As an adult I discovered T S Elliot's poem The Hollow Men -
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw.
As a curly headed, impulsive 11 year old it was the Guy that intrigued me, that other man of straw and stuffing, born out of labour and love with old trousers and a well worn shirt, still grubby from its last wear but saved from the bin by a kid's insightful comment ' please mum, save that for the Guy'.
Each year this night was anticipated with eager delight by myself and my friends. It was about many things: the collecting of wood during the year, the lugging of fallen tree branches, the making of the Guy and the frenzied saving of pocket money to buy the fireworks. Amongst the mothers in the street there was always someone, identified by the kids as a real mum, who was willing to make the Guy.
The making of the Guy was essentially simple: an old feather pillow or cushion was shaped into a head and a face painted on it. An old pillow was also used for the body. The shirt and trousers were tied at the ends to keep the stuffing of rags and newspaper from falling out.
If the Guy was finished early enough he became a travelling celebrity - he was bundled into an old pram and paraded down the street, pulled backwards up the steps of front porches or wheeled up driveways accompanied by a handful kids chanting 'a penny for the guy', 'a penny for the guy'. Any forthcoming money was eagerly taken and pooled to buy fireworks.
In the fading light of the November evening, the life-like effigy, tied to a pole and carefully placed on the pyre drew sounds of admiration from the assembled kids. Instinctively the ritual began. 'Burn the Guy', 'Burn the Guy' , Burn the Guy', was the chant sung by the ring of excited kids impatiently circling the unlit bonfire. The word floated into the into the coolness of the evening, eventually etching themselves in the night air, the graffiti of a forgotten rebellion.
Built with the hands of both children and adults, the pile of material now standing proudly in the vacant block had, as its focus, the Guy. Earlier in the evening he had been tied to a wooden pole and carefully placed at the top of the pyre, his feet partially covered by those last dry branches, randomly thrown, a final offering to Vulcan, a sort of insurance to guarantee inflammability.
During these preparations no one gave much thought to the possibility of fires, despite the fact that there was plenty of bush ready to receive that small spark, the precursor of a raging fire! This was suburbia in young Australian, a place not yet clearly defined, a place with ocean boundaries, but the psyche of the nation still not completely contained; an element of the larrikin associated with good fun and freedom still lingered.
So, in the early fifties, each year on November 5 Dante's Inferno came to Andrew Street Scarborough a suburban outpost on the fringes, considered by many Perth residents to be a significant distance from Perth and nothing much more than a beach settlement.
A liberally sprinkled cup of petrol and a well directed match was all that was required. Very quickly, after the initial whoosh accompanied by gasps from the adults and yelps from the kids, the diligently collected garden trimmings, lopped tree branches, wooden crates, cardboard boxes and other inflammable household waste, became food for a monster that was beyond stopping. Within minutes its flaming fingers reached hungrily out for the Guy, hesitantly caressing his outer clothing before raging into a sudden furry, devouring its captive with a shower of sparks and lashing him with blue tongued flames, insatiably feeding on itself, quickly morphing into an inferno.
Very soon the radiating heat threw up an impenetrable boarder, forcing everyone to find refuge in those cooler pockets of night air on the outer perimeter. All stood and watched in awe. Unrecognised echoes of the past drifted with the smoke filled air; soon, corroboree-like, we ran, jumped and danced our way around this insatiable beast while
Ghost-gums dimly stand at the edge of light
Watching corroboree.
Eerie the scene in leaping firelight...(Corroboree, Oodgeroo Noonuccal)
As the fire burned, men, glasses of Swan Draft or Emu Bitter in hand, earnestly talked about the upcoming cricket season while also bemoaning the fact that during the past footy season more top WA players had gone across to Victoria to play in the Victorian Football League - there was a sense of outrage, why would you!
Other excited voices elbowed into the ebb and flow of conversation to approve the passing of the Television Act allowing for TV to soon commence in Australia, although most of those around the fire didn't expect to have a TV. Some discussed the possibility that sets might be hired for holiday times like Christmas and perhaps even for longer periods. The idea of Colour TV was not even a thought bubble in the context of 1954.
But the kids were not interested in the snippets of conversation that caught their ears as they skylarked around the fire; their focus was on the more important things, the fireworks. Each kid had brought a cardboard box or paper bag with their treasures in it: Chinese Crackers, Tom Thumbs, Penny bombs, Catherine Wheels, at least one Mt. Vesuvius, Jumping Jacks and Skyrockets - the most expensive and treasured, always left till last.
The ritual lighting of fireworks was accompanied by shrieks and laughter followed by mock shock by the girls, strutting bravado by the boys and enthusiasm by all, enjoyment not dulled by the occasional failure. This excitement was the culmination of the previous week or two.
Armed with a bunch of of Chinese Crackers (a string of about twenty small bombs which were joined together and consequently ignited one after the other) a few of us, just as dusk was settling, met quietly. We quickly ran to the pre designated house which had been chosen because of its partially rusted and rickety tin letter box standing, one legged, and waiting open-mouthed to receive letters, bills and the occasional postcard. Our task was simple: lift the lid, light the fuse, thrown on the fizzing Chinese Cracker, close the lid and run.
