 
.

## EUNICE

### 20th Century

### Autobiography

### by

## Eunice Neale

### (formerly Hoad nee Freeman)

## Table of Contents

The Forties

Chapter 1 Memories

Chapter 2 Life on The Farm

Chapter 3 Life at Bagster and the Relatives

Chapter 4 Enter My Brother

Chapter 5 Shopping in Isolation

Chapter 6 Sport in Isolation

Chapter 7 Aborigines and Farm Hands

Chapter 8 Farm work

Chapter 9 Visiting

Chapter 10 My Accident

Chapter 11 My Grandparents

Chapter 12 Year 1-3

Chapter 13 Year 4-7

Chapter 14 The Flying Doctor

Chapter 15 Special School visits

Chapter 16 Excursions

Chapter 17 Holidays and Happenings

Chapter 18 Life's Lessons

High School Days

Chapter 19 Living away from Home

My Teens

Chapter 20 Life Without School

Chapter 21 Housework and Homework

Chapter 22 Progress to Independence

Chapter 23 Religion

Chapter 24 Puberty

Chapter 25 My Sexuality

Chapter 26 Fashion

Chapter 27 My Brother Becomes a Teen

Chapter 28 My First Love. Ted

Chapter 29 The Big Move. City Life

Chapter 30 Making New Friends

Afterword
 _My Freeman Grandparents at my parents wedding. My Cooper Grand[parents in their Wedding Clothes. My parents wedding._

Me at 11 months old

Dedicated to my grandchildren

and their descendants.

My grandchildren often ask questions about "the olden days".

Both my maternal and paternal grandparents were pioneers of

South Australia's harsh `outback', I thought it imperative

my descendants understand their grass roots heritage.

This prompted me to relive and write my memoirs of the 20th century

of life prior to the millennium and the high-tech electronic age.

This book covers the 40 and 50's decades of the 1900's.

Of my life on a farm on the edge of Nullabor Plain in South Australia,

as a protected child and innocent teenager, before

power, water or telephone became available.

All names are real unless otherwise stated.

Edited and published by me, in my own words... so apologies!

Book cover is me at 11 months and 16 years old

# The Forties

# Chapter 1

## First Memories

Peek-a-Boo" my Aunty Agnes humorously said from behind the kitchen table leg. She was at my eye level as she played with me under the sturdy wooden table with solid square legs, large enough for me to hide behind. I tried to crawl away from her and hide behind another leg and `peek-a-boo' her. I had never known such fun and was loving this special attention paid to me.

All my Aunties were sober minded prim and ultra-proper ladies; I had never seen them in such a frivolous mood. I especially remember this time even though the frivolity didn't last long; too soon I was dismissed and as usual expected to be "seen and not heard".

"Where is mummy?" I wanted to know.

"Mummy is busy!"

Busy alright; next time I saw mummy she was nursing something in a bundle wrapped in a white woollen shawl. On peering into the bundle I saw this doll, just like my Betty a celluloid life sized baby doll I treasured.

"Mummy has a doll too" I thought.

Then it moved and made noises, to my disgust I realised this doll was not like Betty... this one was real; it was my new brother Roger born September 23rd. 1943.

I was born Eunice Winifred Freeman 11th February 1940 at Ceduna Hospital situated in Murat Bay on the far west coast of South Australia's Eyre Peninsular, the firstborn child of Cliff and Ivy Freeman. Mum stayed with friends in Ceduna for two weeks before my expected arrival as our farm was too far from the hospital; it was a two hour drive west of Ceduna along the narrow corrugated unsealed Eyre Highway and mum didn't want any mishaps along this isolated road while she was in labour.

The Second World War had been declared. I remember Dad dressing in khaki clothes, very different to his usual clothes and wearing a funny hat tucked up one side with a fan like badge pinned on it; with rifle in hand he somberly bid mum farewell, seemingly ignoring me and disappeared into the night. He was always there again in the morning, so I didn't think too much about it.

When we heard aeroplanes flying overhead, I felt the fear in mum and dad as they closely monitored every plane. Mum quickly camouflaged us; we didn't move until the plane had disappeared. This was quite a feat because our farm homestead stood out like a beacon in the cleared paddocks with not a tree or bush in sight in the near flat terrain of our property. War was never discussed at home, well not in my hearing, so I never understood the implications of the war or the connection to the aeroplanes that flew over us.

Mum and dad never discussed in front of me anything that was a cause of concern. I grew up in a wonderful safe environment in a blissful world.

Mum's proverb **"Ignorance is bliss. What you don't know won't worry you".**

Ration coupons were needed for petrol, clothes and certain foods, those with cars transported those without a car, sharing the coupons. I remember tea being a problem for most people, but it didn't worry mum and dad, they drank their tea very weak consequently their allocated rations were ample. Mum was not extravagant, so we never went without anything; she was also an excellent organiser so was able to adequately manage with our share of rations usually giving our surplus to others. That was my only memories of the war.

We lived on a wheat and sheep farm called `Windy Ridge' on Eyre Highway 52 km west of Ceduna, and 16 km east of Penong, on the edge of the Nullarbor Plain in South Australia. The terrain of this part of Australia was low sweeping hills, originally covered by sparse scrub no higher than four meters. This scrub was slowly being cleared to make way for crops to be planted. The climate was harsh, very harsh. Summer days hovered around 100 deg (37deg. C) and higher with unpleasant north winds prevailing most of the season, blowing dust off the scorched bare lands and into homes, dust was everywhere, everything was covered in dust. Winter was bitterly cold, the chill south winds directly from the South Pole across the Southern Ocean chilled us to the bone and on clear nights when the stars brightly shone the frost was biting. Autumn and spring gave a reprieve to these harsh conditions. We accepted the harshness of the climate and reveled in the occasional perfect day and the most glorious sunrises and sunsets.

Uncle Cyril, Aunty Vera, and their children, my cousins Iris, Ruby and Keith, lived on the adjoining farm `Model farm'. These two farms were originally one farm. My grandfather Thomas Freeman pioneered that land in 1893. He and grandma had seven children, though I only ever knew Uncle Stan, Uncle Cyril, Aunty Ruby and my dad Cliff the youngest. Grandma nursed their three daughters Effie, Estelle and Dolly who all died of tuberculosis before I was born, Grandma died of the same disease in 1941 on 11th. February, the day I turned one.

Uncle Stan didn't like farming, so Grandfather Freeman gave him his share of the farm in cash and divided the farm itself in half for Uncle Cyril and dad. When Uncle Cyril married Vera Bratten, grandpa and grandma retired from farming and moved to Adelaide leaving Cyril and dad a farm each. The newlyweds moved into the original farm homestead and farmed that half of the property. Dad still being single with no home on his farm lived with uncle and aunty while working his own lands.

In 1927 dad and mum married, they moved into a new `modern' substantial four roomed mud and stone home they built on dad's half of the farm. It was built in a carefully chosen low lying area in the center of the property to maximise water catchment for the home and garden and out of view from the highway. The stones were picked off the farm paddocks which helped the paddocks to be cleared suitable for cropping. The house was built with 50cm thick cement walls twelve foot (nearly 4 metre) high ceilings surrounded by a veranda around three sides. This was designed to keep out the fierce summer sun and heat. There was no electricity supply west of Ceduna so all work was manually laboured. Dad and mum both worked for many years establishing their prosperous farm.

These two farms and our home are still lived in today, owned and successfully farmed by great grandchildren of Thomas Freeman.

All the implement and animal sheds were originally made from natural resources off the farm. The walls of the three sided sheds were made of tree trunks buried in the ground, the height cut to the same lengths, boughs from the broom bush trees were piled over the top of the wall structures providing a shady roof. In those days broom bush and mallee trees though stunted because of the low rainfall were growing all over the lands east of the Nullarbor Plains and needed to be cleared for wheat and oats crops so the felled trees were used to build farm sheds. These crude structures lasted for many years having only been replaced by my brother since he took over the farm in 1969.

Grandpa Freeman was a good farmer and well-respected prospering in the years of good rainfalls and preparing for the drought years which inevitably followed. He and grandma retired to a lovely home they bought in the new suburb of Toorak Gardens in Adelaide South Australia and remained there for the rest of their lives.

Uncle Stan invested his share of the money in the motor industry, establishing the successful Freeman Motors in Adelaide. His insistence and advise ensured dad always had `the latest' suitable vehicle. Freemans were noted for their posh cars. In 1938 when the hard-top Vauxhall sedan was introduced to Australia, acting on Uncle Stan's advice, dad bought one from him. We kept this car until 1948 when the first Holden was introduced. Although mum didn't want to change cars, Uncle Stan made an offer dad couldn't refuse thus dad bought the very first model Holden ever made, the FX. Uncle Stan was a shrewd business man offering dad and mum a good deal because he wanted to promote Holden all over South Australia, is was a great opportunity for him, us promoting this new design car in the far west of Eyre Peninsular in South Australia. I remember feeling important driving around in such a lovely modern luxury car with everybody oohing and arring while asking lots of questions. The promotional investment must have worked because many new Holden FX's were bought locally and in fact all over Australia resulting in Uncle Stan's Freeman Motors becoming one of the most successful motor businesses in South Australia, never the less mum was rather skeptical about this new model car and kept saying "this isn't half as strong as the Vauxhall it will be on the rubbish heap long before the Vauxhall".

I thought this new car was the most beautiful looking car I loved its new long sleek shape. I relished the admiring and envious looks we attracted as we drove by.

Dad with his new Vauxhall 1938

# Chapter 2

## Life on the Farm

Our farm was so remote there was no electricity water or telephone connections, these services stopped at Ceduna thirty-eight miles east along the dirt track of Eyre Highway which continued to West Australia through the Nullarbor Plains. Our farm, as all properties west of Ceduna had to be self-sustainable. We produced wheat, oats and sheep. The horse stables were quite extensive. Horses were a major part of farm life using teams of four or six to pull the farm machinery. After the war in the 1940's dad and mum bought a mechanical tractor, but mum wouldn't let dad sell the horses because she was sure petrol rationing would return, as occurred during the war, rendering the tractors and cars useless without unlimited fuel, so for many years mum insisted on maintaining the horses. Wool was one of our farm's main products, dad carried as many sheep as the property could sustain. Sheep not only provided wool to sell but provided us with our main meat. We had mutton chops for breakfast, roast, or cold mutton at the midday meal and usually mutton roast or chops at the evening meal virtually every day. Occasionally as a treat we had sausages mum bought on rare trips to Ceduna; they were a special treat. Dad slaughtered sheep on the farm, mutton being our staple diet, before the whole carcass was consumed he slaughtered another, consequently we always had an endless supply of fresh mutton. Mum was a good judge of meat, she often commented on its quality sometimes saying, "this is a tough one, you killed it to save its life?"

Dad did choose the sheep to slaughter that didn't produce the best wool or had become lame or fragile.

When Roger was old enough to slaughter sheep there was a distinct difference in the quality of our meat, he chose a young prime weather, delicious and tender.

Fish was a rare treat, mum and dad weren't fishermen, we never ever owned a fishing line, but had fishermen friends in Ceduna who gave us fish, mainly King George whiting, in return for mutton and dairy produce. I looked forward to eating fish and was upset mum wouldn't let them fillet the fish, she insisted too much was wasted. I desperately wished the fish were filleted because as much as I loved fish it was traumatic for me "being careful of the bones" which were a plenty. We always had a piece of bread on hand to eat when the inevitable happened, a bone stuck in our throat. The texture of the bread hopefully dislodged the bone!

Mum always kept a few milking cows which supplied our dairy foods, milk, cream, and butter which mum was a deft hand at making. Butter took much effort, the cream had to be vigorously stirred until it became thick then more vigorous stirring until the thickening mixture slowly turned into butter which mum expertly padded between special wooden butter paddles into one-pound rectangular shaped blocks. This lengthy process kept me amused for hours and if I hadn't annoyed mum during the process, I was rewarded with a generous knob of delicious freshly made butter; and yes, it was delicious.

Occasionally when one of the cows was deemed not suitable for our needs dad killed it for beef. Slaughtering such a big beast was a major project, the meat was shared around the neighbourhood, there were no fridges (freezers weren't even a dream then) to keep the meat cold, we had to rely on meat rooms built in shady areas. These large beasts were only slaughtered in winter enabling us to enjoy the luxury of beef longer than in the summer months when the heat limited preservation time. Our cattle were used mainly for dairy products, not beef cattle.

Mum milked the cows every twelve hours, in the morning, at daylight before anyone was awake, and in the evening before the evening meal. The milk was separated with a hand turned separator, separating the cream from the milk. We ate a lot of cream it was always on the table at every meal. Our staple food every meal including breakfast was bread jam and cream, usually homemade jam mum made with any fruit available, we liberally poured the fresh cream over the bread and jam, cream was also liberally poured on every desert mum cooked for the midday and evening meals, usually a pudding or pie. If anyone was still hungry after the meal there was always `the staple' to finish up with.

Mum absolutely insisted we eat all the food that was put on our plate especially if we had helped ourselves, if there was a skerrick left she would admonish us and tell us to "eat every morsel."

" **Your eyes are bigger than your body."**

" **Waste not; Want not."**

Hens had free range all over the farm ensuring we always had an ample supply of fresh eggs. Roosters provided fertile eggs enabling the continuation of the poultry stocks. There was usually a 'clucky hen' nesting on a batch of approximately 15 eggs. I loved it when they were due to hatch, watching their tiny beaks peck through the shell then slowly shedding the whole shell revealing themselves to the wide world as little wet ugly wobbly chicks, next day I found they were lovely fluffy energetic cute chickens. Mother hen usually looked after her new clutch, with assisted help from us feeding them special chicken feed. When the chickens had grown enough, they were put in a separate yard. As the chicks grew mum could tell their gender by the combs on the top of their heads, small combs were usually hens, they were saved for laying eggs, and if they didn't produce eggs it was the cooking pot for them, large combed chicks were roosters. Choice roosters were saved for breeding , the remainder were fattened and used for the dinner table.

Dad had no fear of deadly snakes, wild beasts, raging bulls or anything really except clucky hens; he wouldn't put his hand into the nest to lift a clucky hen off its brood. This amused me, I couldn't believe my dad who I thought could conquer all was frightened of a clucky hen, why, even I wasn't frightened to handle clucky hens from a young age.

I often wondered (years later) if it was dad's way of distancing himself from chook yard duties.

Mum was expert at preparing a chook for the pot; firstly, a swift death was mandatory. The chook must be securely held by its legs with the wings firmly held to the legs all in one hand, the head of the chook was laid across a chopping block, a quick swift chop with the axe disposed of the head in an instant, the axe was immediately dropped using that hand to firmly hold the wings to the legs avoiding flapping wings that would cover you in blood if they were allowed to flap. The bird then hung upside down until all the blood had drained out. Immersion in boiling water loosened the feathers, after the feathers had been plucked the genital area was cut out, through this opening the innards of the chook were pulled out, by hand. To me all this was standard procedure.

I watch people nowadays recoil in horror when I tell them I will kill, pluck, clean and prepare for the pot any unwanted poultry they have and enjoy eating it.

All the smaller plucked feathers of the chook were washed and put in a hessian wheat bag to dry. When there was enough feathers mum sewed a bag cover of strong striped ticking fabric the size of a mattress or pillow, this bag was stuffed with the feathers and served as incredibly comfortable mattresses and pillows, in fact feather bedding was a luxury and only afforded by those with chooks and those prudent to save enough feathers to fill the bedding. I noticed mum was revered for her provisions of such a luxury as feather filled bedding. These mattresses needed plumping up daily so each night when you sank into the well fluffed feather mattress it snuggled luxuriously around you, ensuring a wonderfully comfortable sleep. When folks told mum she was lucky to have such luxury I heard her later telling dad, "they've got no gumption. **Luck is another name for hard work."**

Mum had a ritual with preparing the chook for the table, it cooked on the warmer part of the wood stove top for hours where it slowly simmered to produce the tastiest chook soup I have ever tasted. Mum honestly believed this 'chook soup' was a cure for all her ills, certainly after she had been sick or poorly a good helping of this chook soup quickly restored her to her usual assertive active self.

When mum was feeling sick and needed chook soup to help her recover, from her sick bed she gave strict instructions how it was to be made. Dad had to kill a chook, clean it and cut off the joints needed for the soup. Dad was not very deft at housework or cooking, so it was my job from an incredibly young age to make this soup. When friends and neighbours took ill mum hastily made a batch of her `special' chook soup and took it to them, they also passionately believed it was a cure-all for most illnesses.

" **It is more blessed to give than receive"** says mum.

When a favour was returned to mum she said **"One good turn deserves another"**

The remainder of the chook including the remaining wing mum roasted in deep mutton fat and served with vegetables, she loved the chook wings, by cooking them separately, one in the soup and the other roasted on the chook she was sure to get to eat both wings.

Roast meat for the usual daily roast was put in a baking dish in the oven as soon as the breakfast toast was made. Continuous fire in the wood stove provided a continually heated oven ensuring the meat was well and truly cooked for the evening meal; even the toughest old chook and sheep dad killed to 'save their lives' was cooked for so long it fell to pieces after 8-10 hours of slow cooking.

In the late 1990's when visiting my brother and his family on the farm he enlisted us to help with poultry culling. He had penned thirty chooks (especially bred `meat birds') ready for the pot, with a single shot to the head they were painlessly dead, then loaded in the wheelbarrow, wheeled to the boiling gas copper, using a timer they were immersed for the appropriate time before holding them onto a 'plucker'. The plucker an electric wheel with rubber flaps stripped most of the feathers from the carcass, when most of the feathers were plucked the chooks were laid on a table where all hands available pulled out any remaining feathers. Lastly the innards were pulled out which was second nature to me, I think Angie was rather surprised at my deftness of removing them, inch long fingernails and all.

The reward, lovely fresh free-range farm poultry tasting like most people have never been fortunate enough to taste. Finally, the dressed chooks were tied in pairs and strung over the hills hoist to dry out before cooking or freezing. Now-a-days we eat only `chickens', to us a chicken was a baby chook not worth the effort of cleaning and cooking, the chooks we used for eating were as big as a turkey, plump and delicious.

Mum kept only one or two pigs, mainly for garbage disposal, she `rescued' the runt (the weakest little piglet not able to get his share of nourishment) from litters born on neighboring farms and "fattened them up". They were fed each day with food scraps, wheat and oats grains, separated milk from which the cream had been extracted. When mum ascertained the pig was ready for eating, she pestered dad to slaughter it. As usual it was a big issue to slaughter the bigger beasts. Professionally slaughtered the pig's hair is scraped leaving the skin to form the rind and crackling, some neighbouring farmers slaughtered this way, but dad never had patience with what he considered unnecessary work, so he skun the pig as he did the sheep.

As always when a big beast was slaughtered it was shared around all the adjoining farms, each farmer took their turn to slaughter a big animal to be shared by all the neighbours. When a beast was slaughtered that was the only meat we ate until it was gone, there was no variety until that beast was eaten. Pork is a meat that cannot be eaten regularly for a long period, mum tried to intersperse it with mutton, but the problem of keeping meat especially in warm weather, was always an issue, salting (preserving it in a strong salt brine) added a few more days to its uncooked life.

I can remember the cool safes we had with wetted hessian cloth draped over them; it was an hourly chore in the hot summers to pour water over the top to keep the hessian sides wet. There was a lot of illness and death from food poisoning in the early days because of the inability to keep food cold enough for preservation.

I remember the great excitement in my early years when Kelvinator introduced a refrigerator generated by kerosene, we bought a kerosene fridge as soon as they were available. What a magical appliance this fridge was, it had a tiny two tray freezer section in a corner at the top. Such a treat, home-made ice-cream and ice blocks even though they took at least two days to set hard and then only in the cool weather when the fridge worked more efficiently. Fridges struggled during summer, not only from the summer heat but also being in the kitchen which constantly had a wood fire burning, our only means of cooking and providing all the household hot water in large kettles on the stove top.

Dad and mum were trend setters; they liked to have all the mod cons available. Water was the major issue. We had to catch all our household and stock water from the meagre rainfall. Average annual rainfall was supposedly 12 inches (300mm) but we were lucky if we got 8 inches (230mm). It was paramount to save every drop of rain we could. In every flat area where water lay a hole was dug, lined with a thick cement mixture and a brush roof laid over the top to avoid evaporation. These tanks provided water for the stock. With careful management we were never without water.

An underground tank with a solid covering was built near the house and all roof water was channeled into it, a high stand with a small tank atop was kept filled to provide pressured water to the house, very advanced as all our neighbours and friends had to go outside and hand pump the water up from their tanks into buckets and jugs for their household use.

Every drop of water after use was carried onto the garden. We all had a wash in the bowl in the same water every evening before dark, I made sure I was first and started with the clean water, then mum washed Roger, then herself and dad last because he was always filthy from the paddocks and last to get home.

Baths were a weekly event, always on Saturdays ready for Sunday the day of rest and going to church. Oh it was so good to feel and smell clean. Having the first bath with clean water had its downfall, I was only allowed a skerrick and tried in vain to sneak more than my allocated one inch (2cms) of water into the bath, though with only one kettle of hot water allowed not much cold water was practical. "Turn that tap off; I know what you are up to, I have eyes in the back of my head."

I swear mum did have eyes in the back of her head because she knew my every move. By the time dad had his bath with the hot water that was added for each person I felt he had a luxury bath in adequate water. I did envy the amount of water he bathed in even though it was a murky dirty brown.

