THE BIRTHDAY PARTY
It was September 22nd , 1932.
She awoke with a start. In that twilight moment between sleep and awareness, excitement surged through her body. What was different? It was so quiet. The usual hubbub of the family gathering for breakfast in the large country kitchen was missing.Then she realized that it was much earlier than the time that she usually awoke. Suddenly she remembered. It was the day of her twenty-first birthday party. “That is why I am in a whirlywind of excitement,” she whispered to herself. She managed to control the urge to jump out of bed and yell at the top of her voice,” Get up you lazy bones. It's my birthday!” Then she heard her mother stirring in the kitchen and soon the wonderful aroma of bacon and eggs and freshly baked damper summoned the family for breakfast.
Looking around the newly scrubbed kitchen table , her heart filled with emotion. Her three older brothers had returned from the northern cane fields to be with her for her birthday. Her three younger sisters were chatting loudly and seemed to be as excited as she about the party planned for that night. Her father sat at the head of the table in silence, as usual, but this morning she didn't mind his surly manner. Nothing was going to spoil this “day of all days”. This was HER day. “Come on girls, we've got work to do ,” her mother's voice interrupted her thoughts.
Esther looked around the large kitchen. How bright it was with its new coat of paint.The previous day her brother Stan and his mate Walter had spent hours with their brushes slapping on the thick paint as they laughed and boyishly pushed each other around. After months of separation when Stan had gone north to cut cane , they were happy to be in each other's company again.When she pictured Walter, her whole body felt misty and strangely excited. She had secretly loved him since she was twelve, when he arrived from Brisbane to manage his family's property. The first time she saw him, he was mounted on a large black horse. The memory took her breath away. He was her Adonis.....He was her champion.
She stopped daydreaming and forced herself to return to the present and reality. Walter would never think of her except as Stan's little sister. He was from a prominent Brisbane family. His sisters were educated, had “coming out” parties, played tennis with their friends and spent their leisure hours painting, embroidering and singing around the piano. Their hands were soft with long painted nails. She glanced down at her hands,so rough and red from scrubbing and washing. Her life was so different. She was the daughter of a rough talking, beer swilling shearer and she hadn't even finished her scholarship year.Walter would return to Brisbane to marry one of those soft skinned, well educated girls and she would marry one of the local lads. “Such is life,” she thought sadly.
During the afternoon ,cake tins were found in the pantry . Cakes were iced and decorated with different coloured coconut , tart shells filled and topped with whipped cream ,fresh from the dairy , biscuits set out on her mother's best plates and scones baked at the last minute so that they would be warm and fresh for supper. Soon it was time to dress for the party. Once again Esther marvelled at the pink lace dress her mother had spent hours sewing. She had never considered herself to be pretty but in this dress she felt like a princess.
As the dusk threw a curtain over the daylight ,the young people of the district began to arrive, some in cars or farm trucks and some on horseback. The twinkle of the lights coming up the dusty road to the house looked like fireflies in the darkness. Esther and her mother stood at the door to welcome all their guests. Brightly wrapped gifts were placed on a table covered with a pink and white gingham cloth especially made for the party. Esther wished her three younger sisters would stop giggling as the local lads , handsome in their “hand-me-down” suits ,waved and winked at them. “I guess they are only behaving like LITTLE sisters”, she mused, feeling very superior.
As the night wore on the chatter and laughter echoed around the room. Someone suggested moving the tables to the side so that the dancing could begin to the music of a fiddle played by an old family friend. The floor of the large kitchen bounced and echoed with the revelry. Esther flirted with the young men as they danced with her and swung her round and round until her head began to spin. She noticed Walter standing in the corner of the room near the stove watching her as she danced. “I'll teach him to think that I'm just Stan's little sister,” she thought as she flirted even more.
Too soon it was time for her guests to leave. With hugs and kisses from the girls and embarrassed hand shakes from the boys , they were soon gone. But everyone had not gone! She looked up and there in front of her was Walter, her adonis! “ Can I have a birthday hug?” he asked with a cheeky grin. She hoped he could not feel the pounding of her heart as he drew her to him, the heart that had loved him for all those years. Was he at last seeing her as a young woman and not Stan's little sister? Could the wish that she made when she cut her birthday cake come true?