Alternatively, the fiery little bombs were hurled with enthusiasm onto a friend's front yard, the sound of fireworks and the barking of dogs shattering the still evening air.
Inevitably, at this time of the year, there was trouble at school because there was always someone who brought in Penny bombs and set them off in the galvanised iron garbage bins or threw them into a circle of demure girls waiting for the school bus; but the result was always worth the consequences. Strategy was important for success in these situations. At school it had to be done the day the bins were empty and before first bell when most teachers were busy preparing for class.
Throwing a penny bomb into a group of unsuspecting girls called for some skill and a dare devil attitude because it was most effective if, when the fuse was lit, the firecracker was held for as long as possible in ones fingers so the explosion occurred just as the firecracker landed at the feet of the unsuspecting group of girls.
It is a wonder more kids were not injured by fireworks or the bonfire and its embers. In fact, it was the embers of the following morning that were most dangerous with kids running through the bush and wanting to re-light sticks and the many dead branches left lying around. Health and safety probably got it right in the seventies when fireworks and 5th November bonfires were banned. But the memory, the fun and the excitement is not extinguished from my mind.
Tuesday, 8 December 2015
Thursday, 2 April 2015
The Collective Unconscious
Clouds brood;
the atmosphere is heavy; there is a sense of impending rain. The afternoon is
moving into twilight. Small New Holland honey-eaters knowingly flash their bright
yellow wing-patch as they scoot just above the lawn to play hide and seek in
the trees and shrubs only to reappear moments later.
A few drops of
rain make their noisy presence heard on the zincalum roofing. There is stillness
in the air. It occurs to me that this act of consciously knowing and observing
is a distinctively human attribute. In pondering this idea I am also reminded of
the collective unconscious, that part of the mind which we are not aware
of, that hidden storehouse
of memories, instincts, and experiences common to all humankind that each of us inherit at birth. I recently experienced this as I sat
with thousands of others waiting for Carols by Candlelight to begin on a
beautiful warm, still, Perth evening, the meandering Swan river barely
a hundred metres away,
its history hidden somewhere in the tide of geological time.
I wait for the music
to begin; a new river of light is slowly emerging, sourced by candles. Naked
candles, I notice, are now things of the past; little battery charged candles
whose flames change colour are the things of the present that swell the new
awakening river. I sense I am more than simply a part of a crowd, I sense an
affinity - the real but abstract idea of humanity: babies, young
enthusiastic parents,
ageing grandparents, all gathering to celebrate
something. Is it an idea? A belief? Is it something more?
I am aware of
people with their rugs on the ground, hampers open, food being passed around
for sharing. My mind suddenly catapults to a scene on the banks of a river in a
fictional world where people gather and picnic…the whole restless mob of us
spread out on blankets...in a good world in the midst of our living.
As evening settles itself quietly around us, with the
singing and gentle movement of people around me, a new frame of reference
emerges in my consciousness, I hear the murmuring of everlastings and see them
proudly waving their yellow, pink and white flags against a backdrop of
stylised gumtrees, many shedding their rabbit-like skin, daring to greenness
against a dry red earth above a blue sky broken by tufts of white cloud.
The landscape opens up further to the broken bones of dead
trees that lie scattered across the dusty red carpet, home to scurrying ants
and lazing lizards. A post and wire fence, leaning forward in places as it
succumbs to age and weariness, boards the paddock. A land of extremes,
geologically fascinating, crossed by hundreds of song lines, the pathways of
the creator-beings of the Dreamtime, unseen, but nevertheless real,
criss-crossing this vast continent.
A dryness hovers across the landscape, there is a hint of a
mirage on the bitumen that runs parallel to the fence, a dark scar across
this countryside; a
landscape changed forever,
but it is the roads that throw a lifeline between small farming communities.
Further along, the brooding water of a dam lies still as it ponders its history
- a part of a 'civilised' landscape that has been divided, re-shaped, parceled
out and now packaged for tourists. The sudden applause of the crowd drags me
back to the sea of waving candles and the familiar sound of a well-known Carol.
I have often felt the force of this shared experience,
especially in those moments of mindfulness, usually when the air is still and
even noise becomes a part of the silence... sitting on a beach, beneath a
brooding sky pondering the approaching cyclone over a thousand kilometres to
the north, with dark and ominous clouds above me.
The waves crash, sand is churned, the water becomes a course
sandy mix with shards of swirling seaweed blasted to freedom by the naked power
of the ocean. I instinctively know this swirling water is not a place to be
despite its calling, Siren-like - daring me to attempt that dive into its
washing machine frenzy.
I remain still on the cool sand, contemplating the awesome
power of this ocean and suddenly feel my insignificance against this
recognisable force. I instinctively move further back from the shoreline. I
wonder if those present along the coastal shoreline of Australia over twenty
thousand years ago also sensed the approaching might of nature as the great rising of the seas began.
Witnessed by generations of coastal Aboriginals, the rising water flooded the coastal plains and valleys, severing Australia from New Guinea in the north and Tasmania in the south.
This massive event shaped the site of what was to become every capital city except Canberra.