Hot water and all modes of cooking and heating were provided by wood fires in large kitchens the hub of every home. The main room in our home was the kitchen, a large room, the kitchen area along one wall, a dresser holding kitchen china, cutlery, condiments etc. on the adjacent wall, the large fireplace with a Metters No 3 wood burning stove installed in a huge fireplace on the opposite wall, along the remaining wall stood dad's writing desk and a freestanding wireless set displayed in its elaborate wooden cabinet.

A large wooden table took pride in the centre of the room, with matching ribbon back chairs placed neatly around the room; the table always had a vase of fresh flowers placed on a crisp starched doily on its centre. It now amases me how mum managed to grow such lovely blooms all year round in the dry harsh conditions.

Mostly the wooden kitchen chairs were used for sitting and socialising, though we had a cushion covered wooden rocking chair strategically placed in front of the wireless, this chair was the pride of the house, I loved to sit in it gently rocking while I listened to music on the radio. Mum and dad of course always had priority but luckily for me they were usually too busy to just sit and relax. The only thing they listened to on the radio was the news. Meal times were usually eaten during the news broadcast and always around the kitchen table, so I probably spent more time in the rocking chair than anyone, even so I remember dad contentedly relaxing in this rocking chair especially on Sundays the day of rest. I was not allowed to turn the radio on unless I had permission, which wasn't readily granted. During the day there was only one radio station we could clearly receive, a regional ABC station our lifeline to news of the world. In the evenings, a few extra stations could be received spasmodically. As I got older, I loved to listen to the 'Hit Parades' but I was rarely allowed to.

Dad had installed a windmill near the house for `free light'. When it was windy it was my job to turn on the windmill or as we called it the `free light', this provided 32 voltage power which was stored in batteries, these batteries didn't hold a charge for very long, but with careful usage was adequate for lights. The house was wired for 32-volt lighting, very up market and modern. In later years mum had a 32-volt iron also very modern; it consumed more power than the storage batteries could hold, so the modern iron could only be used on very windy days using direct current from the wind.

Dad replenishing our wood supply. Our home in the

background. Note 'free light' on left. and overhead tank.

Ironing was a major chore until synthetic fabrics were invented in the 'fifties'. All outer clothes and petticoats were made of cotton, linen, calico and wool. Wool had to be dry cleaned, the other natural fibres were starched to enhance the fabric and resist dirt and stains. Ironing of these starched garments needed much skill and time, it was a tedious chore; the stiff garments were sprayed with water then rolled up to allow the dampness to spread evenly through the clothes rendering them pliable, usually done well before ironing. A hot iron was used to iron as well as dry the clothes into a crisp dry smooth finish. All housewives and house maids dreaded ironing; me too.

The irons in those days were crude to say the least. I remember Aunties Agnes and Ethel's irons were heavy black and hollow, under the hinged handle the hollow space was filled with hot coals which heated the iron base, much care had to be taken to avoid sparks flying out and burning a hole in the garments being ironed which despite the amount of care taken the inevitable did occur, wayward sparks leaving holes in the garments. Ironing with these coal irons were a huge source of stress for my five older female cousins who had no other means of ironing.

It was always expected for everyone to be well dressed in immaculately starched crease free clothes but most imperative when 'going out'; a good impression was an absolute must. I must point out, to allow this expectation to be achieved usually only one best outfit was owned; much care was taken when wearing this outfit thus allowing it to be worn many times before it needed laundering.

I remember mum having a spirit iron, an iron with a small pressure tank attached to the back of the handle. The tank was filled with methylated spirits, set alight and kept burning from air pumped into the pressure tank allowing the flame to keep the iron hot. This iron wasn't used very often, I think mum had a few scares with it, she always made me stand right away when she was lighting it. I felt anxieties from her when she used it.

The main iron mum used even after she bought the electric 32 volt was a pott iron (invented by Mrs. Pott) we had two of these heavy pott iron bases which lived on the Metters stove top always hot from early in the morning until the embers died out after our evening meal; consequently the irons were always ready to use eliminating lengthy and dangerous ironing preparations. A firm clip on handle was easily attached to the iron bases, two bases allowed continuous ironing providing the fire in the stove was burning adequately. I became quite professional at putting the right amount of wood in the stove to produce the right temperate to heat the irons. A few mishaps when the irons were too hot, scorching and ruining some garments soon taught me. I often complained to mum about the inadequacy of the irons; she admonished, **"A good workman never blames his tools.**

I accepted these pott irons and used them as long as I can remember, in later years they were an excellent tool for my dressmaking, always on the stove ready for whenever I needed them. When I moved away from the farm, I really missed the convenience and economy of the pot irons.

A wood fired copper was used to heat the water in winter when a kettle full wasn't enough for our weekly baths on Saturday mornings. Monday the copper was also used for heating the water for the weekly clothes wash, and boiling of the clothes. White cotton articles were boiled in the copper in soapy water, the mode of laundering whites. All bed linen and most of our underwear made of cotton was white and were boiled.

I can remember mum having a crude type of washing machine with a handle which we had to pump up and down by hand to create a wash cycle, when the clothes were pummeled to cleanliness they were fed by hand into a wringer between two rubber rollers to squeeze the water from them, this wringer was turned by hand. Wash day was an all-day chore, always on a Monday. I hated Mondays.

Such great joy when Simpson invented a 32volt washing machine and mum had one delivered, but it could only be used on windy days when the wind was strong enough to provide enough direct power to operate the washing machine.

Rayburn invented a slow combustion stove which we immediately had installed. Although it took longer to heat up in the morning it didn't use as much wood so less work; and it didn't project as much heat as the Metters, so a cooler house was greatly appreciated in summer. In winter we'd leave the oven and fire doors open allowing the heat to keep the kitchen warm. This Rayburn was a great boon to our out back country living because it heated water in pipes installed behind the stove and provided hot water stored in a 60 gallon tank. This was plumbed to the kitchen laundry and bathroom, what a luxury. I visualised having luxurious hot baths daily...wrong... water was so scarce mum made sure I only used my allocated one inch of water, but it was easier now to have more frequent baths, and occasionally when we had good rains and the tanks were overflowing I conned mum into letting me have baths more often and in deeper water.

Our toilet, lavatory or lav as we called it was very posh for a country 'dunny'. It was built by dad, an iron and timber construction with a cute hip roof. The ill-fitting door was made of wood which only occasionally I could get closed, on the occasions I was able to close it I did my job as quick as I could all the while fearing I wouldn't be able to get the door open again, this regularly happened and I had to yell out to mum or dad to come and open it. I was frightened visitors may walk in on me, how embarrassing that would have been. No-one ever did.

Our lav had the longest drop, dad dug a very deep hole which enabled the 'doings' to drop a long way from the seat, the deeper the hole the longer was the life of the toilet, because when it became too full the structure was moved and placed over another newly dug hole; the original hole was filled in and a tree planted over it.

A solid timber frame the height of a chair with an adult buttock sized hole cut in the top covered with a crude shaped hinged wooden lid was set in place over the hole providing quite a comfortable seat, for adults. The seat hole was too big for me to feel comfortable on; I was terrified I would fall in... I didn't. I begged dad to cut a smaller child's seat hole along from the main one as I had seen on other toilets, he couldn't be coaxed. I felt safe and grand sitting on a toilet seat especially cut to a child's size buttock, but dad was adamant he wasn't going to change ours. He didn't.

The seat frame was large enough to accommodate not only the seat hole but also a cut down 10 gallon drum full of ashes, the ashes were used to drop down the hole onto the 'doings', this supposedly helped alleviate smells. On the other side of the hole a box contained the 'toilet paper', torn squares of newspaper approximately 6x6ins. I hated the rough paper and felt it slid over me instead of cleaning me. My favourite toilet paper was the tissue paper the fresh produce was carefully packed in to prevent bruising during the near weeklong train journey from Adelaide. Mum regularly purchased fresh fruit so there was always a ready supply of this paper which I rescued and carefully flattened out for toilet use, it was worth the trouble, so much nicer to use than newspaper.

The toilet was not a place you could sit and read or relax in, not only because of the ill-fitting door but the likely chance of spiders crawling across your bum. Red Backs were very prevalent around the farm and under the seat was a perfect homely setting for them to live. It wasn't an option for me to check under the seat for spiders and webs because I would need to put my head way into the seat hole... no way, the stench was unbearable. I simple hurried about my business and got out quickly as possible, needless to say I only used our toilet when I had to, mostly I squatted around the side of the house as the whole family did for number ones. Yes! The 'wee' area did get smelly especially during the many months without any rain; luckily that side of the house was rarely used or even walked through.

Many years later (1972) Slim Newton an Australian country singer wrote and sang "The red back on the toilet seat" this song became a popular hit. I could really relate to it; I had experienced all the song's ditties.

I remember when travelling with my daughter, then four years old, absolutely refused to use a `long drop', I told her to squat behind a bush, she declared "mum! I will never use a toilet like that or squat!"

I wonder if she has kept to that declaration.

# Chapter 3

## Life at Bagster and the Relatives

The area we lived in was divided into Hundreds. The Hundreds were each divided by a public dirt road, and still is. The Freemans settled in the Hundred of Bagster. Each farm was at least 2,500 acres. South of Bagster is Hundred of Keith all the way to the sea, east towards Ceduna along Eyre Highway is Hundred of Catt, west toward Penong Hundred of Burgoyne and to the north Hundred of Kintore finishes at the Dog Fence.

The Dog Fence was built to keep wild dogs and dingoes out of the established farms. Mum's parents William and Ethel Cooper pioneered to Hundred of Burgoyne in 1918. They had eight children, four dying as babies or toddlers from diarrhea caused from poor food storage (food poisoning) their surviving children Ethel, Will, Agnes and the youngest Ivy my mother. Grandpa Cooper died a year before I was born. Grandma Cooper took it in turns living with each of her three daughters until she passed.

Uncle Will took over his parents struggling farm, he married Ethel Haseldine from the farm adjoining Kunst's farm in the Hundred of Catt. They only had one child a son, Colin.

Ethel married Carl Kunst, their farm in the Hundred of Catt was adjacent to Windy Ridge. They had four daughters Eileen, Dorothy, Reta and Audrey.

Agnes married Roy Stiggants and settled on the farm adjoining the original Freeman farm in the Hundred of Bagster. They had three children Perce, Win and Don.

Grandpa Freeman had built a one roomed stone and mud Methodist Church on his property, now Uncle Cyril's. Bagster Church was the hub of all social events to those living within a buggy ride distance. All special events were held in this building including weddings and christenings. Mum and dad married there on 27th July 1927. I was christened in this church along with my brother and cousins.

The decaying church was demolished in the 1970's and is now marked by a monument.

Mum and dad were deeply religious, prayers were said daily and always before bedtime. Mum taught me a prayer to say each night which she shared as we kneeled over my bed. Praying was a priority in our home. I knew not to interrupt my parents as they said their prayers kneeling over their beds. The Bagster community were all religious, every Sunday we all attended Bagster church for devotions.

I remember as a small child mum feeding me peeled apple pieces she had prepared "to keep you quiet during the service." I also remember church being a time when I had mum and dad's full attention, they were always really nice to me because I must be on my best behavior and not embarrass them. I remember `milking' this to the utmost.

When I was old enough, I attended Sunday School. I joined my older cousin Ruby Freeman as she taught her young brother Sunday School behind the organ as the sermon was being preached, we must have become too noisy because we then moved into the back of Uncle Cyril's big square sedan car where we didn't have to be so quiet.

Sunday was a true family day, only the absolute necessary chores were done on the Sabbath. Dad wasn't only a `wowser' he was a devout Christian and spent his life expecting others to act and think likewise, any-one who didn't conform to the Methodist beliefs was a `waster'. I thought this was the only way of life because all our relatives and neighbours regularly attended Bagster church and appeared to me to have ideals and beliefs like my parents.

The parson and his family usually had their midday meal with us which I liked because mum always cooked something special. This meal was prepared the day before in keeping with no working on the Sabbath. The Methodist Minister lived in a purpose built mud and stone manse in Penong between the community hall and the police station/home, he travelled to Bagster for morning service, after lunch he travelled further east to conduct the afternoon service at Charra Hall (before Uworra church was built) then back to Penong for evening service.

The only money we were allowed to touch on Sunday was what we put in the church collection plate. We started the day with prayers after breakfast, dad read strange sounding words from the bible which I could never understand, then we'd all kneel at our chairs and dad reverently said prayers which I never really comprehended because the cushions on the kitchen chairs we were kneeling over had such a terrible smell from so many bottoms sitting on them I had to concentrate on not being sick.

Mum had been dad's `workman' for their first 13 years of marriage, thus saving wages and surviving the depression of the 1930's when farmers really struggled, and some lost their farms. Grandpa Freeman financially helped dad and mum during these hard times. By 1939 at the start of the war Windy Ridge was a prospering farm, dad had a full time workman accommodated in workman's quarter's purpose built of mud and stone incorporating a new car shed and blacksmith shop not far from the house. They slept in these quarters and ate all meals with us in the house.

Now the farm was prospering, mum decided the time was right to start a family she wanted a girl first to help her with the housework, then a boy to take over the farm. Mum was a dominant, organised person and usually got what she wanted. Sure enough thirteen years into their marriage she got pregnant with me, when she told her sisters the news Aunty Ethel fainted, she had assumed mum and dad couldn't have children.

"We hadn't even tried" mum quipped. I can believe this, and as the only birth control in those days was abstinence... poor dad. I remember dad often trying to affectionately put his arm around mum, she would shrug him off saying "don't be stupid Cliff, act your age".

# Chapter 4

## Enter my brother Roger

This squawking doll like thing I was told to call Roger changed my serene lifestyle, suddenly I was pushed aside. I found devious ways to be noticed but was admonished for being naughty. I relished any affection shown to me, though it was rare; mum was a practical and caring person, but she wasn't an affectionate person.

Dad worked on the farm usually in the paddocks from daylight to dark, I saw very little of him I was always in bed by sundown. Roger seemed to cry a lot. Mum shut herself in a room with him and I wasn't allowed in, it upset me to be shut out of whatever was going on behind closed doors; at least it stopped him crying. I sneaked a peek behind the partially closed door one day and saw Roger with his face to mum's breast. I thought he must have been feeding like the lambs, calves and piglets do "how strange, they didn't lock themselves away". This squawker demanding so much of mum's time made me feel deprived and left out; her busy house and farm work schedule still had to happen, there seemed to be no time left for me. Mum was so busy I felt I was a pest around the house, even though I knew it wouldn't work I often tried to attract her attention by being naughty. I was heavily reprimanded. I was so confused. I was given meagre chores "to keep you busy and out of my sight" which I thought unfair.

Every day mum got up at sunrise so she didn't have to use any lights, saw to Roger then cleaned the dead ashes from the stove, set and lit it; while the stove was heating to boil the kettle and cook breakfast she'd go to the cow yard where the two milking cows were waiting to be milked. The cows usually produced 1 or 2 buckets of rich creamy milk morning and afternoon which mum carried back to the house and immediately put through the hand turned separator dividing the cream from the milk. As soon as I was sure the milk had been separated I got out of bed, this saved me from turning the handle of the separator which was hard work and so boring, even more boring was washing and drying all the components of the separator which I had to help with after breakfast. I hoped Roger would cry because it was my job to try and pacify him, maybe I could avoid some chores.

I spent many hours in my 'playhouse'... a pepper tree in the house yard with low sprawling branches reaching to the ground. Each branch formed the walls of my 'house'. I spent most of my time in the 'kitchen'. The 'kitchen' was between the two most separated branches, the 'cupboards' extended beyond the tree to allow me room to 'cook'. The cupboards consisted of stacked wooden kerosene boxes providing storage space and a work bench, my kitchen utensils were empty fruit and jam tins with sticks for stirring. Mum had helped me establish this 'playhouse' and taught me how to make 'mud pies', we had often played making mud pies together, but since Roger came, she didn't play with me anymore.

Alone I made many mud pies in the various shaped tins we emptied as we ate the ingredients. The secret of a successful mud pie was to get the texture exactly right by mixing the right amount of water and dirt. These mixtures were mixed directly in selected tins, then turned out onto the box bench top hopefully producing a perfect mud cake to decorate with leaves, pink pepper tree corns and flower petals.

As Roger got older and allowed outside, I was protective of my 'playhouse' and he wasn't always welcome, but when I felt generous enough to invite him 'in' I enjoyed tempting him to try my mud cakes. I was disappointed when he wouldn't eat any. He rarely ate any solids so I should not have been so disappointed. Mum was in despair of Roger refusing all solids, but he drank fresh cow's milk by the gallons. The doctor told mum he was getting enough goodness from the cow's milk to survive... he did.

I felt so neglected I turned to our cat and dog for company. I talked to them for hours and hours. They talked back, the cat purred contentedly, mum said it was talking when it purred, it loved sitting on my lap, I patted it and loved that cat, I was sure it loved me too. The dog, mum always had Blue Queensland Heelers, wasn't as friendly or lovable as the cat, but when it was in a friendly mood we spent time together, it loved to be patted. Mum repeatedly warned me not to go anywhere near the dog when it was eating "it will bite you and it will be your fault."

I loved the birds, there were some lovely birds nesting in and around our house I sat and watched them for hours. There were special 'good' birds and bad 'pest' birds. The 'bad' birds were crows, sparrows (spoggies) and galahs. Galahs were beautiful pink and grey parrots but could devastate crops in record time and turn a dead tree into a blaze of pink and grey bloom when they roosted on the dead limbs. Crows attacked chickens and ate the eggs they were a pest around the poultry yards. Spoggies ate and scattered the poultry seeds, hay and chaff usually before the stock had their fill. We shot at these 'bad' birds not only to kill, but to scare them off and if we found their nests, we stole the eggs so they wouldn't hatch. Crows built their nests on the tree boughs; they were easy to spot. Galahs nested in hollows of tree trunks, they were only found by dedicated bird watchers who spent hours searching out hollows in tree trunks.

Spoggies loved to nest amongst brush boughs in the thatched roof of the sheds. It was exciting to be allowed to go with mum after dark with a torch and a ladder hunting out the birds in their nests especially in the cow yard sheds where chaff and grain was stored for their food. We couldn't catch the adult birds, but we saved a lot from becoming adults by destroying the eggs and the chicks.

The 'good' birds mum fiercely protected, magpies, plovers, swallows, willy wagtails, robin red breasts, yellow tomtits who all prolifically nested and bred around the house, it was such a joy to watch them make their nests; sit on the nests; hear the little chicks as they were breaking out of the egg shells; watch them being fed; then learn to fly. These birds were meat and insect eaters they didn't destroy our crops or cause problems; we encouraged them to live with us and fed these special birds scraps and crumbs. I felt they were my friends even though I never ever got to touch them, though I tried often enough.

There were many other birds like eagles, owls, parrots, quails etc. which nested away from the house that mum also fiercely protected.

A popular sport for young lads was 'bird nesting' finding bird's nests collecting their eggs blowing the insides of the egg out so the empty shells could be preserved in 'egg collections'. Status was given the person who had the most and the biggest collection and variety of eggs. My cousin Keith had the biggest collection, he was extremely proud of it. _(This collection is still in pristine condition 'under a bed' somewhere!)_

Keith begged me to let him come to our place, he knew we had many birds nesting, but mum absolutely refused, she didn't want our 'good birds' eggs taken, she also applied the same rule to Roger when he started `bird nesting'.

On cold mornings when "keeping Roger quiet" I loved to sit by the wood stove luxuriating in the warmth from it while mum cooked breakfast. The kettle was continually boiling on the stove, always ready to make the pot of tea. I had to hold the bread on a toasting fork over the coals to make the toast while mum cooked the eggs in a pan of mutton fat. Making the family toast was a welcome chore in winter, but in summer the toast was always lightly toasted, I liked to escape the heat of the stove as quickly as possible.

Sometimes if a pig had been slaughtered there would be home cured bacon also cooked in the mutton fat. Surprisingly, no-one was obese, I guess no processed or take-a-way food was available and much natural exercise and activities was the normal way of living.

The wood stove was the only mode of heating the house, lovely in winter, it was also the only mode of cooking or even boiling water for impromptu pots of tea (no tea bags then) so in the long hot summers our kitchen was quite warm though mum contrived to manage the household meals using the stove early in the mornings with much ingenuity and forward planning. **"You must use foresight."**

Frosty cold mornings I loved to sit with my feet in the open oven relishing in the warmth wafting from the oven while my hands were over the coals making toast. "Don't let your feet or hands get too hot, you'll get chilblains." Mum warned me many times. I ignored her I loved the warmth and ignored the sudden chill when I walked away from the stove. The extreme change in temperatures on bare skin causes chilblains. Sure enough I developed severe chilblains, my toes and feet swelled and itched and developed sores through scratching. At night when the affected areas got warm, they itched to distraction. One night I was at my wits end, I had tried every cure I heard about (there were plenty of 'granny' cures suggested by the local ladies) ... except one... I was so desperate ... I got out of bed, pulled the pot out from under the bed, and wee-ed into it. While the wee was still warm I put both my feet and hands into it and waited for the relief.

It came. Wow this 'granny cure' really worked.

I daren't tell anyone that I tried this cure, I was too embarrassed, but I wonder how many others have secretly tried it. Chilblains are painful and don't heal until you can maintain an even temperature for your body, which meant waiting for the milder season of spring.

Meal times were special, especially when dad was eating with us; we always ate together sitting at the kitchen table, dad always said grace before main meals, thanking God for our food, as we kids got older we took our turn saying grace. Roger lay in his basket at one end of the large kitchen. We always had five meals a day, breakfast, morning and afternoon lunch, dinner at midday while listening to the long running serial Blue Hills on the wireless, and tea in the evenings before dark. I didn't like the midday dinner because no-one was allowed to utter a word while Blue Hills was on, then we still had to be silent to listen to the news which followed. I loved having guests for this midday meal because they weren't told to "eat and be quiet".

