silence.
It’s not tokenism. It’s a very regular, very real, reminder.
The same team-up dynamic has been happening up and down the country among RSAs, workingmen’s and cossie (Cosmopolitan) clubs. They are coming together, joining whichever among them is performing the most strongly.
Membership of the RSA in Invercargill might be valued highly but it’s priced lowly.
It comes via the workingmen’s club, membership of which costs $60, or $40 for superannuitants, and with $20 in both cases credited back to a bar tab.
To then join the RSA section will set you back another dollar. Just the one. Right now the RSA membership stands at 430 but, by being part of the wider organisation, fundraising through Saturday night raffles and sales of mementos like badges is made easier.
‘‘We’re going pretty good at the moment,’’ RSA chairman Norm Wilson says.
‘‘We’re quite lucky the workingmen’s club took us in really. Otherwise we’d probably be gone.’’
In case it doesn’t go without saying, Poppy Day money has nothing to do with running the RSA.
It is strictly for welfare; helping veterans and their families.
‘‘A lot of people don’t know this,’’ says Wilson, ‘‘but they can apply for help for glasses, hearing aids, things like that.
‘‘They’ve got to go through a little means test, but if they qualify for that, we’ll help them.’’
Secretary-treasurer Cindy Kennedy joins the table, fresh from selling an Australian visitor five wee badges. The club makes a couple of dollars’ profit from each one.
‘‘The only way we survive now is fundraising, like any club,’’ she says.
People sometimes forget this, or don’t factor it into their expectations, but the RSA section has no professional employees.
‘‘We’re volunteers,’’ Kennedy says. ‘‘Trying to do the right thing.’’
Wilson is an ex-serviceman but she was a workingmen’s club member who thought she’d join the committee. ‘‘Nobody pushed me.’’ Are there enough volunteers? They both laugh. ‘‘There’s never enough volunteers,’’ she says. ‘‘We’re always looking for people to help.’’
Balancing respect for tradition with the need for change is a matter requiring care, but there are a couple of aspects of modern life that bring real approval from this pair.
One is the educational changes that have them marvelling at how betterinformed the community’s children are about Anzac history and significance.
The other is the role social media can play in this.
The RSA’s Facebook page doesn’t lack for attention from young people.
For that matter, they reckon it’s not just their own ageing perspective that in recent days they’ve noticed, once again, that the poppy day collectors are getting younger.
For this RSA, as with so many others, any chance to welcome in some youthful vigour is thoroughly appreciated.