As I continue to remain motionless I recognise that shared
feeling of human experience – a sense of awe. Through what has become an
archetypal idea, millennia become the present moment; the now becomes greater
than itself.
Dusk is approaching when I turn my back on the ocean, now
calmer and more at peace with itself. I walk across the cool sand towards the
buildings and shops, a landscape changed from my childhood, but still holding
familiar lines. Shadows of past buildings impose themselves on my imagination.
As I climb the steps to the broad walk and join others and
ease myself back into suburbia, I glance back at the darkening sea comfortable
with the Fish Lamb’s idea in the novel Cloudstreet that we all battle in the same corridor that time makes
for us.
Thursday, 27 November 2014
A Small Fibro House
A compacted limestone and gravel roadway borders the front of the property. Resting on gently rising ground carpeted with itch-provoking Buffalo grass is an unassuming white, mid forties, Fibro house. From the lawn, curved steps lead up to the front porch with its pillar-box red cement and two white pillars. An Australian wattle, gloriously golden in spring-time when it wantonly casts its flowers across the lawn, stands graciously in the side garden with a few shrubs on either side. Two rose gardens set within the lawn provide colour and contrast through spring to Autumn.
The main bedroom is on the right-hand side of the house, its windows facing out to the lawn. The lounge room is on the left with its chimney reaching towards a pale blue sky. From the front door a narrow hallway opens to the lounge room on the left with its polished floor boards; the kitchen with its green linoleum, bench, sink and wood stove is directly ahead. To the right of the kitchen is the bathroom while the left of the kitchen is the dining room which opens into the lounge; the only furniture is a sideboard and a banksia table and chairs, their deep blue seat coverings contrasting with the polished table and rich jarrah floor boards. The window at the end of the dinning room offers nothing more than a picket fence and a part of the neighbour's backyard.
Running off from the kitchen along the length of the back of the house there is an enclosed louvred veranda. Walk through the kitchen to the verandah and, before opening the door leading out to the back yard, look to the left and you will see that there is a room at the end of the veranda - my bedroom. If you open the door you will see a room painted in predictable soft colours with the usual splash of white on the window frames and door.
This was how I remember it until I was about ten years old and sufficiently articulate to argue with boyhood passion for a repaint in the colours of my beloved West Perth football club, blue and red. My mother demurred, strongly I suspect; I pleaded. Dad saw sense and after a weekend of painting my room was transformed.
I soon came to love this reverberating blue and red room where I could read about the feats of Biggles, the dare-devil pilot and adventurer whose actions riveted my eyes to the page as I lived with him through his many adventures; alternatively, I would pour over Phantom comics, comfortable in the fact that in both of these worlds good would always win over evil.
Although my room was not large, there was sufficient floor space near the door to build trucks, bridges and cranes with my Meccano set, leaving behind the odd screw, nut or Meccano part to be busily gathered up, along with complaints from my mother, as she swept the floor. A other times , I would fiddle with my home-made crystal set searching for a radio station or listen, totally absorbed, to the radio broadcast of cricket and football, hearing the roar of the crowd and feeling the atmosphere as it seeped through the louvres. Soon the crowd and I became one.
But that was 'inside' - it was 'outside' that called me most of the time, as it does today. The idea of the physical landscape was etched early on in my mind, which probably explains my interest in the Impressionists and landscape painting generally. From time to time the backyard of my childhood replays itself across the screen of my mind. A montage of brightly coloured images randomly sequenced. The 44 gallon drum that I used to put on its rusting side, stand on, and then 'walk' it across and down the back lawn; the old wooden fruit box I used as hurdle practice until one afternoon its rusty nails ripped open the side of my leg resulting in stitches, a tetanus needle, heavy bandaging and more time than I liked 'inside'. The wood heap that I could stand on and look into the neighbour's back yard searching for something, anything, to fire my imagination and the cool-dark underneath the house that became a refuge on hot summer days. The large apricot tree with its luscious yellow fruit, an almond tree that feed mainly the parrots. The grape vines that provided sweet juicy berries shot through with sweetness and sun light. The huge lemon tree behind the laundry thrived on the water that came from the troughs used for rinsing the washed clothes that had been boiling in the copper alongside, which, at Christmas time, was used to cook the Christmas ham.
The backyard was about activity and imagination, the playing out of the present and some undefined future amongst the sunlight and shadows, recognising that black and white were unreliable categories in such a dynamic world, where the realm of light, colour and shade that inevitably merged into darkness returned each morning and called, siren-like, to entice me once again into sunlight and shadow.
In summer, at one end of the lawn, were the dahlias - over a metre tall. Their flowers formed a kaleidoscope of red, orange, yellow, burgundy and white. Somewhere there is a sepia photo of me at about the age of eight standing in the flower bed surrounded by dahlias taller than me. I love that photo, revealing perhaps the stirrings of my early interest in gardens. The lawn space was, for a brief time, also a cricket wicket until the number of broken louvres proved too much for my parents.