Morning and afternoon tea usually consisted of huge yeast buns mum made providing a never-ending supply from a bottle of home brewed hops yeast. This bottle of yeast brew was always kept on the side of the stove carefully monitored by mum and topped up daily; mum used this brew every night to make our bread and buns.

The bread and bun mixture was covered and left to rise over night by the warmth of the dying stove embers, next day after kneading, the mixture was put into loaf tins and the buns placed on an oven tray, once again they were left by the warm stove until they had risen to twice the size then cooked in a hot oven.

There was always a batch of buns or bread 'rising' by the stove overnight. This was a standard chore for mum; the nearest bakery was a day's trip away. Baking bread was an accepted chore by all the local housewives. There were no bread deliveries during my early childhood until the Ceduna Bakery offered a delivery of bread per the mail van that serviced our area once a week. It was a treat to have bought bread at least once a week even though it was more than a day old when we got it.

Dad often drank directly from the continually active yeast bottle "to cure the boils". Boils were a common occurrence and dad passionately believed this yeast mixture kept these nasty sores to a minimum. Many years later I repeated to dad what I had been told "home brew yeast is a form of alcohol" of course he dismissed this information as being a falsehood, he really believed it wasn't true, he kept having his sup of mum's yeast brew "To stave off the boils." Dad was a strict tee-teetotaler, and very verbal about the sins of the `demon drink', he maintained to all "the first drink taken is the downfall." In conversation I often heard him say to people **"Your first drink is your downfall."**

When dad and the workers were working near the house mum preferred to cook the main meal at midday, especially in the hot weather before the house became too hot with the added heat of the wood stove. If the men were out in the paddocks, she packed mutton and tomato sauce sandwiches, yeast buns and bottles of weak sugared black tea. If the men were working far from the house, they took the packed lunch with them. When they worked in the paddocks closer to the house and too busy to come inside for the midday meal mum loaded the buggy with the food; with Roger in a basket and me sitting on the seat alongside mum we delivered the food to them. Mum didn't mind doing this because she had to know all that was happening on the farm, this was a discreet way of her keeping 'in the know'. Dad was a clever successful farmer with mum always at his side she learned all aspects of farm work and combined with her declared 'foresight' they made a formidable couple.

When mum nearing her 90's. and living in the Senior Citizens Village Ceduna it was said "she is still the best farmer in the area."

After afternoon lunch mum did the evening chores, taking me along with her leaving Roger sleeping in his basket in the house. In her loud piercing voice she called up the milking cows, they heard her where-ever they were and immediately came running, for two reasons I thought, firstly they were pleased to be relieved of their full heavy udders, secondly I figured like me they wouldn't dare disobey mum.

After separating the milk the apparatus was rinsed and scalded with hot water, sufficient hygiene until the morning separating was completed because overnight the weather wasn't hot enough to curdle any residue that may have escaped the rinsing.

The pigs were fed with the food scraps and separated milk we hadn't used during the day. The eggs were collected and the chooks fed weeds and residue greens from mum's garden as well as grain harvested on the farm, then locked in their large secure enclosures overnight. Locking the chooks enclosure was absolutely vital because of foxes hunting food at night, if a fox was able to get in the chook house every chook would be killed or maimed; foxes not only enjoyed eating chooks but enjoyed the sport of chasing and killing. I just shuddered at the thought of such a tragedy happening to us so I was very aware of the importance of locking the enclosures. We often heard of this happening at other farms resulting in them losing all their poultry. "No foresight." mum would say.

" **You have to have foresight."**

In the lowest-lying area near our house dad built mum a large covered, sheltered garden, with tree trunks as post walls and chicken wire over the top to keep the birds out. An underground water tank was dug where water laid when it rained providing enough water to maintain the flourishing fruit trees, vegetables and flowers which mum proudly grew and displayed. Water was pumped from the underground tank to a small high-set tank by a hand pump dad had adapted to a wind mill which when the wind blew pumped the water through the pump to the high tank providing enough pressure to water the garden by hose.

The garden provided greens for the chooks and their manure ensured we always had a flourishing garden. Mum was so proud of her garden and showed it to all our visitors who congratulated her on it. I proudly took some of the credit because I had to 'help'.

Dad slaughtering a sheep, (shadow says early morning)

Garden and car shed in the background.

Note the windmill and walls of the garden made of mallee trunks.

# Chapter 5

## Shopping in Isolation

Fresh produce was not very fresh when it arrived at Penong General Store it took at least a week to transport from Adelaide by train. The day it arrived was the main shopping day for most of the community when the freshest apples oranges bananas and vegetables were available. Mum usually shopped on this day, it was a regular social day with much chatting and catching up on the latest gossip, every-one knew each other and enjoyed the day together. Mum didn't like to miss out on knowing the latest goss and chatted to many people. I loved being in their company and listened intently to all that was said though I didn't understand many of the innuendos, but I knew by the expressions on faces whether the `talk' was favourable or not. I had ample opportunity to listen and observe because I wasn't allowed to leave mum's side and definitely not allowed to voice an opinion.

To be seen and not heard was my role.

In Penong I was allowed to `help' refuel the car from the petrol bowser outside the general store. I was given a few minutes to pump the fuel from underground up to the reinforced glass tank situated high on top of the bowser before the attendant, mum or dad took over (I was too slow); when the fuel reached the desired gallon mark on the tank gauge it was drained by hose into the car.

I looked forward to shopping days, rain or shine in Penong even on days when the weather was awful which seemed too often. In summer the days were mostly near century degrees and over with no air conditioners in homes or cars it was very uncomfortable, and the prevalent north winds added to the discomfit of everyday living causing dust to become the normal inhabitant of the air making travelling pretty much intolerable. Travelling twelve miles by car along the corrugated highway to Penong was very unpleasant in hot weather, the dirt roads sported long trails of thick dust following each car which could be seen for miles away alerting all road users. It was imperative not to travel too close to other cars because vision was totally obstructed by dense dust which filled the cars our hair and every part of ourselves it seemed; it was simply too hot to drive with windows closed on hot days; very unpleasant.

On the rare occasion it rained it was a pleasure to motor anywhere; the dampened roads seemed to be less corrugated and were totally free of dust. I loved travelling on these days everything seemed so perfect including mum and dad's attitude, it had rained, they were happy. Mum always commented how the trees along the highway were always greener after a rain "the rain has washed the months of dust off the trees, see how fresh and green they look." And they did. Without the tell-tale dust trailing behind cars on the damp roads drivers had to be aware of other road users undetected without a dust trail; though in those days very few cars were on the roads and top speed was 25 - 30 m.p.h. We knew who each car belonged to way in the distance and if we didn't recognise the car it was a rare traveller daring to traverse the Nullarbor Plain.

The mail vans travelled out of Ceduna, ours came west along the Eyre Highway from Ceduna to Coorabie once a week winding in and out along the Hundred dividing roads which were little more than single dirt tracks. The mail was delivered along the way to crudely constructed mailboxes of varying styles on the side of the road. Our address was Private Bag 14 Ceduna the mailbox was a ten-gallon drum attached to the top of a sturdy tree post buried in the ground. The mail was in a locked canvas bag approx. 2ft6ins x 18ins. Bread as ordered from Ceduna bakery and any purchases from Ceduna shops was also delivered by the mail van. It was a real treat to have 'bought' bread; it seemed to taste so much nicer, but with deliveries only once a week we were happy to have mum's bread fresh cooked daily between mail runs.

Coorabie was the end of the mail line where the driver stayed overnight, returning along the same route to Ceduna he picked up the locked mailbags with outgoing mail as well as large ten gallon heavy coated steel milk cans full of fresh cream and milk from farms to deliver to the milkman at Ceduna. I can't remember what happened when the temperatures were high as there was no air conditioning or refrigeration and the return trip took all day.

If ever the van was late a search party would set out looking for it because it usually meant a mechanical breakdown, the driver knew to stay with the vehicle because some-one would locate him sooner or later and get the problem solved. All the locals knew his route and timetables and the men were all capable bush mechanics. The local men had to learn about machines and motors because the nearest qualified mechanics were at Ceduna a day's trip away.

This mail van was the lifeline of communications and provisions reliably run by the Miller family for as long as I can remember. Don was our driver, very capable and respected by us all. The same mail route is still in operation, the mailbag drum (when I last saw it) is still in the same spot and of similar design, still with the same number and still owned by my family.

All our shopping apart from the limited range of merchandise the Penong General Store stocked was bought from a limited supply of catalogues. These black and white catalogues were poured over, our clothes were ordered in the size and preferred colour, then we eagerly awaited their delivery by the mail van to see if the goods were as we expected, usually they were, then great trepidation as we tried the clothes on to see if the size was true to label. It was not uncommon to see the same frocks being worn by more than one person.

Mum always bought us a new set of clothes for the annual Penong Xmas Tree celebration before Xmas. I enjoyed choosing my frock from the catalogue though the choice was limited to only a few styles, I picked the prettiest and therefore the most expensive, mum always allowed me to have the frock of my own choosing. It surprised me when no-one else in the area bought the same frock, maybe it was too expensive or perhaps every-one knew I would have 'the most expensive' and avoided it.

Mum never stinted on a set of new 'best' clothes each year for us, but they were strictly for best only, we had to take them off as soon as we got home and put on older clothes. The previous year's clothes were called second best, the year before that third best etc. until as the years progressed, we grew out of them or they wore out.

Mum wasn't a good sewer, but on her Singer treadle sewing machine she made my underwear, ugly petticoats and much uglier bulky bloomers with snug elastic around the high waist and long legs, she also made 'pinnies' a pinafore style apron which I had to wear over my frock for the first few days of wearing it to keep my frock clean, then I was allowed to go without the pinny for the last days of wearing before it was washed.

Dad and mum were quite affluent and like to project a `proper' image. Money was never an issue it was always there for whatever was needed be it small necessities or large items such as new inventions or the latest fad. BUT mum would not contemplate wasting anything, her strict motto. **"Waste not! Want not!"** _(My motto also now-a-days.)_

There were no rubbish collections in those days, in fact our household never generated any rubbish, all meat scraps were fed to the dogs, other food scraps fed the chooks and pigs, the few tins we opened were reused as containers, no alcohol was ever on our property and very seldom carbonated drinks and then only lemonade. Bottles were a prize possession, especially glass jars of products we occasionally used, they proudly stored and displayed household ingredients. The newspapers were sparingly used for lighting the wood stove so the remainder of the paper could be cut to size and used for toilet paper and rabbit traps. There were no plastic containers or bags, plastic hadn't been invented.

Water and power were never wasted either, with the farm supplying its own power from the wind and in later years a small generator providing a basic supply which was quickly used even with careful consideration. Water needed for the household and stock was caught in tanks strategically built to ensure every drop of rain from the meagre annual rainfall was caught either from the roof tops or runoff into purpose-built tanks. We never wasted a single drop even wastewater was recycled to the sparse gardens the harsh climate allowed us to grow. There was no sewer or septic systems, our meagre water catchment just wouldn't have been able to sustain such luxuries.

Mum having experienced the severe rationing through the Second World War was capable of making do with what was available. There was a shortage of so much during the war, mum had cleverly learnt to adapt and make use of what was available, for instance: -

Fuel: mum boldly travelled locally by horse and buggy, not dad, he refused to, it was too slow for him.

Tea: mum and dad had their tea so weak a packet lasted them much longer than the rations allowed, so mum traded tea coupons for flour and sugar coupons.

Mum was able to save enough coupons each month to buy luxuries like dried fruit so she could make cakes with eggs milk and butter off the farm to give away to locals who didn't have farm produce. Mum along with other farmers provided much basic farm produce to the town folks who had no access to it.

Clothes: mum was very practical; we all had one best outfit and second best etc. so our best outfit, the newest lasted longer than it normally would have. Old sheets were used to make underclothes.

Paper: was recycled, not a single sheet of plain paper was used to light the fire or wipe our bums until both sides were covered in writing, even the wrapping around the local Sentinel was used to write on. The only mode of communication was handwritten messages and letters. Dad always insisted on writing on new writing paper, he used a writing pad, mum never did, she wrote all her letters on any piece of plain scrap paper available. Over the years I received letters from her written on the oddest pieces of paper, the back of calendars, the inside of greeting cards, the back of menus, paper wrappings, opened envelopes etc....

Envelopes: A BIG ISSUE WITH DAD... all my life (until the day mum died) mum had never used a new envelope, she always reused envelopes.

"How?" you ask?

"Easy!" I say.

I watched mum do this and was the recipient of recycled envelopes all her life. After carefully steaming off the stamped postage stamp (they were sent to the Methodist church) or if the stamp had escaped the stamp marker mum ruled out the original address and wrote the address of the new recipient she was writing to and re posted it.

The envelopes were opened with great care to keep the envelope intact, if it tore too much to reuse it was used as writing paper.

Mum opened the envelope then folded it inside out with the original address on the inside and glued it to form a perfect inside out recycled envelope. I never ever received a letter from mum in a new envelope and we wrote to each other at least once a week and for many years twice a week.

The only time I ever heard dad chastise mum was over these envelopes. Sunday was mail day, dad settled at his desk in the kitchen to do his office work and write letters to his father and brother in Adelaide, every week he asked mum "can I have a `proper' envelope please?" mum would pass him one turned inside out, dad would throw it back to her.

"Not that one, give me a proper one."

Mum would run her hands tenderly over the envelope smoothing it out and hand it back to dad "there is nothing wrong with this one. Use it."

Dad mostly finished up using them, except if he had a really official business letter, he stood his ground demanding a proper envelope. On the rare occasions he convinced mum to let him use a new envelope she begrudgingly gave him one saying "If we have another war there won't be any new envelopes and you'll be glad to use the old ones. **So!"**

" **Waste not! Want not!"**

# Chapter 6

## Sport in Isolation

Windy Ridge was nearer Penong than Ceduna, a very isolated part of South Australia, so isolated we knew everyone, and every car on the road, except for travellers, though very rarely did complete strangers pass through Penong. Only experienced travellers dared to cross the Nullarbor Plain. Travellers travelling west along the Eyre Highway through Penong could go nowhere except across the Nullarbor Plain, it was the only road in the southern half of Australia into Western Australia. As travellers left Penong we wondered if they'd make it across the Nullarbor to reach Perth, when they arrived at Penong from West Australia we thought they were heroes and lucky to have made it. On rare occasions a 'swaggy' would stagger along the highway we thought they had to be demented to attempt such a stupid feat; they obviously had no concept of the dangers of crossing the Nullabor, especially on foot. Many times the local police refused to let travellers continue their journey through the Plains it saved them the tedious job of having to rescue them or retrieve bodies.

The dog fence crossed the Eyre Highway well west of Penong; a grid was built over the road to allow cars through but not animals. This grid was the downfall of all criminals trying to escape from South Australia it was a perfect roadblock being the only exit into Western Australia from Eyre Peninsular South Australia. The local police caught many people expecting to make an easy escape at this roadblock.

Life for me on the farm I felt was dull and boring. The daily chores were routinely carried out with exact precision. I looked forward to weekends because Saturday was a designated sports day. In summer competitive tennis was played at Watraba every Saturday afternoon. Watraba was our railway siding about two miles (3.2kms) south of Windy Ridge. Apart from the railway siding and shelter shed all Watraba consisted of was a derelict school and two tennis courts which the locals maintained long after the school had closed. Although my older cousins had attended this school, I only remember a derelict building. Mixed teams from nearby Hundreds formed the Far West Tennis Association. Dad was a passionate tennis player and a good one, he proudly boasted no-one could beat him, locally no one could beat him, but as he got older and we travelled further afield he came across opponents who could beat him. Dad didn't accept defeat lightly so a defeat usually led to a challenge rematch, he seldom lost the challenge match, I think because he studied the opponent's game and knew what methodical tactics he could use against the opponent.

I very much enjoyed Saturday afternoon tennis days where I was ball girl for mum and dad during their matches, I quickly learnt to send the balls right to their feet or else I was sent off the court. I especially enjoyed the delicious afternoon teas each family brought for all to share hoping their newly tried recipes would impress. Roger and I were naturally expected to play tennis, we started quite young making up numbers for the matches, dad played with me in the mixed doubles, and mum with me in the ladies doubles. I wasn't very good so dad made me stand at the net between the tram lines "you watch your side of the court, and don't let a ball pass you down the sidelines, and don't step out of the double lines" in other words stay up the net and keep out of the way, he capably covered all the court except for what I was supposed to be guarding. He usually won our mixed doubles, I felt immensely proud. Mum used the same tactics with me as I partnered her in ladies' doubles, she was also a good player, but never bragged about it like dad, he was fanatical about tennis.

Dad being a mad keen tennis player built a clay tennis court on our farm near the house; this was used regularly as we were taught to play. From the nearby gypsum works dad laid gypsum over the top of the clay, but the glints from the sun on the gypsum was distracting, so he poured all the old sump oil he could obtain from servicing motors over the gypsum. Many hours were spent pulling the heavy hand roller over the surface compacting it into a suitable playing surface, dust and mud free.

I was expected to play tennis before I was strong enough to hold a racquet, I complained about the weight of the racquet, so from the catalogues mum bought me a junior racquet, much more comfortable. Mum would hit with me weather permitting each afternoon, soon I was able to keep the ball in play. I never had formal training, so learnt to play mum's style of tennis... very unorthodox. This unorthodox style greatly embarrassed me when many years later I played competitive tennis in Adelaide, but I learnt to ignore my embarrassment and play the only way I knew how, usually winning. I realised the delivery of my balls was vastly different to what the coached players were accustomed to, they found it hard to successfully drive my ball resulting in errors, thus allowing me to win.

Winter was the season for AFL football (the only footy we knew then) for the men and basketball for the ladies. There were four clubs, Coorabie the farthermost west, Bookabie, Penong and Charra the farthermost east. We played for Charra. This was an all-day event because of the long distance getting to and from the venues. Dad also was a good footballer captaining the Charra team for many years. Both football and basketball were played simultaneously and after the matches the home team ladies provided a sumptuous tea in the local hall followed by a dance. The players changed from their sport clothes into their dance clothes in the toilet or car or if someone lived nearby their home was used. The music, usually piano and drums was supplied by talented locals most of whom were self-taught. My cousin Keith had taught himself to play the saxophone accompanied by his sister Ruby on the piano took their turns with providing the music.

These sporting weekends were the highlight of our lives and everybody attended whether they participated in the sport or not. It was a long day for those who travelled from the far west or the far east of the association, a distance of nearly a hundred mile (150 kilometers) and along the dusty dirt highway and side tracks was not a pleasant trip but undertaken with enthusiasm none the less. Mum and dad didn't dance so we went home after the community tea, mum as usual intent on getting the evening chores done and in bed before dark.

# Chapter 7

## Aborigines and Farmhands

Dad was an exceptionally hard worker and expected every man to keep up with him. He was a successful farmer and a willing community worker.

His motto **"The harder you work the luckier you get".**

The workman who lasted any time working for dad must have learnt his work ethics because they also became successful in their chosen field, usually farming.

Our workmen went to work in the paddocks as soon as they had breakfast and got home on dusk. I liked having the farm workers living with us because they spent time talking and playing with me in their occasional spare time. Mum and dad were always too busy doing their work and saying **"children should be seen and not heard.** "

Although dad had no patience with unreliable lazy workers, he often had a local tribal aboriginal man as a laborer doing meagre jobs that required no responsibility. The aborigines in those days were true natural natives, living in whirlies in remote bushlands 'outback', their laidback work and punctuality ethics differing greatly from dads. They weren't allowed in any of the public places, shops, hotels, community halls or churches etc. They were very shy of the white person, seldom venturing into Penong, there was no point anyway because they didn't have any money, they were outcasts and not allowed into any of the buildings including the shop and hotel; they weren't privy to any white man's privileges.

Occasionally a few really dark and dirty aborigines would wander from the remote outback onto our farm to the house, mum was always very cautious as dad would mostly be out in the paddocks, she'd tell me "go inside and don't look or come out".

I was a bit worried the first few times they came to our homestead, but usually they only wanted "baccy, tea, sugar, an' flour." Mum steered them to the wood-heap gave them axes and told them to cut some wood "to pay" she didn't want them to think they could expect supplies whenever they wanted for nothing, they could become regular nuisances. We'd watch from the window as they chopped a few small stumps, they were basically lazy. Mum then took them a pack of staple supplies and any old frocks she had; they were always very appreciative. The 'lubras' (aboriginal women) loved bright coloured clothes and right there amidst excited gibber they put all the frocks on over the top of the filthy clothes they already had on. Mum learnt to only give them one at a time. The clothes all soon turned brown because they were never washed, they never threw any clothes away they simply rotted off their bodies.

We got to recognise the usual tribe who dawdled in maybe every six months, but I think we had more than our share of 'native' visitors because of mum's generosity. I can remember mum saying, "a new tribe has appeared today, I wonder where they are coming from?" Mum always treated them with caution because they were natural tribal natives who couldn't speak our language though knew the basics... baccy, tea, sugar an' flour. Baccy... tobacco to chew. Mum never gave them tobacco, we never had any, she was sure they would have come to beg more often if mum and dad were smokers and could supply them with 'baccy'.