Esther and Walter were married four years later. They were my parents.
THE GIFTS.
The whistle from the boiling kettle awakens me from my daydreaming and brings me back to the present. With a mug of steaming coffee I walk to the summer room , my favourite room in the house and place my chair so that my eyes can drink in the beauty of the garden. A mother magpie patiently endeavours to teach her two teenage fledglings to rummage for worms by themselves, but they follow her, flapping their wings and squarking loudly. How I wonder at her patience and wish that I had been able to display such patience when my children were young. It is a beautiful sunny day . The shadows under the trees dance as a light breeze rustles the leaves.Calmness fills my soul. I know now the greatest gift that I have been given. The greatest gift that it is possible to receive – the gift of life.With my second mug of coffee I return to my chair and once again allow my mind to drift back to my young years. Memories of other life-gifts come flooding in- the gift of a happy and free childhood . Being born in the country and growing up after the Second World War my brother and I had few toys, but we would spend hours making kites from sticks and newspaper. Mother would find some old strips of material to attach to the tails and I would decorate mine with drawings of animals.We would make boats and sail them in the swollen creeks.Father would cut strips of rubber for us and we would spend days walking around the ridges to find the perfect forked stick in order to make a sling-shot.These were never to be used to harm birds or small animals, so we would line up tins or bottles to see who was the best shot. Of course I never won the contest. It was the freedom that was so precious. We could ride off on our bikes in the morning and not return until dusk, or take a picnic lunch in our school bags and spend the day climbing large rocks and finding secret caves in the hills. I would spend hours just lying prostrate in the cool young green wheat, watching the clouds and marvelling at how they skipped across the blue sky continually changing shape.
My parents weren't wealthy but they gave me the gift of the best education available at that time. In the beginning I did not realize how precious this gift was,but it was probably the one that shaped my life the most. I have so many happy memories of my teaching days. My first teaching position was to Pittsworth where in the first couple of weeks I was to meet a young, handsome and very sexy man who was to become my husband four years later.
So then life gave me my next gift- the love and protection of a fine man. A man who would work up to sixteen hours a day to provide a lifestyle for our children and for me.Circumstances of a broken home had deprived him of the joy of a close family unit and so this was a priority as a husband and father. He was my best friend ,my soul mate and my protection from the world. When we married our only worldly possessions were a little green Anglia car which I owned and an old blue Holden utility which he was “ paying off .“Over a period of years he provided us with a wonderful , happy life . He ensured that his children were given education to university standard- education that he was denied. As adults his children considered him their best friend and constantly looked to him for advice .
Now I come to the last gift that my life has given me- the gift of solitude, aloneness and sometimes overwhelming black loneliness. Yes, in his death my husband has left me with a gift.I can hear you drawing in a sharp breath and thinking,”Who is this woman who is saying that her husband's death was a gift?” My husband was my life and in his death I lost half my heart and half my soul, so how can I make such a statement? But with his death I also lost the life we had together. Through choice I had lived in his shadow. He was not a dominent man but I was quite content to have him make decisions for me and looked to him to solve all my problems. In the last three years I have found a “ me” that I did not know existed- an independent strong woman who can face problems on her own and solve most of them. I have found that I can walk into a room of strangers on my own without the support of a man's arm. I can come and go without having to explain where and why. This life is not my choice -may I say that again- this life is not my choice, But by leaving me my husband gave me the gift to know myself as I have never done before!
So as I sip another steaming mug of coffee my mind returns to the present. No, my life is not as I would have it, but my gifts , past and present are so plentiful. How can I not consider that I am blessed?
Written by Jan Kretschmann ( 01.03.2012 )
VALE SMUDGIE.
It happened in the spring of 1979.
The drab winter colours in our garden were changing into all the shades of the rainbow. The shrubs were beginning to awaken from their winter sleep, to celebrate new life by bursting into blossom ,as if to say,''Feast your eyes on us. How beautiful are we!” It was as if they were competing with each other for our attention. Annuals began responding to the call of Mother Nature to lift their heads to celebrate life by displaying their many coloured flowers. They only had a short time to show off their beauty to the world , as they would not return year after year as would the blossoms of the shrubs or the flowers of the perennials. Each day , from our kitchen window , we could see this new garden responding to the warmth of the lengthening spring days. The gentle breeze carried the pungent scent of the honeysuckle and gardenia into our kitchen, to be enjoyed by our senses. It is in this awakening garden that my story unfolds.