Once I reached High School age I shared time between the more physical activities on the lawn and my 'laboratory', which was nothing more than a space in the outside laundry, adjacent to the toilet, across from the grape vines and apricot tree. A bench had been set up there for my Chemistry set. There was a Bunsen burner as well as a test tube rack, test tubes, a test tube holder, funnel, eye dropper, glass beakers, a couple of glass flasks and a few chemicals - safety glasses or gloves were not a part of my kit! I spent my time shaping glass under the flame of the Bunsen burner, mixing chemicals and perfecting the art of producing rotten egg gas, much to the discomfort of my friends.
As I moved into my teens it was the oval opposite that became the magnet. Here I could play cricket and football, run laps, fly the balsa planes that I made, catch tadpoles in the two swamps that that were either side of the grassed area and dream of heroic deeds on the sporting field.
Later, when playing under sixteen cricket for Scarborough the practice nets on the far side of the ground, visible from our front porch, became my focus and my training ground. I was acutely aware that my mother was not reluctant to stand on our front porch and cast a motherly glance across the oval to see that I was still there and had not slipped behind the paper barks at the northern end of the swamp 'where things happened'!
It was at the cricket nets that, much to my parent's horror, I was photographed one afternoon by the evening paper, The Daily News. They were even more startled when, later in the week, an action photo of me and one of my teammates appeared under the headline These Boys Are Good Now. Looking back over time I can only be amused by the accuracy of that headline.
The oval remains, but the swamps are gone, there are more turf wickets in the centre and the grass is thicker, greener and better groomed. When I look across its expanse I am bemused by the fact it seems not that long ago I was there, a kid, kicking a football, running in to bowl or collecting tadpoles from the swamp.
The small white Fibro house with its back veranda opening onto lawn and trees, a place of movement, sun and shade has made way for two large modern houses that stare sternly across a small patch of neatly trimmed lawn with manicured gardens containing a meticulously planted array of anonymous plants.
The main bedroom is on the right-hand side of the house, its windows facing out to the lawn. The lounge room is on the left with its chimney reaching towards a pale blue sky. From the front door a narrow hallway opens to the lounge room on the left with its polished floor boards; the kitchen with its green linoleum, bench, sink and wood stove is directly ahead. To the right of the kitchen is the bathroom while the left of the kitchen is the dining room which opens into the lounge; the only furniture is a sideboard and a banksia table and chairs, their deep blue seat coverings contrasting with the polished table and rich jarrah floor boards. The window at the end of the dinning room offers nothing more than a picket fence and a part of the neighbour's backyard.
Running off from the kitchen along the length of the back of the house there is an enclosed louvred veranda. Walk through the kitchen to the verandah and, before opening the door leading out to the back yard, look to the left and you will see that there is a room at the end of the veranda - my bedroom. If you open the door you will see a room painted in predictable soft colours with the usual splash of white on the window frames and door.
This was how I remember it until I was about ten years old and sufficiently articulate to argue with boyhood passion for a repaint in the colours of my beloved West Perth football club, blue and red. My mother demurred, strongly I suspect; I pleaded. Dad saw sense and after a weekend of painting my room was transformed.
I soon came to love this reverberating blue and red room where I could read about the feats of Biggles, the dare-devil pilot and adventurer whose actions riveted my eyes to the page as I lived with him through his many adventures; alternatively, I would pour over Phantom comics, comfortable in the fact that in both of these worlds good would always win over evil.
Although my room was not large, there was sufficient floor space near the door to build trucks, bridges and cranes with my Meccano set, leaving behind the odd screw, nut or Meccano part to be busily gathered up, along with complaints from my mother, as she swept the floor. A other times , I would fiddle with my home-made crystal set searching for a radio station or listen, totally absorbed, to the radio broadcast of cricket and football, hearing the roar of the crowd and feeling the atmosphere as it seeped through the louvres. Soon the crowd and I became one.
But that was 'inside' - it was 'outside' that called me most of the time, as it does today. The idea of the physical landscape was etched early on in my mind, which probably explains my interest in the Impressionists and landscape painting generally. From time to time the backyard of my childhood replays itself across the screen of my mind. A montage of brightly coloured images randomly sequenced. The 44 gallon drum that I used to put on its rusting side, stand on, and then 'walk' it across and down the back lawn; the old wooden fruit box I used as hurdle practice until one afternoon its rusty nails ripped open the side of my leg resulting in stitches, a tetanus needle, heavy bandaging and more time than I liked 'inside'. The wood heap that I could stand on and look into the neighbour's back yard searching for something, anything, to fire my imagination and the cool-dark underneath the house that became a refuge on hot summer days. The large apricot tree with its luscious yellow fruit, an almond tree that feed mainly the parrots. The grape vines that provided sweet juicy berries shot through with sweetness and sun light. The huge lemon tree behind the laundry thrived on the water that came from the troughs used for rinsing the washed clothes that had been boiling in the copper alongside, which, at Christmas time, was used to cook the Christmas ham.
The backyard was about activity and imagination, the playing out of the present and some undefined future amongst the sunlight and shadows, recognising that black and white were unreliable categories in such a dynamic world, where the realm of light, colour and shade that inevitably merged into darkness returned each morning and called, siren-like, to entice me once again into sunlight and shadow.