Mum and dad were as opposed to smoking as they were to alcohol; they were not only absolute wowsers they were dedicated antismoking campaigners. Dad admitted he tried smoking when he was twelve years old, was violently sick so never tried it again. I thought he was ever so 'with it' daring to sneak a smoke. Dad usually never did anything that wasn't ethically and morally correct. Mum's retort "Serve yourself right! **Be sure your sins will find you out."**

I don't know how dad came to employ Mickey, the most competent aboriginal worker we had. Mickey came from Kooniba Mission, an aboriginal community halfway to Ceduna on the Eyre Highway. Kooniba was managed by the Lutheran Church and had a school, hospital, church and lots of shabby tin shanties and whirlies with an amazing number of aboriginals living in them though mostly the natives preferred to live in the bush. The mission was well managed with never any trouble arising from the community, maybe because they were kept busy working on the mission farmlands surrounding the property, and of course there was absolutely no alcohol ever consumed by the blacks anywhere, especially at Kooniba Mission.

The natives were never paid, they worked for their keep and supplies, they didn't need money, they weren't allowed into the shops, and all their needs were supplied by the mission. The Mission natives were always well fed, well dressed, and their children attended the mission school. The thinking was... because the aboriginals weren't allowed to enter any white fella building, they had no need for money. They had survived in the bush all the previous years and knew no different. I thought as they saw how the white fella lived they realised life could be easier so begged more for basics.

The only access the natives had to alcohol was when a horny white 'fella' went out to a natives camp and gave a 'plagon' of cheap wine to a wanting and willing native, and then used his 'lubra'!!!!! Yes, there were pasty coloured children born, this was always tittered about secretly which I understood was something I shouldn't know about. The outcomes and consequences of this is a whole different chapter which only many years later I realised the ramifications... more on this subject later.

I was talking about our workman Mickey who chose to live somewhere around our sheds, though he could have lived in one of the sheds. He of course, as was the custom, never paid any money, instead was kept well fed and clothed. He only ever had one set of clothes, never bathed himself or washed his clothes so he was always grateful for any of dad's old clothes and relied on them for a clean change throwing the old dirty threadbare ones away.

Each meal mum piled a large old chipped enamel plate high with food, the same food as we ate, but heaps more of it, mutton, veggies, bread and gravy being the main foods and a separate large serving of pudding we had for dessert. I would take the laden plates, a gross looking mix and a big enamel pannikin of weak sugared tea to the outside wash house where Mickey waited. Always without fail the food was eaten in record time with the plate scraped clean with generous slices of bread, and Mickey had disappeared. His dishes were always washed last in the water our dishes had been washed in; and kept separate from our dishes.

Even though I realise now it was slave labour, he was never beaten or harshly treated Mickey must have earned respect, dad had no tolerance with 'wasters'. Mickey was free to come and go as he chose and did; dad would lose patience many times with him because he was so unreliable, I don't know how, but he survived many threats to sack him. Mickey must have been better than most aboriginal workers because he lived on our farm for many years.

# Chapter 8

## Farm work

The horses on the farm were looked after with great care, they all had names and individual capabilities, personalities and jobs. Seeding and harvest seasons were busy and stressful times, even the horses got stressed and had to be handled with understanding. These busy seasons consisted of extra-long days, starting before daylight by the light of the stars and moon, getting the teams of horses fed and harnessed for the day's work. Two teams of between four and eight horses were prepared, so one team could be resting while the other worked. It needed loads of skill and understanding to handle teams of horses, but dad was an expert, I guess the many years of practice and training with his father helped.

Seeding season started as soon as the autumn rains fell. There was always much speculation anticipating the rainfalls, when adequate rain had fallen all stops were pulled out to sow the seed while the ground was damp, then continual speculation all through winter waiting and praying for rain.

The harvest season was in summer; the temperature had to be hot with no moisture in the air to successfully harvest the grain, which it mostly was. The summers were always very hot, dry and dusty, perfect weather for harvesting, making the day's work long hard and tedious; by the time the horses had been groomed, fed, watered and safely in their stables the day finished well after dark.

Working with horses was a dangerous business, we had heard of so many nasty accidents, it was always a concern to me in case these accidents happened to dad, I know it was a bigger concern for mum though she was comforted when he had workman with him who could raise the alarm if needed. Fortunately dad never had any serious accidents or horse stampedes though he related stories of other folks nasty experiences teams of horses bolting at uncontrollable frenzied gallops after something had scared them maybe a kangaroo, barking dog, camel or even a strange clump of dirt. No control could be had over bolting horses, people had to just get out of the way and hope for the best desperately hoping for no damage to the horses or equipment.

Mum warned dad many times to use his 'foresight' and avoid the horses coming into contact or seeing anything that could scare them. Living in such an isolated area the horses understood only what immediately surrounded them. They all wore blinkers when working to prevent peripheral vision, while wearing blinkers they could only see directly ahead. It was cause for concern when the tractor was introduced, the horses were very wary of such a strange piece of equipment especially the noise it made; very strategic introductions were made until the horses eventually accepted tractors.

When tractors with rubber tyres became available dad bought one. He built a crude sunshade over the driver's seat so he could sit in `comfort' to do the seeding and harvesting. 'Comfort' included blinding biting dust whirling around him as he drove the tractor under the 'comfort' of the crude rigid shade fixed high above the seat. This new contraption the latest model tractor with its unorthodox sunshade was of great curiosity to the farmers consequently we had a lot of farmers from near and far visiting our farm to check it out. I felt important having so many people pay so much attention to our new modern equipment.

The tractor proved such an asset and enabled farm work to be carried out so much more efficiently. Dad wanted to sell the teams of horses, but mum wouldn't let him, she had no faith in such modern contraptions, saying "what will happen when fuel rations come in again? We won't be able to work the farm without the horses".

As the tractor proved its efficiency and worth and the war and petrol rations became a thing of the past, Australia was becoming more secure in its future so most of the horses were sold keeping only a few faithful's. "Just in case." mum insisted.

Mum was a competent horse woman she had always owned a horse and expected me to ride as well. My first introductions to horse riding I'll never forget, and it very nearly finished any desires I had to ride a horse. I kept asking mum and dad when I could ride; when about six years old I finally persuaded them to let me ride home from the paddocks. We were working about a kilometer from home this day. Nugget the horse we were working with was a gentle horse which dad regularly rode and I felt comfortable and safe with. All the horses we owned were large draft horses, very broad across the back, Nugget was no exception. Dad hoisted me up. I sat in the saddle with my legs stretched over Nugget's back practically doing the splits. My legs couldn't reach the syrups, I was beginning to feel unsure of riding... no second chances... dad let go of the bridle... told the horse to "gee-up!"

Off it took; it seemed like at a fast gallop. I tried to pull Nugget to a canter but all my tugging on the reins and commanding her to stop were totally ignored. I hung on for grim death expecting to lose my balance and fall off. Thoughts racing through my head were:- I hope the wire gate at the end of the paddock is open so she doesn't barge right through it and injure us both', 'I hope Nugget doesn't swerve quick causing me to be flung'! The wire gate was open; we galloped through without any slowing of pace continuing at what still seemed to me full pelt. Nugget knew exactly where she was going and nothing was stopping her I had absolutely no control and was scared stiff. I knew she would gallop to her stable; my next worry was 'is the gate open? Or will she stop dead in front of it and send me flying over her head?'

In the distance to my immense relief I could see the gate was open. Nugget still at full gallop reached the stable, then praise be slowly coming to a halt in the stable yard, I was never so relieved. I had survived. I was still alive, though very sore through bouncing up and down in the 'splits' position. I was also upset to think dad had allowed me to experience such a dangerous exercise. Dad and mum didn't seem at all concerned that I may have been in any danger, I guess they knew exactly what Nugget would do and that she would go straight to the stable. I told them the draft horses were way to uncomfortable for me and I didn't want to ride any of our big horses again.

I had seen a small Shetland pony and asked dad if I could have one. He enquired only to find there were no Shetland ponies for sale on Eyre Peninsular, and we had no way of transporting one from further afield in those days. I felt important that dad had even tried to find a Shetland and was prepared to buy it for me.

One day dad told me he had the opportunity to buy a very tame whitish small pony, which he did. I called her Snowball; she was so easy to control we loved and understood each other. A new smaller saddle had to be purchased how happy I was. Everybody made fun of Snowball she was so small they said "you can't go anywhere on her because she goes up and down in the same spot" but I took no notice of their jibes. Snowball and I spent many hours exploring the farm paddocks, also helping dad. Regularly I'd ride Snowball to the many catchment tanks on the farm checking the water levels and making sure the pumps were all working efficiently providing enough fresh drinking water for the stock.

I thought Snowball and I were good at mustering sheep; dad had taught us. I had watched him enough to know what to do but Snowball made it easy for me as she instinctively knew what to do with only a little guidance. I think we were a big help at shearing time. Our job was to bring flocks of sheep in for shearing and herding the shorn flocks back to the paddocks. Dad never had much patience with incompetent workers, I was no exception; he often ordered me to get off Snowball so he could take over. This annoyed me because I felt I could eventually achieve the same results if he allowed me time. _I hate to admit it but I have inherited dad's impatience._

I thought I could help mum by rounding up the cows on Snowball, but they didn't need rounding up. Every morning they were waiting in the cow yard to be relieved of their heavy udders. In the evening mum simply called them at the top of her voice "C'mon Ginny! C'mon Blacky!" they would always appear a few minutes later, well before I had a chance to even saddle Snowball. Mum's voice was so loud and strong it could be heard from afar and she seldom needed to call them a second time.

Most women on the farms had a bell they rang to announce when meals were ready, or if they needed their husbands for any reason. Mum didn't, she went outside and called out in her spine-chilling voice "CLLIIFFFF!!" sure enough within a few minutes dad would appear peddling as fast as could on his rusted-out bicycle.

To save time dad always rode his bike from shed to shed and the house, he said it was his 'rest' while he walked sitting down. When visitors came to the farm to see dad they were astounded to hear mum calling dad with her fog horn voice and more astounded when dad soon appeared cycling madly on the old treadly. I hate to admit it, but I have also inherited mum's voice.

I never spent much time with dad, he usually worked all the daylight hours, mum and I went to bed when the sun went down or before, so during seeding and harvesting seasons I wouldn't see him for weeks except on Sundays the day of rest. On the occasions he was home for the midday meal I enjoyed his company; though we were supposed to keep quiet so mum could listen to Blue Hills. Sometimes when dad and I were talking mum would shush us.

"Oh blow Blue Hills!" daringly (I thought) dad quipped.

I was absolutely delighted to have dad's full attention.

I loved Sundays, the day of rest which for us was church and devotions orientated. It was special time for me without mum and dad working, they seemed different and didn't expect me to always `keep out of their way'. Late afternoon was their letter writing time dad laboriously doing his business and personal correspondence in long hand with a nibbed pen used by dipping it into a bottle of ink or special ink well. It fascinated me to see dad in deep concentration murmuring the words aloud as he carefully used nib pen and ink while he laboriously wrote with blotter nearby to blot the excess ink which inevitably escaped but not without an expletive. Dad had such a neat handwriting... that, I didn't inherit!

I remember when Biro was introduced, a wonderful invention and nowhere near as messy.

Dad sewing the seed with Combine. Dad Harvesting the crop

Dad Carting the hay to the stack. Dad taking bags of wheat to Watraba siding.

Dad (at the top) finishing off the stack.

# Chapter 9

## Visiting

Mum never visited any-one without she had home grown or farm produce to give them. The town folk she regularly visited loved the milk cream and butter which we had in abundance. Mum was apt at making sponges, filling them with fresh cream and giving them to people we visited, we would never go to Penong or Ceduna without produce and a sponge to give away to friends we visited, consequently I thought it was the normal thing to do and was always amazed when the recipients seemed overwhelmingly grateful. Mum's regular saying "It is more blessed to give than to receive."

On suitable days mum would wake me up in the morning "Get up, we are going to visit Aunty Agnes today", sometimes it was Aunty Ethel Kunst or Aunty Vera Freeman and very occasionally Uncle Will Cooper. Oh goody, I enjoyed these outings it broke the monotony of my life.

Mum had got up earlier than usual and milked the cows, done the morning chores, packed dad and the workman's morning and afternoon lunch and midday dinner including sterilised sauce bottles filled with sweetened cold tea, and had packed a hamper to give to the folks we were visiting.

The faithful draft horse Dimple, which mum had absolutely refused to sell, was harnessed into the buggy making sure the blinkers were secure so she could only see directly in front of her, Roger was put in his cane basket on the floor of the buggy by our feet and with the produce stowed in a box behind our seat mum and I dressed in our hats and coats and a warm woolen crocheted rug over our legs sat on the hard high backed wooden bench seat where mum took up the reins and steered the horse and buggy on our journey.

"Why don't we drive the car?" I asked mum.

"Saving petrol and we must keep the horses in action in case of petrol rationing again."

We could go through ours and Uncle Cyril's property to get to the Stiggants property, and mostly did, though sometimes we'd go via the Eyre Highway and sometimes along the opposite boundary of our property via the dirt track dividing the Hundreds. Mum liked to check out not only our farm paddocks but neighbouring farms as well, so we regularly took different routes. These trips had to be carefully planned because the buggy had no protection over or around it, the weather played a big role in these excursions. Mum was a meticulous organiser with, as she repeatedly said **"foresight".**

We would sometimes encounter aborigines, and mum had to tightly rein the horse to keep control, the horses weren't comfortable with aborigines nearby, though they couldn't see them unless directly in front they could smell them. Dimple was well trained and mum was able to master her with confidence.

Kettles were continuously bubbling on the wood stoves and so a pot of tea was always ready to be brewed, it was paramount that always on hand were homemade cakes and biscuits. It was a treat for me to eat other peoples' cooking with each family making their own special staples and treats. Our staples were yeast buns because that is what dad preferred, though mum sometimes made other cakes and biscuits as well. My favourite at Aunty Agnes's was the fruit cake she made. I was served a slice as a treat as soon as we arrived to occupy me while mum was secreted away in the bedroom with Roger, obviously feeding him. Mum and Aunty would chat madly over the pot of tea and cake until home time when we would rug up, harness up the buggy and return home arriving well before dark and milk the cows, collect the eggs, feed the animals before the men come in from the paddocks for tea.

My Stiggants cousins were much older than me, Perce had decided farming wasn't for him, married Betty and lived in Ceduna "fancy choosing not to take up farming!" was the snide remarks from the locals. Win was away working and often the subject of disgusted discussions between mum and Aunty Agnes. Win was a popular fun-loving lady with lots of friends and "shame on her for the many boyfriends she has!" Don had left school and was working with his father on the farm; they were usually out in the paddocks when we visited which disappointed me, I liked Cousin Don. These visits I loved but there were no telephones, so we had no way of notifying folks of our visits. I enjoyed the seemingly pleasant surprises our arrivals caused. If Don were home, I was allowed to spend time with him, he chatted to me as he took over the care of Dimple while mum was inside with Aunty and Roger. Don expertly unbuckled Dimple from the buggy, loosened the tight harness, and hung a nose bag containing chaff (finely cut hay) over its head. The chaff was a treat which replenished the horse and kept it occupied until the trip home. Our horses were always anxious to go home and could easily find their way without too much direction.

My Kunst cousins were also much older, Eileen had married one of our work men Les Rae and set up a farm at Warramboo, "very acceptable, and he doesn't drink" (alcohol). Dorothy had married a local lad Arthur Borlase and moved to Adelaide; he also didn't drink alcohol so although he chose not to farm he was considered a "suitable husband". Reta fourteen years older than me and Audrey ten years older were still at home doing the housework and farm chores. Our visits to the Kunst's weren't as frequent as to the Stiggants except when it was their turn to have Grandma Cooper living with them. Reta and Audrey were brought up to be prim and proper ladies. I was a favourite with Audrey as a baby she was often allowed to look after me, she loved me, such a shame I was too young to remember, though I do remember them correcting my bad pronunciations, grammar and table manners, I was quite a nervous wreck knowing I would muck up and be chastised by them, this anxiousness caused me to stutter which I only ever did in their company and then be taunted by them on how to talk properly and not stutter. I was quite traumatised in their company. I felt inadequate and intimidated. _I now realise they meant well._

One day when visiting Uncle Cyril and Aunty Vera Freeman, we were all standing in a circle talking near the farmhouse when I felt a sharp pain on the back of my leg. I screamed. Much hullabaloo followed. Their kelpie sheep dog had circled the group and chose me to attack and bite, an unprovoked attack. Aunty and mum immediately bathed and disinfected the bite; a dog bite was cause for concern dog's teeth could transmit fatal diseases to a human. As much as I relished the fuss made over me the worried attitude of the adults alarmed me. This dog now had experienced the taste of human blood, it couldn't be trusted especially after an unprovoked attack. All agreed including uncle and aunty there was no alternative but to shoot the dog, it was shot without delay. Problem solvered. I was glad.

My wound healed with no nasty complications.

Uncle Will and Aunty Ethel Cooper kept very much to themselves. We only occasionally visited them, not only did they not seem to appreciate our visits they lived the farthest from us. Their only child Colin was a great lad, so kind, caring and playful, he was four years older than me and a the most popular boy I loved visiting them and playing with him, he was so kind to me. I loved him.

The biggest scare I experienced while on a buggy excursion was on the Eyre highway, we were comfortably trotting along, not with Dimple but with another far friskier horse, when suddenly mum froze... coming towards us were some camels with their handlers. Now! I had heard mum and dad talking of horses being frightened by strange things in their path and bolting (taking off in a mad frenzied gallop without regard for its load).

Dad had warned mum of meeting camels on the highway because the horses would be terrified of camels never having seen one. The horses had very slowly grown accustomed to cars; but had never encountered a camel. I guess mum's maternal survival instincts come to the fore and she quickly reined this not so controllable horse around and we galloped towards home, which was no mean feat as although the horse hadn't seen the camels it could smell something strange, and mum had to keep a tight hold of the reins to restrain the horse from going too fast and tipping us out. We got home safely, but for a long time she never went by the highway in the buggy.

Mum's social life virtually revolved around visiting relatives, friends and sick or deprived people always with a hamper of farm produce especially those in Penong hospital, she always took a hamper of fresh produce to the Matron who was also the cook and nurse; she was the only staff at the small hospital and held in very high esteem.

Dad was too busy to pay social visits instead he served on many committees voluntarily, usually running the organisation as chairman. Mum also served on many committees as secretary and treasurer. I thought working on committees was the normal way of life, I thought it a privilege to have such a prestigious position in the community and be held in such high esteem. I also enjoyed visiting the hospitals and sick people in their homes I noticed how their spirits were lifted by our visits.

Mum in her treasured buggy with Dimple and Cousin Colin

# Chapter 10

## My accident & family illness

One day in 1944 dad and his workmen were away working somewhere on the farm, Roger was asleep in the house and mum was working in the garden, I was with mum. She released the windmill brake pump which pumped water from the underground tank to the small overhead tank so the garden could be gravity watered; but the pump needed priming so mum took out the stop cock on the pump and went to get a dipper of water to prime the pump. In the few seconds she was gone I curiously put my right-hand peter pointer finger in the stop cock hole, on pulling it out it was gone. Clean cut off just above the first joint with just a red mass where my finger had been.

Mum came running to my screams, as she is prone to fainting at the sight of blood she pulled her `raggy hank' (a clean boiled cotton rag mum always used as a handkerchief) out of her `pinny' (apron) pocket and covered my bloody finger so she couldn't see it. She knew she had to keep her wits about her with the responsibility of me and my baby brother especially with dad far out in the paddocks she knew not where.

She ran to the house picked up Roger, bundled us both into the Vauxhall and drove as fast as she dared along the dirt track through the farms to the other Freeman farm praying all the way that Uncle Cyril would be home and able to drive us to the Penong hospital, she knew Aunty Vera would be home, she was a true lady and didn't partake in any farm chores or drive a vehicle. Mum had no time for `useless ladies' but I loved Aunty Vera, she was always so sweet and loving to me, so she was this day, and mum's prayers of course were answered. Uncle Cyril was home and immediately hopped in the car and drove us into Penong.

Sister/Matron Loane alone at the hospital had direct talking access to the doctor in Ceduna via The Bush Church Aid. Sister Loane was a capable and caring nurse it was `special' to be a patient at her hospital. She laid me on the theatre table. I wasn't really happy with her prodding my stump, by now it was really throbbing, uncle played peek-a-boo to detract me, which I really enjoyed. It was a treat as no-one normally bothered to play peek-a-boo with me. Sister examined the stump and asked if the severed finger could be retrieved so it could be sewn back on. Mum and uncle decided that was nigh impossible as it would probably be minced even if they could find it which was highly unlikely.

It was decided I should go to Adelaide and under anesthetic have the bone taken off at the first joint allowing surplus skin to be neatly stitched over the stump. The finger was heavily bandaged, my arm put in a sling and we drove home with me soaking up all the fuss and attention bestowed on me. I had never had so much caring lavished on me and I absolutely reveled in it and played on it for as long as I possibly could.

I was amazed I wasn't chastised for putting my finger where I shouldn't have instead mum was the one feeling guilty for leaving the stop cock cavity agape. This surprised me as mum was always so confident, efficient, and had no tolerance for incompetence. She felt really bad about the whole accident.

Our family drove to Adelaide, staying with Grandfather Freeman at Toorak Gardens. I felt. so important and was excited about going to such a big hospital, the bigger the hospital the better it would be I was sure. I was going to have an operation and my finger would be fixed. How important was that? Everybody was fussing over me with mum and dad explaining the process without me really understanding what they were saying. I didn't even know what the finger looked like because when the dressings were changed I wasn't allowed to look at it. I didn't want to anyway.