On that unforgettable Sunday afternoon, Ed and I were wandering around our garden enjoying the colours and aromas. D.D.Dufter Dog, the golden labrador, was busy digging holes in the garden beds. His large golden eyes registered hurt when he received a smack instead of a pat for his gardening skills. As we walked towards the house , D.D.Dufter Dog kept running to a spot under one of the old gum trees. He seemed to be wanting to show us something. “For goodness sake, go and see what he has found”, I remarked in a slightly annoyed voice, thinking that it was probably a butterfly or a beetle and at best a frilly lizard. In no time Ed returned with a small bundle of fluffy feathers cradled in his large hands. D.D.Dufter Dog followed him with his tail twirling like the sails of a wind-mill and the smile on his face saying,''See Dad, see Dad. Told you so, told you so!”
On examining the cold little stiff bundle of feathers, we discovered that it was a tiny frogmouth owl somehow still clinging onto life. Every now and then his chest would swell as his lungs gasped for air. Ed began very gently rubbing his legs and wings, and opening his small yellow beak to breathe warm air into his cold little body. The children wrapped a warm towel around him , and all this time D.D.Dufter Dog ran around, so proud of his precious find. That night we took turns to nurse the tiny creature inside our clothing so that he had the warmth of our bodies and could feel the beating of our hearts. Every now and then we would force warm water into his yellow coated mouth. He lived through the night . After many phone calls next morning we knew what to feed him. And so his life with our family began.
We named him Smudgie. It was as if God had painted him black and white and then used a brush to smudge these colours into different shades of grey. He stared at us with those large yellow eyes, trusting us in every way. He grew quickly. When Ed was watching T.V. , Smudgie would sit on his shoulder. When not with us he would retreat to the safety of a large cage that he called home. If we were in the garden , Smudgie would follow us and rush to stand between our legs if he sensed danger. On one of these gardening expeditions , we did not notice the presence of a large black and white kurrawong lurking in one of the trees. In the wink of an eye, it swooped down to pick up Smudgie, but miscalculated and pecked him on the top of his head. Smudgie stiffened and appeared to be dead. For the second time in Smudgie's short life, Ed scooped him up and forced air into his lungs. After what seemed an eternity, Smudgie started breathing and a few hours later seemed no worse for the experience.
When Smudgie was ready to fly, we gave him his freedom. At first he would just sit in one of the branches of the jacaranda tree. Soon he began to fly away during the night, to return each day to sleep in his tree. The absent times lengthened. Overnight became days and days became weeks. Then came the heart -tugging time when he did not return for months. At night, if we heard the familiar,''ooh-ooh-ooh”, of a frogmouth owl, we would rush outside to call his name, only to return with a heavy heart when, realizing that the visitor was not Smudgie.
Then came the afternoon that I will carry in my heart for the rest of my life. I heard his cry-I somehow just knew it was Smudgie. As I rushed outside, I saw two beautiful adult owls sitting on Smudgie's branch of the jacaranda tree. They both flew down and they both allowed me to stroke them. Smudgie had returned to show me his mate and to let me know that there was no need to worry about him any longer. With one last stare of those beautiful yellow eyes, Smudgie and his mate flew off to live out heir lives in the wild.
Yes, we had given Smudgie his life , but he had given me a closeness to nature that I had never felt before. His mate, that wild creature , trusted me completely. In that moment, I felt an overwhelming closeness to nature and the Universe. Thank you Smudgie for sharing your life with us.
Vale, my little friend.
Six Mile Ride
All roads at that time were either black soil or gravel, so that skinned knees and gravel- rashed hands were just part of life. To begin, I rode a small twenty- four inch boy's bike. Ned had also learnt to ride on this bike and when I needed it, he progressed to a thirty-six inch model. Of course both these bikes were second-hand as just after the war, money was still scarce,and in any case new bikes would be impossible to buy.