In summer, at one end of the lawn, were the dahlias - over a metre tall. Their flowers formed a kaleidoscope of red, orange, yellow, burgundy and white. Somewhere there is a sepia photo of me at about the age of eight standing in the flower bed surrounded by dahlias taller than me. I love that photo, revealing perhaps the stirrings of my early interest in gardens. The lawn space was, for a brief time, also a cricket wicket until the number of broken louvres proved too much for my parents.
Once I reached High School age I shared time between the more physical activities on the lawn and my 'laboratory', which was nothing more than a space in the outside laundry, adjacent to the toilet, across from the grape vines and apricot tree. A bench had been set up there for my Chemistry set. There was a Bunsen burner as well as a test tube rack, test tubes, a test tube holder, funnel, eye dropper, glass beakers, a couple of glass flasks and a few chemicals - safety glasses or gloves were not a part of my kit! I spent my time shaping glass under the flame of the Bunsen burner, mixing chemicals and perfecting the art of producing rotten egg gas, much to the discomfort of my friends.
As I moved into my teens it was the oval opposite that became the magnet. Here I could play cricket and football, run laps, fly the balsa planes that I made, catch tadpoles in the two swamps that that were either side of the grassed area and dream of heroic deeds on the sporting field.
Later, when playing under sixteen cricket for Scarborough the practice nets on the far side of the ground, visible from our front porch, became my focus and my training ground. I was acutely aware that my mother was not reluctant to stand on our front porch and cast a motherly glance across the oval to see that I was still there and had not slipped behind the paper barks at the northern end of the swamp 'where things happened'!
It was at the cricket nets that, much to my parent's horror, I was photographed one afternoon by the evening paper, The Daily News. They were even more startled when, later in the week, an action photo of me and one of my teammates appeared under the headline These Boys Are Good Now. Looking back over time I can only be amused by the accuracy of that headline.
The oval remains, but the swamps are gone, there are more turf wickets in the centre and the grass is thicker, greener and better groomed. When I look across its expanse I am bemused by the fact it seems not that long ago I was there, a kid, kicking a football, running in to bowl or collecting tadpoles from the swamp.
The small white Fibro house with its back veranda opening onto lawn and trees, a place of movement, sun and shade has made way for two large modern houses that stare sternly across a small patch of neatly trimmed lawn with manicured gardens containing a meticulously planted array of anonymous plants.
Sunday, 21 September 2014
Family Gatherings
Words stir the air around the table; interjections, rebuttals, brave hypotheses launched amid the mirth and chuckle of individuals, the babble of voices echoing around the room accompanied by the occasional scrape of a chair, triggers a thought.
The idea of celebrations floats to the surface of my consciousness splintering into pieces of light illuminating forgotten recesses, exposing childish memories of balloons, hot dogs, lollies, streamers, the pushing and shoving to get to the food, the admonishing voice of parents. But these are ephemeral images. They cloud the essence. They are the colour, taste and noise but not the substance of celebrations. Celebrations provide individuals the opportunity to acknowledge a humanity which has more questions then answers but finds its meaning and enjoyment through sharing.
Being an only child living in one of the outer suburbs of Perth, as Scarborough was in those days, celebrations at home tended to be on a small scale which highlighted, even more, those bigger occasions when the larger family came together. Occasionally it was prawning on the Swan River as the last light deserted the water leaving the warmth of the summer evening to linger on young shoulders. Firelight stretched its fingers towards the water's edge as my cousins and I ate watermelon, got wet and waited for the first haul of prawns to hit the boiling water.
Sometimes it was during school holidays at my Grandfather's farm in Pithara. In my mind's eye I can still see the dam near the front gate, the shearing shed on the left with its lingering smell of sheep. The dirt road curving slightly as it beckoned the way past the stately peppermint trees kindly offering their shade to chooks and vehicles, leading to what I remember as the welcoming house of my grandparents. It was here my mother and her many siblings grew up. The wide concrete veranda around three sides of the house screamed out for boyhood fun. The geraniums that filled the three garden beds at the front of the homestead loudly proclaimed their colour against the surrounding dull red paths, dusty in summer but treacherously slippery in winter; for a young boy they were frustrating obstacles that stood in the way of balls and bikes. Staying at the farm during school holidays was to become a part of the medley of aunts, uncles and cousins.
In the mornings the long kitchen table was a hive of activity. The large wood stove with its two doors, big cook top and twenty four hour fire offered itself for the cooking of bread, cakes, eggs and, in season, mushrooms freshly cut from the paddock out the back. A large pot of porridge usually stood ready for plundering accompanied by a kettle of hot water for cups of tea or Milo. The rich yellow butter on the table was homemade, as was the jam; if cream was wanted that too was fresh from a recent milking.
Kids would come and go, parents would sit and talk while Grandma she went on with her cooking and other daily chores. The wide verandahs provided ample opportunity for running, while the open space upside allowed for the more serious games - chasing each other, throwing a ball, looking for eggs under the peppermint tree or climbing over any tractors or trucks that were in the adjoining shed.