Uncle Stan lived near Grandpa at Toorak Gardens he drove dad and me to the hospital. I was bewildered why mum didn't come with us and at her estranged manner to me as we left. I did however feel privileged that Uncle Stan and dad had taken time out to be with me. We arrived at Calvary Hospital which looked such a huge forbidding place, dad walked to the door with me where we were met not by a sweet looking kindly Sister Loane type... but these severe looking ladies the likes of which I had never seen. They were dressed in strange long black frocks with stranger black and white veil like head coverings, I was terrified of them. One of the sisters roughly took hold of my bandaged hand, dragged me down the hall as I was screaming in terror and trying get back to dad who had just disappeared from my sight. I was sure I would never see mum and dad again; they had left me. I had been taken from them.

These stern strangely dressed ladies dumped me in a seemingly huge bed with a high cage like structure around it and threatened to tie me down if I didn't stop crying. I was terrified, also bewildered as to why mum and dad had virtually put me in this horrible scary place and abandoned me. I laid on the bed and sobbed and sobbed until a kindly patient in a one of the other beds came over and soothed me with kind words, I asked if I could get into her bed with her, she agreed and with her patience and kindness I felt safe as I settled comfortably in bed with her... until... the Sisters discovered me in her bed and roughly put me back in the big cage bed. I didn't feel so scared now because I could still see and talk to the kind lady and she said I would be all right.

Early next morning some kinder Sisters still dressed in the same strange scary long clothes kindly took me to the operating theatre where the operating table was a straight hard looking structure with an arm extension attached to the side of it, seemingly just made for my arm. I proudly lay on the hard table with my arm stretched onto the extension, every-one in the theatre was focused on me, I had never had so much attention this was very enjoyable until... from behind me someone slapped a mask like thing over my face which had the most awful smell, I screamed, my proudly place arm was floundering with the other arm to remove this vulgar thing on my face while the people around me held me down, thankfully this fiasco didn't last too long. I lost consciousness.

When I woke, I was incoherent, subdued and feeling sick, with a terrible smell and taste which I found out later was ether administered by the scary mask forced over my face just before the operation. The aftereffects of the ether camouflaged any discomfort of my finger which was bandaged with a much bigger bandage and my arm was in a sling again. I wasn't allowed to get into bed with the kind lady "because you may hurt your finger". I couldn't see how that was possible with such a heavy bandage. I was promised if I were a good girl and didn't cry mum and dad would come and get me and take me home. I didn't cry any more.

Finally dad came and took me back to Grandpa Freeman's where mum was with Roger, she later said she had to stay and look after him instead of going to the hospital, I thought she could have nursed him in the car, the same as she did driving to Adelaide.

I don't know why a catholic hospital was chosen especially with our families' strict Methodist beliefs. Catholicism was never mentioned favourably in our home and I had no knowledge of their customs which seemed harsh and alien to me.

My finger soon stopped hurting, but I still couldn't bring myself to look at it, I really thought it would be a hollow skinned finger, the bone in the middle open at the top with no meat or blood around it. Finally it was healed enough to leave the bandages off, but I still had to be coaxed to look at it. I was amazed to find no hollow finger, but a neatly sewn end all healed up. It was still very tender and although it never hindered me at all I found myself using my middle finger instead _... this was until 1982 when I started wearing long false finger nails: now if you have never had long finger nails you won't know what I mean... but just try typing, dialing the phone, changing baby's nappies and worst of all wiping your bottom with long fingernails!!!! My cut off finger stub became my most used finger and saved me from many nasty situations, especially when wiping my bum._

About the time of my finger accident mum and dad turned very somber, I knew something was wrong. I feared it was to do with me. I was very happy with my newfound power of manipulation and because of the guilt they probably felt over losing my finger I learned to use this luxury of manipulation for my benefits, though their more than usual somber ways worried me. I felt guilty maybe I was going to be punished for having vain thoughts, mum's words rang clear

" **Pride cometh before a fall."**

It wasn't me at all. Dad had a bad sore on his lip which had turned cancerous. He had to go to Adelaide for radium treatment. Mum stayed home with us kids while dad went to Adelaide alone. The treatment was cruel; dad who had a high pain tolerance told of the agony he suffered while the radium needles inserted in his lip remained activated for the period of insertion, a few days. When he arrived home he was deathly quiet and subdued with the most awful looking swollen sore lip. It was an upsetting sad time and no explanations given to me. The lip eventually healed and dad returned to his normal jovial self. I was so relieved.

Cancer was a sure death threat in those days; any suspicious lump was operated on and examined, if it was a malignant cancer you were sewn up and virtually given a death sentence. Dad's father and oldest brother Stan died that way. This is a terrible way to die, a long drawn out process, so painful with absolutely no dignity, so traumatic and terrible the prognosis kept secret from the patient who suffered and endured the barbaric treatments which offered no respite or cure. The treatments were mostly experimental which prolonged the patients tortured life. OMG! I prayed every day I wouldn't contact cancer, so did my father.

Grandpa Freeman having led a long eventful successful life and being an extremely religious man accepted cancer and death as God's will and so did the Christian believers in our family. I thought it sad grandpa had to die such a painful undignified death and questioned to myself 'God's will'?

Uncle Stan had discarded religion, he lived what I thought was an exciting life. He was a rich successful businessman. When his lump was examined and found to be cancerous, he was still a man enjoying life to the full and expected to enjoy life for many more years. While he was dying and suffering in hospital dad visited him, he asked dad

"Where is your God? If there is a God ask him to help me now?"

I don't know what dad's answer to uncle was but he related this story many times to different people saying "All the money in the world is no good to you if you don't lead a good life and follow the way of Jesus and go to church. I had to tell Stan there was nothing I could do except pray for him, though I feared it was too late."

It was. He died soon after.

I made a pact to myself I would always do the right thing in Jesus name.

Jesus loves me. Jesus loves little children. I learnt that in Sunday school.

"I won't get cancer Jesus loves me".

Another story dad related often which at the time had a profound effect on me: -when I was too young to remember dad had an exploratory medical operation in an Adelaide hospital. On opening him up a tumor the size of a large ball was found in his stomach, they left it be, sewed him up and told him he could go home, do whatever he wished because he only had a few months to live.

During the night dad had a vision appear before him, the vision told him he wasn't going to die, he was going to get better in order to run the farm and carry on his good works in the church. Next morning, he told the doctors of his experience.

"Impossible, that is a deadly cancer you have Mr. Freeman."

A few months later when dad had his checkup there was no sign of the cancer. The doctors were astounded. Dad wasn't, he was a true believer. This story dad related to many people over the years emphasising the need to believe in God and attend church regular, each time he told the story it became more intense and more graphic.

I believed in God. I was a good girl. I wasn't going to get cancer. God would see to that. I was sure.

1944 Mum, Roger 6months me 4 years Dad.

# Chapter 11

## My Grandparents

I only remember Grandfather Freeman and Grandmother Cooper.

Grandma Freeman and Grandpa Cooper died before I was born.

Dad's mother Louisa Georgina Hewett was one of 12 children and the sixth child of Onesimus Hewett and formerly Mary Jane Lemon.

Louisa's grandparents Charles Thomas Hewett and wife Hannah Jane (nee) Moore were born in England and sailed to South Australia as free settlers on `The Duchess of Northumberland' with their children (seven at the time) servants, sheep, cattle and equipment reaching Pt. Adelaide on 19th. December 1839 after more than a four month journey.

In later years my older Freeman cousins meticulously traced the journeys and ancestry of the Hewett's with not a jot of interest in Freemans history.

When I asked "Why?" I was fobbed off; maybe because of the following information research I have since discovered.

Dad's father Thomas also had English heritage and could well be a descendant from one of the three Freemans, James, Robert and Thomas who came to Australia on convict ships. ref. 1788 the People of First Fleet by Don Chapman.

James Freeman sentenced to death in 1784 for robbery was later reprieved on condition of transportation for seven years and arrived in Australia on the Alexander.

Robert Freeman was tried at Old Bailey in 1784 for highway robbery after being apprehended at the bottom of a well. He was sentenced to seven years transportation and sailed to Australia on the Alexander.

Thomas Freeman came to Australia as a clerk to Captain Hunter on the Sirius. He died at Pt Jackson in 1794.

I haven't been able to trace direct relations to these Freemans, but I do now know why Grandpa's side of the family was never spoken of. It was to do with his mother Mary Jane Callaby, or more correctly her family. Mary Jane married Grandpa's father Thomas Wilton Freeman in Mt Barker in 1853. Thomas Wilton fathered eleven children by Mary Jane in just 16 years before the poor woman died, of exhaustion I suspect, at the age of only 37. So Grandpa Freeman had brothers and sisters scattered throughout South Australia, New South Wales and Queensland and not one was ever mentioned, and that is most likely because Mary Jane's family, by our standards were terrible sinners, wasters as dad would say.

One of Mary Jane's brothers, Thomas Callaby owned a pub. A pub! The shame of descending from someone who sold alcohol! Another brother Charles was often in trouble for speeding, or as they called it in the days before motor vehicles, `furious riding'. But Isaac was the worst, he not only `furious rode', he lied in court, gambled and visited houses of ill repute where his antics made headlines in the local papers. This night he must have been flashing eight single pound notes, he gave the first woman one of the notes (obviously thought of himself as a stud), but before the second woman came in two men arrived and knocked him unconscious. When he woke, he found all pound notes gone and no memory of any pleasures to compensate. Oh dear! Such shame on the family.

An excerpt from a local newspaper of my grandfather Thomas Freeman who was born 11th April 1865.

`Thomas Freeman, agriculturist, grazier, and chaff merchant "Model Farm" of Bagster near Penong, is the only surviving son of the late Mr. Thomas Freeman of "Keilly" near Pt. Broughton York Peninsula South Australia and was born at Nairne in 1866. At the close of his education, which was conducted by private tuition, at an early age he became engaged in agricultural pursuits. In 1884, taking up land at Pt. Broughton, he farmed it successfully on his own account, nine years later settled on 5,300 acres of uncleared scrub country at Bagster, on the West Coast of South Australia. Only 1300 acres of this property yet remain uncleared, and the push and enterprise displayed in the initial undertaking have distinguished Mr. Freeman in all his operations. He was the first to introduce artificial fertilisers in the district, using them on his own land with the result that the average yield has been increased by three bushels to the acre during the past eight years. With a view to encouraging the pastoral industry, the Vermin Board is fencing the district with wire netting, and Mr. Freeman, among others, realises the immense benefit that this will prove to the stock producers. Already he had interested himself in raising sheep and finds the merino best suited for wool growing purposes, while the cross bred or Shropshire makes the most profitable mutton sheep. All the arrangements of the farm are excellently planned; and it well deserves the name by which it is known "Model Farm." Mr. Freeman interests himself in all local public affairs, is Chairman of the Medical Board, Vice-President of the Penong Agricultural Society, a member of the Board of Advice'.

Although Grandpa Freeman lived in Adelaide when he retired, we saw him at least once a year. In January after the harvest was completed, we loaded up the Vauxhall and drove to Adelaide for our annual holiday. Each year we had the same dramas loading the car with all the luggage mum insisted on taking.

"We can't take all that stuff it can't possibly fit in the car" dad complained. It did: with mum supervising the packing strategically placing the luggage. There was only a tiny space left for me in the back, I was always very cramped. Roger sat in the front with mum and dad who would all have been cramped between luggage pushed into all available spaces.

It was a long tedious dusty road and the relief and smoothness of the trip when we reached the bitumen a few miles west of Pt Augusta was so welcome. Thirty miles per hour was a good speed in those days. We usually stopped over a night at various friends along the way. Mum was a great communicator and kept in touch through pen and paper with many people including Methodist Parsons who had been stationed in Penong and transferred to towns along the Eyre Highway.

I loved it at Toorak Gardens. The smell of the large Cyprus hedges, green lawns and lush gardens was so refreshing. The streets were lined with large flowering trees, grandpa's street had beautiful cascading Jacaranda's, the fallen purple flower petals strewed along the street looked like confetti. The weather was so pleasant, no harsh hot dry days with hot north winds which turned my hair to straw and my skin to dry scaly flakes. The fruit trees in grandpa's back yard were usually bearing fruit and what a treat to eat the freshly picked apricots, peaches, plums and nectarines. I got into trouble often for picking the fruit too green even though I thought it was ripe enough to eat. Grandpa refused to waste any of the fruit which I thought strange as there was so much of it; but as the fruit ripened what couldn't be eaten was preserved.

Grandpa Freeman usually had a `housekeeper' living with him. Mum and dad's quiet snide remarks about the housekeeper mystified me. I couldn't imagine anything in this heaven that could warrant such remarks, so I would eavesdrop when I heard them quietly talking about each `house keeper' usually after one had left. I learnt some stole heirlooms cutlery china and money. Some left under circumstances I didn't understand... `sleeping arrangements'!

Grandma and Grandpa Freeman had three daughters Effie Estelle and Hilda (Dolly) who all died of Consumption. This deadly disease was very contagious as they nursed each other they contacted it eventually causing their deaths. Effie married to Bruce Myer was the first and the only sister with a child Patricia (Patsy). Effie died in 1927 followed by Dolly dying later that same year. Estelle, who had been nursing Effie and Dolly, and her husband Reg Johnson adopted Patsy who had just turned two. Ten years later 1937 Effie died, Patsy was again motherless.

Grandpa and Grandma Freeman adopted Patsy. Grandma Freeman died on my first birthday in 1941. Patsy was again motherless at the age of sixteen. Grandpa Freeman was now her sole guardian; a round table family discussion decided Patsy would remain in Grandpa's care. Aunty Ruby married to Methodist Minister John (Jack) Peters had distanced herself from those contaminated with the deadly disease, now had two daughters Dorothy aged fourteen and Barbara eleven. It was felt Patsy a free spirit could be a bad influence in the Peters close Christian family unit. I remember hearing mum and dad whispering supposedly out of my hearing the escapades of Patsy.

"Fancy letting her get away with it!"

"Why doesn't he lock her in?"

"How does he ever cope with her?" etc.

From Patsy's own mouth thirty years later, she recalls her antics to me.

"I said goodnight, went to bed, when all was quiet, I'd sneak out. On Sunday nights I'd dress in my party frock covered by my overcoat, don a hat and 'go to church'!" etc. etc.

Poor Patsy was definitely 'the black sheep' in the Freeman family. I thought she was so daring and brave. Patsy loved Grandpa and could wheedle anything she wanted out of him. We think he felt obliged to spoil her because of her hard luck and the insecurity of losing so many 'mum's'. Patsy never came to any harm; her biggest folly was defying the traditional upbringing of our rigid family rules and behavior expectations.

Patsy was clever, she completed college at Adelaide's Methodist Ladies College, went on to be Hansard Script Writer. At the court cases she scribed in shorthand the proceedings then typed them in full to be stored in the archives for future reference. During the Second World War Patsy was personal assistant to an important army General; she travelled with the official party through warring countries. She met her English husband Matt (also in the Forces) in Germany; they married there in 1950 before settling back in Adelaide.

There was a lot more whispering supposedly behind my back in 1952 (I had become very adept at eaves dropping, it broke my monotony) when Grandpa Freeman died on 26th February. "What does his will say?"

Everyone received a token something from his estate including much to my parents disgust his current 'housekeeper': by the whispers I overheard I think she expected more. My inheritance was grandpa's leather suitcase.

The family assumed Patsy would inherit the Toorak Gardens home, but no, amongst more whispers it was Aunty Ruby who inherited it and most of the furniture. The whisperings insinuated Grandpa left Aunty the house because she married a minister of the cloth who gave his services to the church instead of making a more lucrative living for his family; and Patsy now had a husband to support her. This upset Patsy very much and for years she was estranged from the Freemans. Pat and Matt bought a small house and had a son Marcus. They had a small catering business, Matt had grand business ideas but they struggled financially. Mum and dad sent money to them regularly. I remember one letter before Marcus was born Patsy wrote saying they didn't have any money to buy babies clothes or nappies, mum and dad never refused any requests from Patsy and so another check was sent, and gratefully received.

I loved the walk to Uncle Stan's home in Grant Avenue only a few streets from grandpa's. The gardens surrounding all the gracious homes were lush green and so tidy. I admired the way Uncle Stan and Aunty May lived in their lovely grand home they seemed to be so organised and always made us feel welcome. Their huge cellar intrigued me and I loved to go down the steep staircase to feel the coolness and look at their intriguing range of stores, I would like to have stayed in the cellar longer but was always ushered out before I really wanted to leave. Uncle Stan spent his leisure time lounging in his large leather recliner puffing away at his pipe in the seemingly huge living room furnished with regal furniture I had never seen the likes of. He magically produced special lollies and lemonade for us whenever we visited. I loved choosing lemonade when he asked what we would like to drink, and drinking it out of crystal glasses, it was the ultimate in class for me, I felt so special. There was always one bottle of lemonade in our pantry at home, we were never allowed to drink it, it was for mum when she got ill and woe betide any-one who dared touch it. Uncle Stan seemed to have an endless heavenly supply. _I now realise to add to his spirits._

Dawn their youngest child was much older than me. I didn't see a lot of her, but she was the most charming loveliest person I knew with such a bubbly personality. Her bedroom was a dream room to me, and I fantasised myself sleeping in such a lovely bedroom; in later years I did. When Dawn married Gordon Ditter (heir to Ditters Nuts) an absolutely lovely man and moved to their lovely new home in Swain Avenue Toorak Gardens her bedroom was unoccupied. I felt so lucky when Aunty May conceded to mum's request at my insistence to allow me to stay with her and uncle for a short holiday in Adelaide. I just loved the feeling of luxury and felt like a princess. There was a bus stop out the front and I relished in the freedom of getting on it and going to town, but I hadn't bargained on such a regimented schedule and strict rules about who I talked to. (In Penong we talked to everyone). I think me being a young teenager was too much for aunty and uncle because I was never allowed to stay with them again.

Dawn's two older brothers Cud and Jim were both married and living in stately modern new homes they had built. Cud at Linden Park, Jim on Hackney Road they both worked with Uncle Stan in his successful motor business Freemans Motors. They seemed to be so sophisticated and worldly I felt inadequate and kept my distance from them so as not to annoy them, though they never said anything to verify my feelings of inadequacy.

Aunty May knew everything (it seemed to me) about magical Adelaide. She organised tickets to special functions, pantomimes, the best movies, Davis Cup Tennis, The Adelaide Show etc. Oh, it was so special being in Adelaide. I loved our January annual holidays there, though the holidays were never the same after Grandpa died.

Mum's Father George Cooper, I have no memories of him, he died 2 years before I was born, so I was interested to find this Obituary published in the Sentinel 30th June 1938.

`Another link has snapped in the ranks of the pioneers who first tried wheat growing on the Far West Coast, when Mr. George Cooper died suddenly on his farm in Bagster, Penong. He was born in Norfolk (England) 1869 and was the second son of Mr. and Mrs. J. Cooper. Mr. Cooper was a total abstainer all his life. As a youth he worked on the land in England, and hearing of Australia as a land of promise, he and his brother Robert decided to try their fortune there. They arrived in March 1888 and found employment with Mr. T Masters of Reeves Plains, and later with Mr. Panshe of Barunga. When the Hundred Tickera was opened up the brothers secured two blocks. There was a shortage of good water there, and salt water had to be condensed for the horses. In 1887 Mr. Cooper journeyed to Adelaide to meet his bride-elect, Miss Emma Plane eldest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. E Plane of Norfolk, whom he married on the day of her arrival. After living in the Hundred Tickera for several years, Mr. Cooper secured 8,000 acres of mallee scrub land west of Penong and with his wife and family travelled overland with stock and wagon a distance of 430miles. The country was in its virgin state, and water had to be carted long distances over very rough roads. A ketch service from Adelaide to Pt Sinclair was the only means of obtaining supplies at intervals when wind and weather permitted. After a few years his property was sold to Mr. J Oats, and Mr. and Mrs. Cooper and family travelled overland to Pt. Broughton. Mr. Cooper having made that overland trip altogether some fourteen times. In 1905 Mr. Cooper decided on a farm near Pt. Lincoln and purchased one at Big Swamp. Whilst in the Pt Lincoln district Mr. Cooper held land at Big Swamp, Charlton, Wanilla and Pearlah. In the Pt Lincoln district, he was responsible for bringing under cultivation large areas. In 1918 Mr. and Mrs. Cooper moved to the Hundred of Catt, near Bagster, near Penong, where he held at various time about 10,000 acres. He was an active member of the Methodist church, a local preacher for 55 years, superintendent of Sunday Schools, and held many other offices. He was a public-spirited man and gave wholehearted support to any movement for the welfare of the district. Mr. Cooper was a man of great physical strength and great powers of endurance, and was able to work hard until quite recently, never having many days illness. He was predeceased by four brothers.

_He is survived by a widow, one son, and three daughters, William, Mrs. C Kunst, Mrs. R Stiggants, and Mrs. Cliff Freeman-and eight grandchildren all of Bagster. Miss E Cooper, a sister lives in England._ '

Many years later I asked dad "was Grandpa Cooper a successful farmer like Grandpa Freeman?"

"No he was a muddler, but don't tell mum I told you that."

Dad being an organised energetic worker judged others by his capabilities, if you didn't run a successful business, preferably a farm you were a failure in Dad's eyes. He did admit Grandpa Cooper was a tough strong man, and a Methodist Preacher which made him very acceptable to dad and the Freemans.

Grandma Cooper was a quiet little genteel lady who when I knew her was quite deaf. She lived with her three daughters taking turns living with each, though she spent most of her time in a purpose-built room for her at Aunty Ethel Kunst farm. I only remember her staying with us for short periods. We visited her regularly and I could always feel the love and respect her family had for her. She was only ever kind loving and sweet to me and I was always careful to be on my best behavior when with her.