During the hot summer months, the greatest danger was snakes. They would lie across the gravel road to soak up the heat from the rays of the sun and enjoy the warmth of the heated stones. On the main tracks and roads, they were easily spotted as their shiny scales shone in the sunlight. Approaching to a safe distance, I would hop off my bike and stamp my feet. Usually the snake would feel the tremor of the ground and slither silently into the tall grass , but I would always be ready to make a hasty retreat. At times, especially after good summer rain, the track from the main road to the homestead would be overgrown with grass or weeds. If a snake was sun-baking on this section , I would quite often not see it until it was too late. To this day I still shudder.
when I remember the slippery bump as my wheels ran over a sleeping and quite innocent reptile. With the instinct for survival, I would clutch the handle bars with my hands and lift my legs as far into the air as I could. The red-belly black snakes were quite docile and probably were more frightened than I was when this foreign object ran over them. However, the brown snakes, especially in early spring ,were a different “kettle of fish”. They were ill tempered and moved with a much faster pace than the blacks . Given a chance, they would strike at the tyres of my bike, and even pursue me along the track. I was terrified of these browns, and would have nightmares after an encounter with one.
Another danger, as I thought as a child ,was a grove of Pepperina trees . About half way to the school the road passed through this small grove. It was well known that a local ghost resided in these trees, but I will relate this tale in a later chapter. Each day I would quicken my pace to “zoom” through the trees with as much pace as I could muster.
The frosty winter months brought different challenges. I hated the blustery, gusting westerly winds. If the wind was at my back its icy fingers would push me along so that I hardly had to pedal at all. This happened on my ride to school , but in the afternoon when riding into these gusts, it was a different story. Sometimes it was easier to dismount and walk. The fun times in winter were riding through the puddles in the mornings to break the ice. At least I did not have to worry about encountering a Joe Blake.( Australian Slang for snake. )
When it rained and the creeks were overflowing, I did not attend school. How I loved these days , but I will also tell you about them in a future chapter. For quite a few days after rain the black soil roads would still be impassable, so I would have to walk to school. With bare feet and mud up to my ankles, I would trudge across country, through ploughed paddocks and over quite a steep hill. While Ned was with me I enjoyed these days, but when I was on my own, I imagined that I was being chased by goblins or ghosts or huge snakes. Every shadow had my young mind racing and my heart pumping. On arriving at school I would wash my feet and put on my slippers. On these wet days we could wear our slippers and stay in the classroom if we wished. Many of we girls would take advantage of these times when we could sit and read and chat . I would try not to think of the walk home when the shadows would be even longer and my imagination would take me into a world of make-believe.
Storms were another danger throughout the year but mainly during the summer months. The teacher would watch the dark clouds rolling in from the west, and when the lightning bolts could be seen and the rumbling thunder could be heard, we would all head for home no matter what time of day it was. My young legs would pedal as fast as they could. I was terrified of these whirly black skies especially when the whole world seemed to darken. My father had taught me what I was to do if caught in one of these storms. I was to crouch down close to the earth, but away from all trees, put my leather school-bag over my head to protect me from any hale and just wait for the storm to pass. Fortunately ,I did not have this happen.
How times have changed! On many occasions on my daily trek,a utility or truck would stop and I would be offered a ride. I did not necessarily know these people but I would climb into the cabin and my bike would be thrown onto the back of the vehicle. I would be delivered safely to school or to the gateway of the farm. Can you imagine the panic if a child did this to-day?
I have such fond memories of my three bicycles- the small boy's bike on which I learnt to ride, the larger boy's bike I inherited when Ned left to continue his education in Toowoomba,and a brand new girl's bike that I was given when I was thirteen years old. It was my first brand new possession . My father bought it on the “black market”and because it was an illegal sale, the bike could not be stamped with its brand name. So I was given the choice of names. Of course I chose “Janice”. It was a beautiful sky blue colour with the name stencilled in bright pink. I just loved that bike! “Janice” hung in my garage until about a month ago ,when I sold it for scrap and received $3.75. The old bicycle was not worth anything , but my memories of the days when I rode it to school as a young girl ,are priceless. I must admit that I shed a few tears when “Janice” and I said good-bye.