The evening meal on the farm was a little more formal with my Irish grandfather presiding over the dinner table which could seat at least sixteen people, if not more. Here the chatter was about families, the current weather, the crops, Australian sport - especially cricket, tennis and golf. If it was winter time the fire of Malle roots, brought in from the large pile at the back of the house sang songs to us as it danced it way across, under and around the gnarled grey logs. The Mallee root pile at the top of the backyard, a four-metre-high grey monument bearing testimony to the back-breaking work of clearing new land with limited help from machines was, however, a prohibited area for kids given that it was a favourite haunt for snakes.
The ripple of conversation, sometimes rising to loudness, interspersed with parent admonitions, interrupted by the arrival and passing around of food was the circling web that held everyone together around the table. No doubt there were undercurrents, with flotsam sometimes rising to surface and past disagreements were occasionally aired but language despite, its potential for destruction, is the stuff of life, the thread that weaves its magic, bringing the past, the present and the future into a narrative with meaning.
Since those days of childhood and adolescence, that wonderful procession of family rituals winding its way through the calendar year has been the source of deepest enjoyment. Birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, 'send-offs' followed by 'welcome home', significant milestones and more recently, grandsons - yes, balloons, lollies and streamers do often feature but the substance behind them can now be more easily discerned.
Let us be grateful to people who make us happy: They are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom. (Marcel Proust, 1871 - 1922)
The idea of celebrations floats to the surface of my consciousness splintering into pieces of light illuminating forgotten recesses, exposing childish memories of balloons, hot dogs, lollies, streamers, the pushing and shoving to get to the food, the admonishing voice of parents. But these are ephemeral images. They cloud the essence. They are the colour, taste and noise but not the substance of celebrations. Celebrations provide individuals the opportunity to acknowledge a humanity which has more questions then answers but finds its meaning and enjoyment through sharing.
Being an only child living in one of the outer suburbs of Perth, as Scarborough was in those days, celebrations at home tended to be on a small scale which highlighted, even more, those bigger occasions when the larger family came together. Occasionally it was prawning on the Swan River as the last light deserted the water leaving the warmth of the summer evening to linger on young shoulders. Firelight stretched its fingers towards the water's edge as my cousins and I ate watermelon, got wet and waited for the first haul of prawns to hit the boiling water.
Sometimes it was during school holidays at my Grandfather's farm in Pithara. In my mind's eye I can still see the dam near the front gate, the shearing shed on the left with its lingering smell of sheep. The dirt road curving slightly as it beckoned the way past the stately peppermint trees kindly offering their shade to chooks and vehicles, leading to what I remember as the welcoming house of my grandparents. It was here my mother and her many siblings grew up. The wide concrete veranda around three sides of the house screamed out for boyhood fun. The geraniums that filled the three garden beds at the front of the homestead loudly proclaimed their colour against the surrounding dull red paths, dusty in summer but treacherously slippery in winter; for a young boy they were frustrating obstacles that stood in the way of balls and bikes. Staying at the farm during school holidays was to become a part of the medley of aunts, uncles and cousins.
In the mornings the long kitchen table was a hive of activity. The large wood stove with its two doors, big cook top and twenty four hour fire offered itself for the cooking of bread, cakes, eggs and, in season, mushrooms freshly cut from the paddock out the back. A large pot of porridge usually stood ready for plundering accompanied by a kettle of hot water for cups of tea or Milo. The rich yellow butter on the table was homemade, as was the jam; if cream was wanted that too was fresh from a recent milking.
Kids would come and go, parents would sit and talk while Grandma she went on with her cooking and other daily chores. The wide verandahs provided ample opportunity for running, while the open space upside allowed for the more serious games - chasing each other, throwing a ball, looking for eggs under the peppermint tree or climbing over any tractors or trucks that were in the adjoining shed.
The evening meal on the farm was a little more formal with my Irish grandfather presiding over the dinner table which could seat at least sixteen people, if not more. Here the chatter was about families, the current weather, the crops, Australian sport - especially cricket, tennis and golf. If it was winter time the fire of Malle roots, brought in from the large pile at the back of the house sang songs to us as it danced it way across, under and around the gnarled grey logs. The Mallee root pile at the top of the backyard, a four-metre-high grey monument bearing testimony to the back-breaking work of clearing new land with limited help from machines was, however, a prohibited area for kids given that it was a favourite haunt for snakes.
The ripple of conversation, sometimes rising to loudness, interspersed with parent admonitions, interrupted by the arrival and passing around of food was the circling web that held everyone together around the table. No doubt there were undercurrents, with flotsam sometimes rising to surface and past disagreements were occasionally aired but language despite, its potential for destruction, is the stuff of life, the thread that weaves its magic, bringing the past, the present and the future into a narrative with meaning.
Since those days of childhood and adolescence, that wonderful procession of family rituals winding its way through the calendar year has been the source of deepest enjoyment. Birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, 'send-offs' followed by 'welcome home', significant milestones and more recently, grandsons - yes, balloons, lollies and streamers do often feature but the substance behind them can now be more easily discerned.
Let us be grateful to people who make us happy: They are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom. (Marcel Proust, 1871 - 1922)
Friday, 8 August 2014
Two Worlds - The Fifties
Two Worlds - The Fifties
Pistons poised like a sprinter on the blocks. A constant hiss of escaping steam, the pungent smell of smoke, the ebb and flow of voices, the platform alive with scurrying people. Small hillocks of bags and cases constantly growing and then diminishing to eventually disappear into the half-light of one of the stationary carriages.