Mum told me how Grandma at fifteen years old became betrothed to Grandpa before he sailed from England to Australia. She planned to follow when Grandpa had established himself in the new country for their future life together. This happened in 1887 they were each to wear a red rose so they would recognise each other, just as well because grandpa had grown a bushy red beard and Grandma didn't recognise him.

Grandma had been a ladies' maid and had lived in a lovely English home with her employers. Imagine the shock she would have got on arriving in Australia marrying a virtual stranger as she literally stepped off the ship, even before she collected her luggage intact with carefully prepared wedding trousseau and wedding gown. Grandpa had a Methodist Minister waiting at the docks to marry them along with his brother as witness. Grandma had no opportunity to don her carefully packed wedding dress before she was married. It was imperative in those days a single lady must never be alone with a gentleman let alone two gentlemen. I think Grandpa may have been keen to consummate their relationship and that was **never** done before marriage.

Immediately following the short ceremony, they travelled by horse and cart approx a hundred miles over rough tracks to their new home, a small sparsely furnished tin shed in the remote bush lands on York Peninsular South Australia. They had eight children though four of them died before reaching the age of two. With no fridges to keep the food fresh it was a struggle to raise children, in fact it was hard to prevent food poisoning.

Grandpa had promised grandma and her parents, when she left England that she would be able to go back to England for a visit. Keeping that promise before mum was born Grandma Will, Ethel and Agnes sailed to England to visit her family, a voyage of at least six weeks sail each way. Mum declared she was a true love child of the highest quality because after the lengthy separation she was born exactly nine months after they returned to Australia. Mum is certain that abstinence produces cleverer children.

Mmm I now wonder? My parents didn't try for their first child (me) for thirteen years of marriage???

Mum said she never once heard grandma complain of the pioneering hard lifestyle she was forced to live in the remotest Australian bush; especially her only ever knowing a `ladies' life in England.

Grandma and Grandpa Cooper later dressed for Wedding Portraits to be taken. Grandma did get to wear her wedding frock for prosperity if not her wedding. ( _see pic on first pages)_

Grandma Cooper passed away peacefully in her room at Kunst's on November 13th, 1947 aged 79. It was the first death I had experienced and a big learning curve for me. My `cushy' well-ordered life seemed to be in turmoil as mum grieved for her mother whom she had revered and been so close to.

I remember there was a deep discussion amongst the Aunties as to who amongst the family would `lay her out'. There was no-one to prepare bodies for burial around Penong, this was a duty performed by the families, and had to be achieved as quickly as possible because the weather was approaching summer and quite warm. Getting a coffin to the farm quickly was also a problem. All was successfully achieved because I felt the group approval at the viewing of Grandma in the open coffin in her room at Kunst's. I was reluctant to see my Grandma dead but was not given a choice; she did look lovely and peaceful though.

I had to attend the funeral at Penong Cemetery, meaning a day off school which made me feel important, I never stayed home from school unless I was extremely ill. This being my first funeral was quite traumatic and I began to wish I were at school. Mum cried most of the time and dad didn't seem to comfort her, I had never experienced these emotions, and it was all very bewildering and depressing for me. As the coffin was lowered into the big hole dug by dad and other locals, I couldn't help but feel awful at the thought of my loving grandma down there rotting away.

After Grandma was lowered into the ground, mum cried heaps more, I had never seen her so upset; it was the saddest day of my life. In my short life I had never experienced such deep sorrow. I wished the day would end.

For many months later in private moments when mum thought she was alone I would see her silently weeping, this was very distressing for me to see mum show such emotions of sadness, she normally had firm control of her emotions usually showing none, not even happiness.

1945 Grandma Cooper Roger and me at front door of Windy Ridge

PRIMARY SCHOOL DAYS

1945-52

# Chapter 12

## Year 1 - 3

January 28th, 1945 my first day at school. I started school two weeks before I turned five even though the official school starting age was five. Mum considered I was too clever to wait another year, besides the school needed the numbers. There were no opportunities to start school during the year, in those days children started their schooling at the beginning of the year after their fifth birthday which accounts for why I started two weeks before I was legally of school age.

The school `tranny' travelled along the Eyre highway bordering our farm, dad chose the shortest route across our property to the highway about a mile and graded a special track for me along the fence lines to meet the `tranny' a Studebaker sedan car with the back seat removed and replaced with bench seats around three sides, this along with three children in the front provided transport for twelve or thirteen children. Its route traversed rough graded tracks through private farmlands and on `professionally' graded tracks of the Eyre Highway. When it rained these tracks were treacherous and sometimes impassable, though it seldom rained and when it did everyone was so happy and didn't mind the roads turning to impassable muddy tracks.

I proudly rode my new bike along the new track dad had graded for me feeling very proud to be the sole recipient of dad's efforts just for me. I had always been protected and never allowed out of mum's sight so although I was excited about riding to the 'tranny' on my own there were lots of things I was scared of.

I was terrified of the bull; segregated from the cows I was sure he would attack me, so I had a plan of escape. I would throw my bike at the bull and quickly get through the stranded wire fence. Mum and dad scoffed at my worry over this, and of course it didn't happen the bull always ignored me as mum and dad said it would.

I was also terrified of coming across a snake or goanna, I had no idea what I would do, both mum and dad told me the reptiles would be more frightened of me than I of them of which I couldn't possibly believe, fortunately I never saw any.

At the highway just inside our fence, Dad built a small open-ended shelter to store my bike; it was just big enough for me to shelter as well in case of inclement weather while waiting for the bus. I always approached this shelter with caution worried I might find a snake or 'swaggy' sheltering in it. Occasionally there were itinerants, swaggies we called them) walking the highway and I was sure they'd find my shelter convenient and comfortable and make themselves a temporary home in it; it never happened. It was also a worry to me that the 'tranny' may have gone by and I had missed it, this never happened either even though sometimes when it was running late (punctuality could never be guaranteed) I was sure I had missed it. While waiting for the 'tranny' I would hide in the shelter and only appear when I was certain it was the 'tranny' approaching. There were very few cars on the roads back then and I could easily recognise them, but I was terrified of a strange car stopping; one never did.

The owner - driver of the 'tranny' was our local Methodist Lay Preacher Mr. Humphries, an elderly man who lived alone in a small one roomed building behind the Church of England in Penong. When the Methodist Preacher was away or ill this man took the service and preached to us. I loved this kind affectionate man and was rather amased to find all the other kids snidely called him Poo Hump. I was by far the youngest child and was rather miffed when he chose the oldest girls who were 12 and 13 years old to show his affection to rather than me, especially as I thought I had more rights to his attentions than those who never went to church like my family did.

After many rather flirtatious requests I finally got to sit next to Mr. Humphries in the front seat of the `tranny'. On a day the older girls were absent I thought 'this is my chance' and was pleasantly surprised when he agreed to let me sit next to him, it was a tight squeeze my legs could just fit either side of the floor based gear stick. He changed gears a lot with what I thought was unnecessary over handling of the gear stick especially as the road was long and straight. His hand lingered on the lever even when he wasn't changing gears.

Shock! Horror! He was caressing my inner thighs. I spent a very embarrassing drive to my bus stop and never bothered him to sit there again.

I never told mum or dad, I thought I would get into trouble.

I only now realise why the older kids were snidely giggling. I wasn't only scared of riding my bike alone to the highway, I was very naive.

Our school tranny. 1945. Back row: Keith Freeman, Colin Cooper, Bill Oats, Phillip Trowbridge, Don Stiggants, Gwenda Skinner. Front row: Mr. Humphrey, Reg Skinner, Barry Trowbridge, Arthur Payne, Daryl Sleep, me Glenis Sleep

Penong School when I started was one medium sized stone building consisting of a classroom and two smaller rooms, one for woodwork and the other a storeroom. There were two separate lean-to verandas one on the southern side for the boys and one on the eastern side for the girls providing shelter at recess and lunch times. This single classroom schooled about thirty children from grades one to seven and I knew every one of them, we had all grown up together and everyone knew everyone. It was very crowded with us all in one classroom.

There were no specified uniforms, but the teachers insisted we have clean socks each day which I did; some kids from the poorer families never had any socks. Mum insisted I wear one frock all week to school, and woe betide me if I got that frock dirty before the school week was finished; a clean pinny (apron/overall) each day over the top of the frock helped the frock last a week. I hated the pinnies mum made but I daren't defy her and take them off in case my frock got dirty, then she would know I had taken it off. I was never able to do anything without mum finding out.

" **Be sure your sins will find you out!"**

The Head Master Mr. Perran attended the Methodist church, so I felt he was a friend, but to my absolute horror and mortification one day in class I must have pushed the friendship too far and found myself lying on my tummy across his enormous knees with my frock lifted up showing my bulky homemade bloomers and a few firm whacks were delivered to my buttocks. I can't remember what I did to deserve this whacking, but I well remember the experience, and was extra careful never to have this embarrassing event repeated.

I loved my first class teacher Miss Wright (Grace) a local girl, as shy as I was, she made me feel comfortable. I did all she asked of me as I had learned to do at home... or else!

I felt mum was proud of me during my primary school years, though she never ever told me.

Every morning before classes commenced, we assembled, raised the Australian flag, sang the National Anthem "God Save The King", King George V1 (the father of Queen Elizabeth II) was then the King. After a few exercises we were drill marched to our classrooms. Right and left hand turns confused most of the kids even the older ones but I was always positive I had my left and right hand turns correct, even though sometimes I was the only one turned the right way. Severing my right hand 'peter pointer' did have a few benefits. I can still remember in the situations when I was the only one turned correctly to the right and all the other kids looking at me as if I were stupid I would feel the remainder of the index finger on my right hand and know I was right and everyone else was wrong and bravely stand my ground.

I had accepted my half finger and never made excuses or boasted about it. I was well into my fifties when I realised I could have used it to great advantage by declaring it affected the neatness of my handwriting, I was always an untidy writer, even though I tried so hard I usually lost marks for my scrawly writing despite having all my work correct. My untidy writing has been my downfall all through my life. I am so cross I never realised when young that it was probably caused through not having my whole index finger to control the pen, I could have turned scolding punishments into sympathetic understanding.

I loved school. I loved the interaction with other kids. I loved playing games with them during lunch and recesses which the older kids organised. Favourite games were hopscotch, brandy, hide and seek and chasey; let me explain them: -

Hopscotch was played by jumping on one leg in squares through a grid drawn in the dirt picking up a rock which you threw ahead of you, if your foot touched a line or you put two feet on the ground you were out. I was hopeless I always got out on my first few hops.

Brandy was played with a tennis ball, the aim was not to get hit (branded) with the ball by the one attempting to brand, the kid who was `branded' then became the brander. I never seem to be branded or even aimed at which didn't bother me because some kids could throw the ball hard causing many winces and bruisings.

Hide and Seek often got out of hand when older kids went missing for longer than I thought necessary, so much so that certain areas of the large school grounds were banned from us using it, I thought it unfair that we were all deprived because a few kids `hid together' for too long.

Chasey was a popular game especially with the older children, the chosen `chaser' chased the kids till they caught one, then that kid became the chaser. I noted the boys usually chased the girls and much was made of catching and tickling, but that only happened with the `popular' kids. I was never chased even though I made myself an easy target. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the camaraderie with all the kids.

On the morning of September 2nd in 1945 as the 'tranny' arrived at school we were greeted by very excited kids saying, "you can turn around and go home now". I was caught in the mass excitement not really knowing why we had to go home from school, and not really wanting to. The war had ended! Great rejoicing!

I hadn't realised the war was so big a deal, mum and dad had kept all unpleasant happenings from me, and I liked living in a happy perfect fairy tale world feeling everything in life is wonderful. Ignorance is bliss... but I joined in and enjoyed all the frivolity at the school and in the 'tranny' on the way home.

When I arrived home, I wrongly expected the continuity of the frivolity. Dad was in the paddocks working as usual and mum never allowed any show of emotions, so the joyous day for me turned into the normal run of the mill boring day on our farm.

One day dad drove me to the 'tranny' stop; while we were waiting for the 'tranny' I was singing and dancing around on the road. I was imagining I was a ballet dancer on the stage, really enjoying my dreamy experience. Dad stopped me, sat me down and explained "God doesn't like people dancing, so I don't want you to dance anymore."

I was grief stricken. "Why?"

"It leads to naughty things which God doesn't approve of; you never see mum or me dancing do you?"

True they didn't dance. Oh, I wished they did. I could not imagine what 'naughty things' could possibly come from dancing. I worried about this and decided if God didn't want us to dance, he wasn't the wonderful person I had imagined. I told mum this, it must have hit home because I was allowed to continue dancing and no more was ever said about me not doing so.

The huge school yard only had a few trees, there was little shade even though each year an `Arbor Day' was held and each kid planted a tree and was supposed to look after it, watering etc. I don't think any of these trees survived, I don't remember carting water to them, I know we were never encouraged to do so.

A brush shelter shed was built in the center of the yard, it was the coolest spot at the school in summer and prolifically used by all the kids....until the older kids started manipulating who was allowed in and who wasn't. I was miffed because I was never allowed in. I complained to mum who asked who, what and when used it. I innocently told her, it was usually couples or selected small groups at a time. Next thing we know the side facing the new classroom was removed, the head teacher was then able to see everyone in the shed at all times. There was much dissent amongst the older kids as to why? I wondered too and secretly wondered if it was because I told mum about the older kids hogging it for themselves?

Many years later at a reunion an older boy asked me if I'd go into the brush shed with him like we did all those years ago...the penny clicked! He had it wrong! It wasn't me he was in there with. I never did it!

During my third year at school a new classroom was built for grades four to seven. We grade three kids were so excited to be moving into the new school if we graduated from grade three, we all diligently did our best and consequently all graduated. We were so looking forward to the next year in our brand new classroom.

1948 Penong School kids in front of the brush shed before the wall was removed. Me 4th from right in front seated row.

# Chapter 13

## Years 4-7

The new classroom, a timber framed one roomed transportable had many windows for ventilation and a pot belly stove in the front corner for heating. This basic wooden room with no insulation was so cold in winter until the teacher got the fire raging with wood the boys collected from the surrounding paddocks before school each morning; and so hot in summer that on very hot days one of the boys was sent to the tranny drivers with a message to come and take us home. The temperature ranged from freezing on winter mornings to well over 100deg (38degC) most days of summer with temperatures often reaching 115deg (46degC) on successive days when we'd be sent home.

Roger started school the year I was in grade five, he was in the old school building. Our school seemed like a large school now we had two classrooms segregating the kids.

With Roger's company it wasn't so scary for me riding my bike to catch the `tranny'. This was the first opportunity I had to be alone with Roger with no mum or dad hovering nearby protecting him. I tried to scare him with threats of what could happen, snakes, the wild bull, swaggies etc. he never seemed to be perturbed or mind being the first to reach the bike shelter. I invented a game, a race to the shelter mainly so I could gauge his reaction and be warned of any nasties that may be lurking in there. There never was. Even so I was now a `senior' and felt I had to protect him at school. My services were never needed.

I really liked it when our native farm hand Mickey drove us to the bus stop in the Jinker (a tray top on four wheels pulled by two horses). We would sit on the tray top with our bikes and enjoy the security of the ride and the natural instinctive skills of Mickey. He would look at the highway (dirt road) and tell us by the tracks whether the `tranny' had gone by and how many other cars had traveled the road that morning. Long before we could hear anything Mickey would tell us when a car was approaching, which hill it was at and if it was the 'tranny' or not. He was never wrong. It was only when the farm work required the jinker to be in the nearby vicinity of our route to the bus stop that we were able to enjoy the privilege of Mickey's company even though I begged dad to let him drive us more often. Dad would never consider doing anything as frivolous as allowing Mickey to drive us to the bus stop in the Jinker unless it coincided with the jobs at hand at the time, all farm maneuvers were carefully calculated, there was no time wasted, no unnecessary running around, the farm.

Mickey could have lived in one of our sheds but preferred his own whirly which he constructed in the bush on our farm a good distance from the homestead. One day Mickey told dad that he had a Missus with a five-year-old boy named Sydney who he would like to have living with him, so Missus and Sydney come to live on our farm with Mickey. Sydney was about Roger's age, they played together often. Sydney was a bit of a scamp, quite mischievous but gifted with natural bush skills and absolutely no other skills. Mum taught him to bathe and gave him clean clothes which Roger had grown out of. When he was cleaned up, he looked quite smart, though I don't think he thought so, he was very shy with folks he didn't know but quite a young minx with us.

One night dad disappeared in the car in a veil of secrecy, I discovered next morning that Missus was having a baby and dad was taking her to the aboriginal hospital at Kooniba Mission, but the baby had other ideas. Mickey asked dad to stop, he did, on the side of the road Mickey delivered the perfect baby girl performing all the birthing rituals, then asked dad "Chilby can you take us home? she'm be right now!" _Chilby means Boss._

To mum's surprise next morning Missus was out 'walk-a-bout' with a stick digging for rabbits. Now the baby piccaninny was added to their family they moved into one of the sheds for a while but soon moved back to the whirly where they were more `at home'. What a story this was to tell the school kids, at last I felt important to have had some adventure in my life instead of envying the other kids who always seemed to experience many exciting events and capers.

Mum gave Missus baby clothes Roger and I had worn; the baby was unwrapped from the rags she was in and dressed in the clean clothes then we were allowed to visit her. What a perfectly beautiful black baby, she was dressed in a white nightgown and bonnet. I was sad to see our baby clothes on her; I had imagined mum having another baby to wear those clothes. I knew mum would never give the clothes away if she planned another baby. Oh well! I will just have to be content with this baby. I never saw much of the baby after that, I wasn't allowed near their whirly and they never came near our house.

One day Missus came to mum with the baby saying "missus, baby eyes don't open she'm carn see." Mum told her to wash the baby and her eyes, the baby was filthy and her eyes were stuck together with eye secretion and grime which had built up over the weeks.

Sydney was regularly taken to Kooniba Mission to attend school. I don't know what he learnt; I never saw any evidence of 'riting, reading or 'rithmatic. This aboriginal family became part of our everyday living, to me they were friends, I enjoyed the time I was allowed with them mainly Sydney, he and Roger spent time playing together and I joined in.

Many years later I heard Mickey had done something wrong, the 'bone' had been 'pointed' at him. This was the aboriginal way of punishment for any wrong doings. The 'bone being pointed' was considered a harsh punishment; the offender usually lived in fear until their death. I was astounded when I heard this, what-ever had Mickey done to deserve such a terrible curse on his life? No-one would tell me what offense he committed. I still don't know. Mickey was found dead in remote bushland in the area. Cause of death: unknown!

I felt I was `growing up' having moved from the junior school to the `bigger' one where one teacher taught about twenty kids in grades four to seven. In grades six and seven we learned to work with nib pen and ink, an art in itself. The desks were made for two with the bench seat incorporated and the desktop indented to hold pens and pencils with holes for pottery inkwells to fit in. One of the morning duties was to top the inkwells with black liquid ink from a large container, and each Friday before we went home they were emptied and washed out.

Writing with nib pen and ink wasn't easy. I soon learned I had to write not only neatly but carefully to avoid leaving ink blotches on my work, a daunting task. School discipline was strict enough but mum's discipline I was more aware of. All communications were done by handwritten letters. Every Sunday night as mum and dad did their correspondence with fluid ink and nib pen I was made to sit with them at the kitchen table "so I can keep an eye on you" said mum, and write letters to relatives in Adelaide and woe betide if I put any ink blotches on the paper or heaven forbid dropped ink on the table. Achieving this feat encompassed much diligence and practice, but I endured these evenings of writing because it meant I could stay up a little later than usual to finish my letter which I purposely dawdled over. I felt grown up when writing with pen and ink because it was considered too messy for youngsters. At school we were only allowed to use pencil and crayon until grade six and seven.

In 1949-50 Bic invented a ball point biro pen. What a coup that was? Although we had to continue using pen and ink at school at home mum and dad gladly used this wonder pen. I clearly remember dad singing its praises appreciating not having to persevere with messy pen and ink. I also clearly remember mum keeping the pen and ink on hand "in case this newfangled pen runs dry." "You must have foresight."

Schooldays for me were enjoyable because I was with other children, it got very lonely on the farm, though mum always tried to keep us occupied. Mum only having a total three years of schooling over seven years of her school days was determined we would have a good education and learn to read and write, encouraging us to do so. Roger preferred to be outside playing or with dad 'helping' so he was excused. Mum was strict with our homework especially with spelling and arithmetic we were given a column of sums and a list of words to learn each night. I had to correctly spell all the words aloud to mum before I left for school each day, and the sums checked, dad a wizard at maths took only a few minutes to check them. Look out if there were any sums wrong, they would know I `hadn't double checked' and I'd be reprimanded.

"You must always double check your work."

Every school night I made sure I learnt to spell the allocated list of words fluently or I was scolded. I didn't like being scolded so diligently learned them and usually passed mum's test before I went to school, and if I didn't get them right at school I had to explain to mum why.

Dad was the maths expert, he prided his maths expertise often relating stories how he was too clever for his college teacher who sent him on errands during maths class so dad wouldn't show him up. There were no maths sum dad couldn't solve in his head, I tried often to trick him to no avail. I tried using the excuse I needed to ask dad maths questions to enable me to stay up later at night waiting for him to come in from the paddocks. It didn't fool mum, she sent me to bed at the usual time saying "You can get up early in the morning and ask him."

Mum insisted I listen to the news on the wireless with them and when there was a general knowledge exam I had to listen even more intently and memorise the events taking place, she asked me questions to prove I had listened and absorbed the news, she taught me who our country leaders were, and drilled me with relevant general knowledge. I usually was amongst the highest achievers... except one day the teacher asked the classroom

"What is the longest river in South Australia?