The shrill whistle of the guard, the clunk of the couplings followed by the immediate lurch of the carriage as the train slowly puffed its way out of Perth station. Leaning out the window, one final dutiful wave to my mother. I was at last on my way to my uncle's farm at Ballidu.
http://www.weekendnotes.com/im/007/05/the-steam-train-steam-trains-about-steam-trains-st81.jpg
For the next week I need not worry about Latin verbs, Greek roots, conjunctive clauses or the smack of the strap on cold morning hands. That instant stinging, two throbbing hands, other students looking to detect any sign of weakness, a fierce determination not to shed a tear. Corporal punishment was simply a part of the daily routine, something that happened to some of us more than others. In some ways it was almost a badge of honour. At times there was a sense of injustice but usually it was accepted. In fact, given we were often able to choose either the cane or the strap as the medium for the punishment it was viewed with a certain nonchalance, seen as a part of a democratic world in which there were real choices.
As the train struggled to climb the Eastern scarp a recurring thought bubble was singing its way around my mind 'I think I can, I think I can', 'I think I can'. Head constantly out the window watching the curve of the track, eyes brimming with smoke and soot, I was soothed by the clickity-clack, clickity-clack of the carriage as it skipped along the rails. By the time we approached Chidlow the thought of a soon to be bought steaming hot railway pie was at the forefront of my consciousness. Before the train hissed to a jolting halt I was already savouring the flakey pastry, the tongue burning meat and the trouser staining tomato sauce. As a kid I was never let down by that iconic West Australian Government Railway Pie, the standard fare for travellers on any country line.
My uncle and aunty lived in the township of Ballidu with its wide gravelled roads, railway station, garage, corner pub, co-op, town hall, some small stores and the inevitable farm machinery business. There were a few streets of houses each with access to a dusty back lane along which, every week the Dunny cart would arrive with a clatter and and a biggish bloke in a blue singlet would jump out of the truck to empty the the can. These men were not 'effluent technicians', they were known simply 'the Dunny men'. As a kid it took a torch and a lot of courage during the night to brave the noisy dark and walk the distance of the backyard to the 'outhouse' and enter its dark interior.
Before sunrise I would travel with my uncle and cousin the thirty or so kilometres to the farm; we would return just as night had fallen. Each day seemed to hold something different. It might be time spent on the tractor ploughing in anticipation of the rain, or sitting in the back of the truck bumping our way across gravel corrugations to pick up drums of fuel. Often it was wandering around the big shed that housed tractors, farm machinery and the trucks, along with bags of wheat, fertiliser and fuel. It was about savouring the smell of hessian bags, diesel, oil, dust and that sweet invasive scent of eucalyptus. There were piercing cold mornings and hot dusty days accompanied by sunburn and the itch of straw. In winter there were those mud luscious puddles, the slippery clay and the sting of rain thrown with some violence by the strong wind as it carelessly cut its way through any available opening.
Amongst the changing cycles of the seasons there was one constant, the textured earth, the sounds of the bush, the changing landscape and the pleasure derived from being close to nature. The farm was that other world I sometimes inhabited. I now sense that the times spent there were, in a small way, my Wordsworthian moments, although, as a twelve year old male, being force-fed poems at school like The Daffodils, the emasculating potential of poetry was something that terrified me so much that from my perspective these experiences were more prosaic than poetic.
Pistons poised like a sprinter on the blocks. A constant hiss of escaping steam, the pungent smell of smoke, the ebb and flow of voices, the platform alive with scurrying people. Small hillocks of bags and cases constantly growing and then diminishing to eventually disappear into the half-light of one of the stationary carriages.
The shrill whistle of the guard, the clunk of the couplings followed by the immediate lurch of the carriage as the train slowly puffed its way out of Perth station. Leaning out the window, one final dutiful wave to my mother. I was at last on my way to my uncle's farm at Ballidu.
http://www.weekendnotes.com/im/007/05/the-steam-train-steam-trains-about-steam-trains-st81.jpg
For the next week I need not worry about Latin verbs, Greek roots, conjunctive clauses or the smack of the strap on cold morning hands. That instant stinging, two throbbing hands, other students looking to detect any sign of weakness, a fierce determination not to shed a tear. Corporal punishment was simply a part of the daily routine, something that happened to some of us more than others. In some ways it was almost a badge of honour. At times there was a sense of injustice but usually it was accepted. In fact, given we were often able to choose either the cane or the strap as the medium for the punishment it was viewed with a certain nonchalance, seen as a part of a democratic world in which there were real choices.
As the train struggled to climb the Eastern scarp a recurring thought bubble was singing its way around my mind 'I think I can, I think I can', 'I think I can'. Head constantly out the window watching the curve of the track, eyes brimming with smoke and soot, I was soothed by the clickity-clack, clickity-clack of the carriage as it skipped along the rails. By the time we approached Chidlow the thought of a soon to be bought steaming hot railway pie was at the forefront of my consciousness. Before the train hissed to a jolting halt I was already savouring the flakey pastry, the tongue burning meat and the trouser staining tomato sauce. As a kid I was never let down by that iconic West Australian Government Railway Pie, the standard fare for travellers on any country line.
My uncle and aunty lived in the township of Ballidu with its wide gravelled roads, railway station, garage, corner pub, co-op, town hall, some small stores and the inevitable farm machinery business. There were a few streets of houses each with access to a dusty back lane along which, every week the Dunny cart would arrive with a clatter and and a biggish bloke in a blue singlet would jump out of the truck to empty the the can. These men were not 'effluent technicians', they were known simply 'the Dunny men'. As a kid it took a torch and a lot of courage during the night to brave the noisy dark and walk the distance of the backyard to the 'outhouse' and enter its dark interior.
Before sunrise I would travel with my uncle and cousin the thirty or so kilometres to the farm; we would return just as night had fallen. Each day seemed to hold something different. It might be time spent on the tractor ploughing in anticipation of the rain, or sitting in the back of the truck bumping our way across gravel corrugations to pick up drums of fuel. Often it was wandering around the big shed that housed tractors, farm machinery and the trucks, along with bags of wheat, fertiliser and fuel. It was about savouring the smell of hessian bags, diesel, oil, dust and that sweet invasive scent of eucalyptus. There were piercing cold mornings and hot dusty days accompanied by sunburn and the itch of straw. In winter there were those mud luscious puddles, the slippery clay and the sting of rain thrown with some violence by the strong wind as it carelessly cut its way through any available opening.
Amongst the changing cycles of the seasons there was one constant, the textured earth, the sounds of the bush, the changing landscape and the pleasure derived from being close to nature. The farm was that other world I sometimes inhabited. I now sense that the times spent there were, in a small way, my Wordsworthian moments, although, as a twelve year old male, being force-fed poems at school like The Daffodils, the emasculating potential of poetry was something that terrified me so much that from my perspective these experiences were more prosaic than poetic.
Thursday, 3 July 2014
The saltiness of the ocean and hot chips
http://www.chroniclescarborough.com.au/wp-pcontent/uploads/2013/02/CS_TOUR_011.jpg
Hot chips! BUT...neatly arranged in a box, saturated with advertising? Not how I remember it! In my psyche the beach and chips are synonymous. Parallel thought patterns intersecting at the counter of Peters By The Sea. An hour or so totally dedicated to body surfing, competing with my best friend to win the race to the shore; both of us searching for that ever elusive 'perfect wave'. Nothing more than a vain hope. As a young kid surfing Scarborough beach in the late fifties it was more about being dumped. Being hurled into that washing machine of sand and seawater, emerging seconds later spluttering and out of breath, breaching the frothy turbulence, saltiness in the mouth, small pieces of seaweed clinging to arms as one stumbled to regain control in the swirling water - closer to the shore, but sadly without the heroics of surfing that perfect wave. Often, all that was soon forgotten as the hot bundle was handled across the counter, snatched by a pair of eager hands, followed by the almost desperate tear in the newspaper, the emerging steam, and then the delicious salty taste of hot, shared, chips. Bitumen underfoot as we laughingly walked our way back home eager to renew our surfing competition on another day, each of us confidently claiming victory.
Hot chips! BUT...neatly arranged in a box, saturated with advertising? Not how I remember it! In my psyche the beach and chips are synonymous. Parallel thought patterns intersecting at the counter of Peters By The Sea. An hour or so totally dedicated to body surfing, competing with my best friend to win the race to the shore; both of us searching for that ever elusive 'perfect wave'. Nothing more than a vain hope. As a young kid surfing Scarborough beach in the late fifties it was more about being dumped. Being hurled into that washing machine of sand and seawater, emerging seconds later spluttering and out of breath, breaching the frothy turbulence, saltiness in the mouth, small pieces of seaweed clinging to arms as one stumbled to regain control in the swirling water - closer to the shore, but sadly without the heroics of surfing that perfect wave. Often, all that was soon forgotten as the hot bundle was handled across the counter, snatched by a pair of eager hands, followed by the almost desperate tear in the newspaper, the emerging steam, and then the delicious salty taste of hot, shared, chips. Bitumen underfoot as we laughingly walked our way back home eager to renew our surfing competition on another day, each of us confidently claiming victory.
Wednesday, 28 May 2014
Cutting up carrots
Cutting carrot sticks - the redness seeps into my memory, images begin to solidify. The red earth of the Nullarbor plain, the piercing cold nights, the crystal clear stars so bright in the all-enveloping darkness; millions upon millions of dancing lights. Our forebears gave this landscape its name, a place of ' no trees'. In a way, a dismissive term which ignores the complexity of this vast expanse of saltbush and bluebush with some low shrubs dotted across what was once an ocean floor. In the blazing heat of day, ten metres below this arid earth the coolness is amazing. So too are the fossilised rocks embedded with sea shells and marine creatures of a past epoch. Having clambered down only a few metres, the sound of dripping water and the smell of dampness becomes a part of another world, a world of underground river systems, hundreds of caves with some blowholes closer to the ocean. Time stretches back millions of years, the idea of eternity takes an almost tangible shape when confronted by these signs of evolutionary history.
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