The classroom was silent. No-one knew!

"I'll give you a clue. It is something your mother sometimes calls you!"

Up shot my hand wondering how he knew what mum sometimes called me.

Yes Miss, teacher said pointing to me the only one with their hand up.

"Mississippi."

I was so proud to be the only one to know.

How mortified I felt when he berated me

"That isn't what your mother calls you, it's Darling!"

"Bbut my mmother ddo..."

The class and the teacher were laughing. How wrong they all were, my mum never called me Darling but often when in a good mood called me Mrs. Mississippi.

It surprised me when relating the story to mum she didn't support me and tell the teacher he was wrong, instead she brushed it off leaving me in wonder.

In a small school, in a small community everyone knows everybody, very well, including all their history and their business. I always felt 'not popular' inferior and intimidated, indeed I was singled out because my parents were such staunch Methodists of the most narrow-minded kind. Dad was so verbal about people who didn't go to church, people who spent time in the hotel bar, alcohol consumers and anyone who broke any of the Ten Commandments. Because of his strong stance I was expected to set a good example and so was taunted at school because I was "Cliffy Freeman's daughter". I did really try and live by the rigid standards of my parents, but as I got older a lot of these standards were questioned by my inner self. I knew I definitely could not voice my thoughts or talk about them with mum and dad. I knew my place at home 'to be seen but not heard', so I diligently accepted my lot in life living day by day the lifestyle I was destined too.

Some of the boys at school could be very mischievous and pushed the teachers to the limits. Caning was the mode of punishment in those days. It amased me how the boys defiantly lined up, hands out waiting for the number of cuts allotted to them. The number of cuts was depicted by the severity of their behavior. It pained me greatly to witness this punishment. I couldn't quite work out why they continued misbehaving and so calmly accepted the caning which inevitably occurred.

I remembered mum threatening us with her 'woddy', a length of hose about two-foot-long and one inch thick which she kept on the back ledge of the wash troughs. It was enough to stop me from misbehaving, not that I would dare to anyway, especially after experiencing the only whacking I ever got. It occurred one day when mum told me off for something I thought was unreasonable; as she walked to the cowshed, I thought she was far enough away not to hear me and I cursed her. SHE HEARD... my bottom started twitching as she turned around and strode to the wash troughs. She grabbed the hose and turned in fury to me. My instinct was to run, too late she had me and I got the walloping of my life. I learnt my lesson I never said or did anything wrong ever again.

" **Be sure your sins will find you out."**

The school consisted of farmer's kids, town kids, half and quarter caste kids. The aboriginals who attended school lived in houses with their families and were slowly integrating into the community. Many full aboriginals lived in whirlies on the outskirts of the community and kept to themselves, those children didn't attend school.

I always felt one of the poorer kids because I never had money to spend at the local general store at lunch times, some of the poorer families kids always seem to have money and asked permission to go to the shop during the lunch hour. Pestering mum didn't do me any good, and only on extra special occasions was I allowed money to walk with teacher permission to the shop. There were a few families with seven and eight children each and naturally there was never any spare money in their families so I formed an alliance with them. Mum regularly brought these families produce off the farm, they were always so grateful.

My school lunches were awful; I didn't enjoy them, mainly because in the hot weather the sandwiches were warm and soggy by lunch time. My lunch tin was a tin billy with a fitted lid, mum tried keeping it cool by wrapping a wet towel around the tin, the towel soon became warm and moistened the lunch, she also tried lining the tin with grape vine leaves, they also became hot and limp. My sandwiches always were liberally spread with homemade butter and filled with mutton and sauce or tomato cheese vegemite or peanut paste accompanied by home baked cake biscuit or yeast bun and a piece of fruit. The butter melted into the bread resulting in strange tasting sandwiches. I realise now this was a very substantial lunch but then I felt it wasn't as good as the other kids who raved about their sandwiches. I remember one aboriginal girl having thick bread spread sparsely with plum jam (the cheapest tinned jam the local shop sold) and no butter, we regularly secretly swapped. I didn't want the other kids seeing me swap sandwiches with an aboriginal, but I really did enjoy her sandwiches and to my surprise she enjoyed mine.

The aboriginal children attending our school though clean still had a distinctive body odour. They were extremely slow with all academic subjects but absolutely excelled in 'drawing' (art) their drawings were always shown to the class. I who couldn't draw a stick man was in awe of their skills. We used pastels on a special dark grey paged pastel book, each page divided by tissue paper to prevent the pastels intermixing; their pastel books were a kaleidoscope of colour. They also excelled in all sport and were always the first to be chosen when picking sporting teams. They were fiercely protective of their heritage and each other and it didn't take very much agitation for them to explode in a temper and fight for their lives against any who dared to upset them even minutely. They soon gained respect from even the toughest of the older white boys in the school.

Mum always attended the school when parents were invited, both mum and dad contributed to all school activities. It was comforting to know my parents would be present at every school function, especially when some of the more popular kid's parents rarely attended. I think my parent's presence gave me a little status amongst the other kids. I remembered this so I also always made the effort to take part in my children's school activities... and my grandchildren's.

Penong School is directly on the Eyre Highway on the western outskirt of Penong consequently our lunch and recess activities were waiting to see who drove past the school while leaning over the fence waving madly at them, we knew who it would be and when they were due to drive past because we all knew everyone's habits.

One person I remember driving into town regularly for shopping was a local farmer we called 'Bitched Clarry'. He drove a lovely big grey Buick sedan and always commanded a rapturous response from us. He was affectionately called 'Bitched Clarry' because every second word in his vocabulary was 'bitched'. Mum and dad were NOT impressed when I told them "We waved to Bitched Harry as he drove in and out of town today."

Very few strangers drove past our school because they would have crossed the Nullarbor Plain or be attempting to cross it. The occasional traveller who attempted the highway to Perth across the Nullabor Plain needed to research the trek thoroughly, those who didn't would suffer the consequences, becoming stranded until another traveler passed by and alerted authorities at the next town many hundreds of miles away. Crossing the Nullarbor in those days was a huge feat and risky, we kids all knew this and noted all strange cars and reported to our parents, well certainly I told mum, I related every single happening I saw from the school yard and she always listened intently, often asking questions which I felt important if I knew the answers. When visiting family and friends, I was amused to hear mum relate the 'happenings' I had told her about, adding her own interpretations made interesting tales and obviously to her listeners as well by the looks on their faces.

I was becoming a tiny bit more assertive at home. I occasionally dared express my true feelings though I was always defused and quickly put back in my place - a little girl to be seen but not heard, a mute well-dressed girl behaving ever so proper. I tried my hardest to be this girl and sometimes stepped over the boundary line though very seldom because I was afraid of physical punishment. Mum often set tasks I felt were too difficult for me. I pleaded with her "I can't do that."

"There is no such word!"

"There is so, and I can't do it."

"Don't answer me back! There is no such word as can't! The word you mean is won't."

I was never allowed to say can't.

I still don't accept I can't do anything.

The weekly papers came in the mail bag with our mail deliveries each week. The Chronicle and West Coast Sentinel were the papers most local people subscribed to. There were children's pages in the Chronicle, I loved reading. Aunt Dorothy featured a segment I loved, especially the children's letters from South Australian rural areas. Aunt Dorothy encouraged her young correspondents to support Minda; an organisation established in 1898 to support adults and children with disabilities including the blind. I wanted to help these folks so asked mum if I could write to her as well.

Here is a letter I wrote in 1950.

Dear Aunt Dorothy,

I was very pleased to see my last letter in print.

Yesterday Mr. Oats and a few of our neighbours came to our place to dip their sheep. They hope to finish today.

It is very dusty today. All the dust on the fallow is blowing into the house. Just at this moment we need about two inches of rain.

At School I came forth in my second terminal examination with 124 marks out of 170. I am in grade VI. Our teachers' names are Mr. Halliday (headmaster) and Mr. Rowe (assistant teacher). I like Mr. Rowe best.

We have got some of Aunt Agnes's cows, because she has something wrong with her knee and can't walk very well.

Jimmy, a native has come over to get the cow today.

Next Saturday week is my brother's birthday, he will be seven years of age.

Would some lovely reader send me the words of these songs:- "I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts", and "Twenty-four Hours of Sunshine"?

At a tennis match last Saturday, played at Uworra, a presentation was made to the Kooniba Club for being Premiers last year. Afternoon tea was sold on behalf of the BCA Hospital at Penong.

The Penong Show was held on August 25.

Last week the Penong Methodist Guild had its22nd birthday party. I recited a poem called "Likes and Dislikes". There was a song competition, a motor car race and a bottle race. Then we had afternoon tea and there was a cake with 22 candles on it.

I will enclose 6d. for a badge and 3d for Minda.

Eunice Freeman

Mum insisted I read the paper, and to be sure she'd asked questions which I had to answer correctly to prove I had read the articles she expected me to read. She would have checked my letter to Aunt Dorothy as well, she checked everything I wrote, even so when I found this letter in the archives near sixty years later it rather surprised me, I thought I led a boring life on the farm.

I read about pen friends and asked mum "What are pen friends?"

"Friends"

Exactly what I craved for on the farm! Mum selected a suitable girl my age Val who lived at Beetaloo Valley (near Crystal Brook South Australia) also a farmer's daughter. We regularly wrote to each other and of course mum read all the letters, mum always read all the letters I wrote to "be sure there were no mistakes". It was arranged by our parents Val and I should meet, Val came to our place during school holidays, we were very shy and uncomfortable with each other at first then slowly as we chatted we got to know each other, by the end of her stay we were best mates.

Mum decided our families should meet; we'd call into their farm on our way to Adelaide in January. Off we took in our new Holden towing our new four berth 15ft bond wood caravan we would visit Val's family property at Beetaloo Valley. Towing this heavy wooden van proved to be a slow hazardous trip; mum was in tears continually telling dad to "slow down!" At speeds over 30mph we wobbled all over the dirt roads. Mum's foresight prompted her to store a lump of wood by her feet in case... just as well... as we neared Val's farm the terrain became very hilly. Dad wasn't familiar with hills; our land is as flat as; dad didn't have much experience in towing with a car and certainly no experience in hills. We found the entry to their farm as we turned a sharp corner, the gate was open but dad had stopped to be sure it was the right property. Before us was the steepest hill we had seen which meant dad had to drive up the hill from a stationary position; mum wailed "we'll never make it!"

"Yes we will!" dad confidently replied.

Dad revved the engine and took off, the Holden laboured boldly, we all held our breaths, mum grabbed the lump of wood, half way up the hill the poor car stalled to a stop, dad applied the brakes but they wouldn't hold, the van was slowly pulling us backwards. Mum jumped out of the car quickly placed the wood behind the car tyre bringing the rig to a halt. Dad started the car and had another go at continuing up the hill, but the van controlled the car and we went nowhere except to roll onto mum's lump of wood.

"Just as well I have foresight or we'd have rolled to the bottom of the hill and crashed!"

We all sheepishly walked the rest of the way up the hill to their homestead, wondering how-ever we would get our car and van out of this dangerous predicament. Val's family thought it a huge joke, us not making it up the hill. They soon had their tractor pulling our rig to safety sideways across the hill face parked across the hill where we were able to safely drive off and continue our holiday after spending a pleasant day with Val and her family.

Val and I corresponded until she passed in 2010.

Cars were a huge status symbol at Penong. The owners each bragged of the biggest, the newest, the fastest etc. In 1948 the long-awaited Holden motor car was introduced. When we got ours I felt my status has risen amongst my school mates. Mum was rather more dubious, and didn't want to sell the Vauxhall, she was sure it would last longer than the Holden. Eventually the 1938 Vauxhall which they bought new was sold to Mr. and Mrs. Mickey from Eucla nearer the Western Australian border. Mum was greatly amused by Mr. and Mrs. Mickey. Mr. Mickey was a small man while Mrs. Mickey was quite a large woman much taller and broader than her husband, mum was sure she wouldn't fit in the Vauxhall. When they came to collect it I remember watching with great amusement and trepidation to see if indeed Mrs. Mickey would fit into the car. She did. Mum very sadly watched them drive her much loved and trusted Vauxhall away saying "There goes a very good reliable car I hope they appreciate it.

Dad at Uncle Stan's insistence traded the FX Holden in for each of the new model Holden's as they came on the market. After Uncle died his son's (my cousins) Cud and Jim took over the business consequently dad didn't get such a good deal, so he didn't buy every new model.

Dad remained faithful to Holden's all his life, in fact he died in his Holden parked in the street outside Newstead Methodist Church, he was working alone cleaning up the church yard... another story in the next book.

# Chapter 14

## The Flying Doctor

The air strip was in a farmer's paddock right opposite the school. The only thing depicting the air strip was the wind socket billowing in the wind. When it rained the grass in the paddock was kept short by grazing stock, they would run to the farthermost corner of the paddock when an aeroplane flew in. This airstrip was used every Thursday by the Ceduna based Flying Doctor a wonderful health service of 'The Bush Church Aid Society' provided by The Church of England.

The locals subscribed a nominal amount to the BCA thus enabling a reliable free health service to the outback. Dr Roy Gibson was the original flying doctor, when he died his wife Dr Freda Gibson continued. Dr Roy died before I was born but I vividly remember his exceptional work being talked about, often. Dr Freda was also very much respected, we all accepted her diagnosis without question and with good reason for there were no nasty repercussions, she was the savior of the ailing in the far west of South Australia for many years.

Mr. Chadwick was the very capable pilot who lived in Ceduna with his wife and four daughters a family of devout Church of England followers.

Early every Thursday morning Chaddy and Doctor flew to Eucla for consultations. Lunch time we kids watched the little plane land opposite the school usually in a cloud of dust. If the plane arrived early or later we knew something was 'up'. No one rested until everyone knew 'why'? |

"Who is sick?"

"Who has had an accident?"

Every person's business, good fortune, bad fortune etc. would soon be everyone's 'business'.

Doctor consulted on a first come first serve basis at the hospital. The Matron Sister Loane acted as Doctors capable nurse. After all consultations Chaddy flew the Doctor home to Ceduna hopefully arriving before dark because the airstrips didn't have lighting. In the case of emergencies and it had to be a dire emergency because of the dangerous logistics of flying in the dark, all available cars would be called on to line the landing strip with their headlights on high beam.

Occasionally I became ill, so ill I couldn't attend school. This was a special time for me; even though I couldn't breathe I felt important missing school, having people fussing over me, and even being allowed to sleep in mum's bed. I remember one night my breathing was so laboured mum held me on her lap against her breasts, it was so comforting, the most comfort I remember receiving from mum and my breathing was eased immensely.

Dr Freda diagnosed me as an asthmatic, I felt important as I listened to mum telling all about my asthma. After many years of enduring asthma attacks, breathing into and out of machines, being raced to Penong hospital for relieving injections, a new tablet was discovered, I don't know what it was, but it was green. About the same time Dr Freda told mum to get rid of the feather mattress and pillows I was sleeping on as I could be allergic to feathers. All my life I had slept on mattresses and pillows mum had made from the feathers she plucked from our chooks when she killed them for our dinner table, though the feathers had been washed and aired it was deemed I was allergic to them.

An expensive luxurious Dunlop pillow mattress and pillow was purchased from Adelaide and delivered by train. I never had another attack of asthma and this Dunlop pillow mattress was the most comfortable luxury bed which never needed shaking or plumping up. I felt so special to have so much attention and comfort afforded to me.

Occasionally mum had bilious attacks where she continually vomited to a point of collapse. Her cure was homemade chicken soup. She usually had some boiling on the stove, but if not Dad or I had to rise to the occasion. I can remember mum calling out instructions from her sick bed, woe betide if it wasn't made exactly as she directed "Cut the feet, neck, one wing, gizzard, heart and kidneys from the chook, cover with water, add a packet of pearl barley and salt, and don't forget to stoke the fire." These were always the standard instructions we were reminded off. The longer it boiled the better it tasted but after an hour mum would drink some of the soup which always had remarkable results, mum would regain her strength and after a night's sleep she was up at her normal early rising time doing her usual chores. When mum had these turns, it threw the whole household into a chaos, dad wasn't good with sickness or kitchen chores. I was always relieved when mum finally got some of her chook soup in her tummy, I knew then all would soon be well.

Infections were always a concern especially skin infections, there were many natural remedies that were commonly known and used, the first treatment was bathing the affected area in hot as one could stand salted water. Rawleigh's traveling salesman regularly travelled west of Ceduna and called into the farms so we were able to keep a stock of Rawleigh's products. Rawleigh's Medicated Ointment _(I still use it today_ ) was the healer of sores and prevented many infections if used in time. If applied too late the sore continued throbbing and swelling as the poison spread, this called for more drastic treatment, so Bates of Salve was used.

Bates of Salve is a black solid substance which when heated over a candle melts then spread on a clean piece of white cotton fabric and applied while still as hot as one could stand to the affected area then bandaged and left to do its work for at least 12 hours. The theory was it had drawing powers and would draw out the poisonous pus, it usually worked but on occasions it didn't then we had no option but to go to the Doctor where we knew we would be reprimanded for using Bates of Salve, we didn't care we always gave it a try to hopefully avoid having the infected area lanced to eradicate the poison; a painful process.

Despite the doctors "pew-pewing" Bates of Salve dad was a huge promoter of it, using it along with daily doses of yeast for all his skin infections including boils, thus avoiding further treatments.

Dad swore that yeast cured lots of ailments and prevented boils, many thought it a big joke, dad being such a strict tee teetotaler but having a daily tipple from the yeast bottle mum always had brewing in the warmth on the side of the wood stove. Kids at school taunted me that yeast was alcohol and dad was a 'secret drinker'. I was horrified, and asked dad, he absolutely scoffed at the idea of the yeast mum brewed as being alcoholic?

When I had boils, dad told mum to give me daily doses of the yeast brew. I hated the taste of it and used 'the alcohol' reasoning to encourage mum not to make me take it. It worked... thankfully.

Mum did a lot of hard dirty work on the farm. I remember her getting a splinter in her right-hand forefinger which soon became painfully poisonous. I remember her weeping in pain not knowing what to do with her finger or how to further treat it fearing she would need it lanced. She did! Per the Flying Doctor which gave her instant relief, but she was unable to use her right hand for a few days which seemed to disrupt the whole household. When the bandages finally came off and the stitches removed the first joint was bent at a permanent 90deg angle. The tendon had been severed she couldn't straighten or move the first joint, and never did again. This was a big lesson to us, making us acutely aware to treat any minor cuts or splinters with great urgency.

Mum worked hard in the garden providing fresh produce for us. One day working in the garden she fell, her thigh landing square on a protruding star dropper buried in the garden. The dropper penetrated about two inches into the flesh.

"Put some Bates of Salve on it" was dad's advice.

Mum decided no chances or home treatments were to be attempted so another trip immediately into Penong hospital and the Flying Doctor. This wound took a long time to heal, not before developing a strange very sore substance all over it. Another trip to the hospital and the Flying Doctor, diagnosis... Proud Flesh... Treatment... Condies Crystals a chemical kept on the farm for treating severe animal wounds. We were all aghast at the thought of putting this blue crystal acid like substance on an open sore.

Mum did, making sure it was only put on the proud flesh. Without pain the crystals burnt all the proud flesh away. We were amazed. The wound eventually healed. Mum never again allowed sharp protruding objects in her garden.

Condies Crystals were always kept in our medical cupboard from that experience and successfully used many times.

Mum could organise to her satisfaction most things, but these infections occurred despite the greatest of mum's determination and were of great concern to her. She really worried when she developed another infected finger turning painfully poisonous. She was surprised when Sister Loane on consultation with the Flying Doctor said "I'll give you an injection, it should cure it.

"How can an injection cure this?" Mum suspiciously asked.

"It's a new medical therapy that's just been discovered, Penicillin!"

Mum didn't have faith in 'new-fangled ideas' so was pleasantly surprised when virtually overnight the pain eased, and the infected area healed. Mum was amased at this modern marvelous discovery which she herself had proven to completely cure her.

I enjoyed listening to mum relate the wonders of Penicillin to as many folks as quickly as her 'bush telegraph' allowed. I felt important spreading the word at school, some kids already knew but those who didn't refused to believe me until the knowledgeable ones supported my news. Penicillin was a major breakthrough in medicine around the entire world and certainly made life so much safer and more comfortable in the bush.

Measles, mumps and chicken pox were infectious diseases we all had to endure, and we did without question but with much anxiety. If one person at school contracted the disease we knew eventually no-one would be spared which was the case but then everyone could relax because you can only get these diseases once; then you were immuned from them.

It was often said "It's best to have these diseases while young they can cause far more serious problems when you are older." It was rather a status symbol at school to be able to say you had suffered these diseases and on returning to school after having suffered them you were welcomed as a hero, almost like as if you were now initiated and `accepted' into a special club. I felt proud after I had my turn. Mum was grateful Roger caught them from me; he hadn't started school when I suffered from them but of course I took the germ home and whatever contagious disease I had inevitably so did Roger.

Whooping cough was another nasty disease, fortunately there was never a case that I knew of although it was graphically explained to us what a terrible death it was for the sufferer.

During these primary school days there was a spate of tonsillitis and appendicitis operations, these were always performed at Penong hospital by the Flying Doctor. After the operations the kids came back to school with embellished stories of the great time they had in hospital raving about the lovely meals especially the jelly and ice cream the tonsillectomy patients were privileged with, ice cream was a real treat in those days (no power, only small inefficient kerosene fridges) so much so that the 'treat' over-rode the relating of the blood they couldn't help but swallow after the operation. These kids were held in great esteem but after hearing all the bloody stories about their tonsillectomy it gave me cause to genuinely hope I never needed my tonsils out. I never did!

Appendicitis was a different story, there were no bloody stories, just talk of the wonderful nursing care Sister Loane gave to the patients. I remembered the unkind people in Calvary Hospital in Adelaide and hoped I could experience Sister Loane's care and spoiling.

The ether experience was related with drama about the terrible smell and how many numbers each could count before being anesthetised. I listened to all the kids bragging about their experiences wishing I could go to hospital and also be spoilt. I had been through the ether experience and thought they exaggerated to make themselves seem heroes. I felt I was entitled to a 'treat' in hospital because mum regularly visited the hospital with heaps of farm produce for which Sister Loane always seemed so grateful.

I should be rewarded for mum's generosity" I thought.

One day I thought I felt a twitter of a pain in my tummy. I knew from the kids talking where appendicitis pain was on a body, I wished for this slight pain to be in that area. I pushed that area of my tummy; maybe it hurt like the kids said it did? I was so excited maybe I did have appendicitis. When I got home from school and told mum she took me straight back to Penong hospital. We had heard of people waiting too long for an appendectomy causing the appendices to burst causing major health complications, so every-one acted immediately when suspecting appendicitis.

Wow all this attention on me. I distinctly remember Sister Loane examining me. The examination didn't reveal any very sore spots in my tummy, certainly none to the extent of what the other kids said they experienced. Sister Loane pushed on my tummy in different places asking if it hurt. At the slightest pain I said "yes". I now wonder if it was wishful thinking and the only real hurt was the pressure she used.

I was so happy when she turned to mum "I think the appendics should come out, I'll contact the Flying Doctor."

Chaddy flew Dr Freda to Penong; she performed the operation with Sister Loane assisting. I was not impressed, not being able to eat anything before the operation. I was hungry and looking forward to the lovely meals the kids had talked about.

Yes! The ether sickeningly stunk just as I remembered from my finger operation, thankfully I didn't get to count any more than four.

When I woke it was awful! My tummy was hurting so much, I was vomiting which emphasised the pain in my tummy. I had a plaster on my tummy which was painfully uncomfortable as was the hard bed which to my disgust was not in the lovely ward but in the hallway outside Sisters room. I complained about this to her, she said "you must be near my room so I can hear you."

|Why wasn't I in the ward with a buzzer as I imagined I would be so I could use it to summons her?"

Each day the pain eased a little. I was not allowed to move too much until the fifth day when I had to get up. Boy did that hurt. Although I was now having normal meals they were not as good as the kids made them sound. I asked for ice cream and was told "you only have ice cream when you have your tonsils out."

I was shattered, maybe it wasn't a good idea after all to wish for an appendectomy... too late. Sister Loane paid me no more attention or privileges than the other three patients.

I realize now she would have been so busy running the hospital alone as well as the cooking and most of the cleaning including sanitation. When a patient goes home Sister stripped and scrubbed the bed with antiseptic then carried it outside to sterilise in the sun for hours.

I was due to go home after the stitches were taken out, but the wound started to bleed so I had to have the wound stitched to stem the bleeding. I was terrified of this, but a small local anesthetic prevented any pain.

Ten days after the operation I was sent home very weak bent over with pain and still very sore. I went back to school a hero feeling important relating my operation experiences, especially hemorrhaging and having to have extra stitches!

I now have the ugliest big scar on my tummy measuring 4ins long x 1ins wide, and still proud of it!!

A common virus was boils; they started off as a pimple which developed into a large core under the skin surrounded by very sore red areas which got bigger and sorer as time went on. The only cure was to draw or in extreme cases cut the core out. Dad swore by his trusty Bates of Salve which after a day of applying it usually worked its wonders drawing the poison to the surface, we were then able to painfully squeeze the core out leaving a large hole to heal. The bragging rights at school was over who had the biggest core and scar with scars to prove their point. I, as did most people had many boils and I did my share of bragging. I boldly bragged of the one I had on my mons venus, I couldn't show the scar because of its positioning so was able to embellish the story, I received a lot of sympathy over this tale and it was in fact a painful boil. Every pimple we got we trembled at the thought of it turning to a boil. No penicillin or antibiotics then. I still have that scar.

"Have you done a 'job' today?" the question I dreaded which mum asked every night. I daren't lie and say "yes" because mum would surely find out the truth, "be sure your sins will find you out." "NO!

A 'job' was an active bowel motion. 'Jobs' were such an issue in those days especially in our family; the topic was regularly discussed and dissected. I am sure all the attention this topic attracted caused me to suffer acute constipation. If a 'job' hadn't been achieved for 2 days mum dosed us with a large tablespoon of an awful tasting pasty white substance, Agarol, it made me gag but I thought I was lucky other kids were dosed with castor oil which thankfully I was never given. If Agarol hadn't worked after two nights of taking it I had to suffer the indignation of mum inserting a suppository capsule into my rectum, this thankfully usually had the desired effect because if it didn't I was subjected to the worst possible scenario with even more indignation, an enema; I will spare you the details of this procedure, but it involved a saline mixture pumped into your bowel until you felt as if your tummy was going to bust. The expulsion of this liquid absolutely emptied all waste matter.

I had so many enemas in my life it became a normal but unwelcome procedure! The benefit to me was for a few days at least not feeling constipated and not having mum asking me "have you done a job today?"

# Chapter 15

## Special School Visitors

One day in my first year at school a distinguished genteel strangely dressed lady visited the school. She appeared out of the bush where the aborigines came from. She wore a black skirt so long only her clean lace up leather lady style boot-shoes showed beneath it, under a black cape she wore a clean white blouse with a high clerical type neckline, a black ribbon tied under her chin held her black straw bonnet in place. She was introduced to us as Daisy Bates. She had such an aura about her I was spell bound and pushed my way to be near her while she sat on the ground with us kids seated all round her. I sat right next to her enjoying the warmth from her touch.

I felt she was an important lady so thought it was my right to be closest to her, I felt it was my right to do so because mum and dad always hosted the 'important visitors' to our district! I don't remember what Daisy talked about, but I certainly was star struck by her. I couldn't wait to get home and tell mum and dad about this wonderful lady.

To my amazement and horror mum and dad's reactions were very stern and disdainful. "Daisy Bates lives in 'the outback' with the natives, and this is no way for a lady to live."

I asked why she lived there.

"She must not have a sane mind because she is helping the natives, a total waste of time."

I was shattered, but still secretly loved this softly spoken lady.

Only in recent years after reading about Daisy Bates's wonderful caring work under extreme circumstances do I realise my feelings for Daisy Bates were justified. I am extremely proud to have had the privilege of meeting her, she had a huge impact on me. I couldn't believe some-one so genteel could live in such harsh conditions and look so clean and lovely.

I started looking at myself in the long mirror on the wardrobe door in mum and dad's room, preening, pouting, imagining. When mum discovered me doing this I got a lecture that squashed my newfound confidence.

"It is evil to be vain, God doesn't like vain people you must be very humble for God to love you. I don't want you preening yourself in the mirror it is not right, besides you have nothing to be vain about and remember `Pride goeth before a fall'.

I was distressed and didn't want to look at my ugly self in the mirror any more, though I was comforted that Daisy looked lovely and she would not have access to a mirror in the bush.

Another visitor to the school was an aborigine who brought a dusty looking hedgehog or echidna for us children to see. Hedgehogs were very rare where we lived, this was the first most of us had seen (the only one I ever saw in South Australia) we were all in awe of it and its tiny pointed head peeking out from under the ball of spikes. We weren't allowed to touch it because it would maybe spike us, though the aborigine handled it without fear.

Regular visitors to the school whom we all feared including the teachers, were the school inspectors. They were quite ruthless men, one was particularly strict, verbal and intolerant, we trembled when he made his inspections of our school. The teachers warned us to be on our best behavior, most of us were except one of the defiant boys who antagonised the Inspector. Boy, did he cop the brunt of the Inspector's wrath. We watched in horror as he was literally lifted by his shirt collar and walloped on the bum, witnessing this treatment ensured the rest of us behaved in a respectful attentive manner to prevent any further punishment handed out.

Occasionally if the Inspector was in a good mood and if we had achieved a high standard of work he declared "Tomorrow there will be no school you can have the day off for your good work". This declaration softened the dread we and especially the teachers had for this man: it worked like magic for the naughty boys.

The train line from Pt. Lincoln finished at Penong not far from the school. We knew when the train was coming because we could see the smoke, it was a steam driven train, we watched it approach the school and the end of the rail lines waiting to see if it would run off the end of the tracks. Seemingly there was nothing to depict the end of the railway tracks, but the train always stopped in time.

This train caused much concern in summer after a good season because of stray sparks. Ploughed fire breaks were a priority along the rail lines especially after good winter rains providing an abundance of died grasses and plenty of tinder for sparks to set alight. On hot dry days everyone was on high alert watching for any sign of smoke which meant fire. At the first sighting of smoke locals rushed to it armed with wet empty hessian wheat bags, shovels, rakes and those who had them a knapsack spray full of water on their backs. There was never any serious damage caused by bush fires, such was the success of fire breaks and the 'community fire service'.

Singing was a favourite subject of mine. I loved music, couldn't get enough of it. I wanted to learn all the songs I could, not just hymns that we sang at home. The teacher with the help of a tuning fork to get us started on the right note taught us a few songs. We proudly sang our renditions at every parent gathering at the school.

Though I was forbidden to preen myself in front of a mirror I spent many hours when I knew mum was pre-occupied milking the cows and doing farm chores singing to myself in the mirror on the door of her wardrobe. I imagined I was a singing star. I was mortified when one day mum came in early from her chores and caught me. Oh dear! I was in big trouble and suffered another lecture.

"God doesn't like vain people".

"Pride goeth before a fall."

I thought I wasn't being vain singing; singing was sung in church it must be acceptable.

"I want to be a singer when I grow up".

"You have to have talent to be a singer." Mum scoffed and my aspirations were cruelly dissipated, I was shattered, I never had any talent, I would never be a singer. I would never be anything.

I had been able see myself in this mirror which reached nearly to the floor since I could remember, for me my own image was great company I had many conversations with myself. I was so critical of my looks; I longed to have a different nose mouth etc. I hated my freckles longing for them to disappear. I wished I looked like Pam or Aileen the two 'popular' girls at school. I didn't like having my photograph taken I felt I looked even worse in a photograph than in reality. I woefully complained to mum how terrible I looked in photographs, she quipped **"a camera never lies."**

I pretended my stringy mousey hair was thick black and curly. I dressed and preened myself in any accessories I could find to enhance the image of myself. I knew I was being disobedient, but I couldn't help myself; besides I couldn't believe what I was doing was so wrong.

I was becoming quite daring and deceptive. Occasionally I got carried away as I preened, dropping my guard, forgetting the time and being caught by mum and severely reprimanded.

" **Pride goeth before a fall a fall".**

1948 Penong School assembly in front of the new classroom. I am in the middle somewhere.

# Chapter 16

## Excursions

We occasionally went on school excursions, hiking from the school into the bush looking and discussing different bushes. I didn't like these outings, I lived on the farm in the bush and thought these hikes were a waste of time and would have much rather stayed at school.

In the summer of grade four we started swimming lessons. Our beginner lessons were in a tank, an open stone construction approximately 10-foot square and 6-foot-deep built above a bore on the east side of Penong. The walls were about 18 inches thick, which we walked and sat on the top of. The local policeman, our swimming teacher, tied a rope around our tummies attached to a stick that he held us up with as he walked around the top of the tank wall instructing us how to move our arms and legs; for me it was very scary and I was ever so pleased I was attached to the stick he held. We were forced into the muddy water and told to swim, I was scared I would sink and was sure no-one would ever know because you couldn't see under the water it was so murky. I never felt that I learnt to swim and was quite astonished when I passed along with all the others in my class. Our reward for passing was a trip to the beach to further our skills.

The nearest beach, Point Sinclair a picturesque sheltered beach 24 mile south of Penong along a rough track through the bush and drifting sand dunes which a track had to be made passable before any-one could travel there. We all loved this beach, and soon learned to swim properly in the crystal-clear ocean waters of the Great Australian Bight. The older kids got to swim off the end of the jetty, I was happy in the shallows with the sandy bottom. Just past the weed line an old buoy was embedded in the sand, at high tide it was well over our heads our aim was to swim to the buoy stand on it to rest before swimming back to shore. I was so proud of myself when I swam well enough to achieve this feat.

Mum and dad were not adventurers and we never did anything exciting or impromptu like the other kids did. I envied the other kids as I listened to them talk about the exciting escapades they had experienced over weekends. I felt especially alienated by the kids during racing season. Dad was adamant race goers were bad people who not only drank at the races but also gambled. Gambling was a sin, definitely not for decent folks. Listening to the kids talk about the fun and games they had at the races I wondered how it could be so sinful. The kids knew dad's stance on races and ridiculed me. I felt alienated.

Sports day was a huge annual event where all schools west of Ceduna gathered at a centrally located school and competed against one another. I was swept along with the enthusiasm of the other kids but I wasn't good at sports and preferred to be indoors so I was always apprehensive, never the less I realised it was a great opportunity for some of the academically challenged kids to excel which they did and earned much respect from their peers. I learned to appreciate the competition between the schools especially when our school won. I never won any races, mum described me as a draft horse so I never expected I could win anything. I was a failure at sports.

Xmas and New Year's Day were the beginning of summer school holidays which I enjoyed it was a very welcome break from the daily routine of the rest of the year. Every Xmas Eve in Penong hall a huge Xmas tree was erected, beautifully decorated, and loaded with presents; so exciting. Father Xmas arrived and gave all the kids a lovely present. I thought Father Xmas was the kindest loveliest man ever. I found out many years later the parents had to pay prior to the event, this explained why some families didn't attend, I could never understand why these families didn't participate.

Father Xmas left presents every Xmas Eve at home until I was nine. I was shattered when I finally learnt there really wasn't a Father Xmas which explained why mum and dad never gave us a Xmas present. Though I was disappointed at learning the truth I thought I could still capitalize and enjoy Father Xmas by telling mum "Roger still believes so we must 'do it' for him!"

It didn't work as I thought it would because Roger got the usual heaps of presents, I got tokens. I remember scraping tracks in the dirt outside our house yard to show Roger where the sleigh had been, he didn't seem at all impressed. Xmas was never the same again.

New Year's Day was the only day of the year we as a family went to the beach, it was sports day at Pt. Sinclair and we always went. I looked forward to this day every year. I prayed for the weather to be a lovely warm beach day so we could swim in the sea. It wasn't the popular thing to wear a shirt over bathers consequently every year every part of me that wasn't covered turned a bright red. I usually spent the first week of every year lying on mum's bed in a loose nighty suffering severe sunburn and sunstroke. One year it was overcast all day and we assumed we wouldn't burn; wrong it was one of the worst burns I suffered.

Each year I tried to avoid burning but in the excitement of the day the sun slowly took its toll.

The year I learned to swim made New Year's Day so exciting, enabling me to show off my swimming skills. Mum hated the sea and never went in it or on it because she got frightfully seasick, so she wasn't all that impressed with my swimming.

As the years went by these annual New Year's Days were my big outing for the year. I had so much fun on the jetty and in the water with the girls AND boys; mum not liking the sea and never venturing on the jetty provided me with a chance to feel free of her prying eyes.

I took advantage of this freedom as a teenager, the big deal was to be carried off the end of the jetty by a boy, hopefully it was one I liked because a bit of touchy feel would go on under the water before we surfaced. How daring and exciting it was for me as I became a teenager to experience this.

# Chapter 17

## Holidays and Happenings

Summer was harvest time. The oat crop was the first to be reaped. Some of it was made into hay the remainder harvested for grain bagged and carted to Watraba railway siding. The aim was to finish harvesting the crops by the New Year. Sometimes the weather prevented the scheduled finish of harvest, but dad always managed to stop for New Year's Day at Pt Sinclair.

As soon as harvest was completed as early in January as possible, we did our annual trek to visit Grandpa Freeman in Adelaide 560 miles (900 km) away, a two-day trip. With the car packed to the gunnels we travelled along the corrugated dirt highway, such a slow, bumpy, hot, dusty boring trip; what a relief to reach the bitumen paved road a few miles west of Pt Augusta and travel the rest of the way on a smooth dust free highway.

I loved Toorak Gardens where Grandpa and other relatives and friends lived. St Albyns Avenue was a short pleasant walk to Uncle Stan and Aunty May's lovely home in Grant Avenue and cousin Dawn and her husband Gordon Ditter in nearby Swaine Avenue, all a short walk to the bus stop which went to Adelaide CBD and other suburbs. The buses were all electric; they travelled on designated routes attached to overhead electric wires.

I took great delight when returning to school to tell the kids about these wonderful holidays in Adelaide, it put me in high esteem. In those days a trip to Adelaide was quite rare and only the more affluent families could afford to go, I don't remember any other kids traveling to Adelaide so regular.

We usually stayed overnight with friends or relatives and usually called at my cousin's property. She and her husband couldn't have children and welcomed Roger and me. It was always exciting to stay with other people. I liked to experience and enjoy different lifestyles, but... I was very wary of my cousin's husband. I didn't feel comfortable with the way he looked at me or the way he touched and tickled me in places I didn't like. He too often contrived to get me alone inviting me to go and look at the chooks or the pigs with him. I desperately wanted to check out his farm animals but always refused unless another adult was with us. I felt something wasn't right, I felt I had to be responsible for myself, I felt it was something I couldn't tell mum... how right I was...

Many years later (in my late forties) mum in her organising way arranged for him to meet me at the airport and drive me around when I flew to visit her in Port Lincoln. I found myself fighting off awkward obvious advances from him when we were alone. I told mum, she scoffed and said, "I don't believe you; he has never done it to me!"

What hope and protection would I have had as a child against predators when mum wouldn't believe me even when I as an adult told her about the assaults. I guess I was saved from being seriously assaulted because of the close association the perpetrator had with my parents as well as my shyness and embarrassment to his advances.

I was devastated in 1949 when mum announced, "we won't be going to Adelaide this year, it's not safe".

I couldn't believe beautiful Adelaide 'wasn't safe'. I sulked; it can't be possible I thought.

"There is a terrible disease that people in Adelaide are getting, it paralysis you and you can lose the use of your limbs, so we are not going, we don't want to be exposed to those germs." Mum explained.

I didn't believe that anything in perfect Adelaide could be so terrible. It was Poliomyelitis. We didn't go, probably just as well, though no-one contacted the decease on Eyre Peninsular a lot of people were stricken with it in Adelaide leaving them with withered useless limbs after suffering months of painful treatments and incubation.

Easter was a sacred time for us, Good Friday was like a Sunday, no work no play and church was so sad on this day. I felt depressed as the Minister each year dramatically related the story of Jesus nailed to a cross and paraded through the gathered crowds to be displayed on a hill with two other sinners. How barbaric and humiliating. I would make sure I never sinned. I longed for Sunday when everyone was happy, when Jesus had risen and everyone sang the hymns with gusto. I did wonder how Jesus could possibly have risen when so brutally treated.

The other kids related such exciting tales of what they did over the Easter break and the Easter eggs they enjoyed. The only Easter egg I ever saw was a solid sweet one which occasionally Aunty May sent to us. It was such a treat and lasted for many days if you sucked rather than chewed it. I was held in great esteem at school for having one though I was disappointed I was never allowed to take it to school.

I enjoyed school and found the work easy even though all the kids in my class were nearly a year older, the kids more my age were born later in the year and waited until the following year to start school. I heard mum proudly boasting to their mothers "she is quite able to manage the schoolwork this year!"

As the school years went by, I got lazy, a bit more daring and didn't really try too hard. My report cards were OK, but always reported "Eunice can do better if she applies herself".

All mum and dad's pleading went on deaf ears; I thought 'why should I?'

I was 11 years old in 1951 in grade seven, there were eight kids in the class all twelve years old, as usual I mucked around for most of the year coming seventh or eighths in the tests and term exams. I desperately wanted a marquisette watch for Xmas. Mum assessed my and the other seven kids abilities (remember everyone knows everything about everyone) and she knew there were three of the older kids who were quite clever whom I wouldn't be able to beat, so told me if I came fourth in the last term exam I could have a marquisette watch for Xmas.

WELL... I studied, which was quite easy and surprisingly quite enjoyable. Exam day came, everyone was so nervous, exams never worried me before nor did they this day. I breezed through the exams and waited expectantly for the report cards... as usual my marks for the years effort resulted in 7th place, but... the results for the end of year exam was 4th place. I got the most beautiful marquisate watch for Xmas which I treasured for many years. Mum was pleased with herself; she had proved a point... SO!!

A local dressmaker came to the school every Friday and taught us sewing. I was so bad at sewing, my stitches were too big, knotty, and untidy, even though I knew and liked the teacher, we all did, we didn't enjoy sewing. In grade seven we each made a frock, all sewn by hand. I thought it was okay, but the teacher said the stitching was too slapdash; I wore that frock until it wore out. Mum was proud of it and commented about it to all her friends. I was embarrassed.

Mum having only a total of three years schooling, a few spasmodic months at schools here and there as her family moved around pioneering farmlands, must have been smart because she got to grade seven. She loved reading and attributes her love of books to her education, so encouraged us to read, I loved reading; Roger didn't. Mum bought us many books, religious ones. I would read anything I could get hold of whenever I could and sometimes when I shouldn't. I loved reading so much I thought it was a bad thing, so I would sneak the torch under my blankets at night to read until I fell asleep. I always felt guilty sneaking a book into the front room (parlour) to read while I was supposed to be dusting the furniture, mum must have thought I was giving it a thorough dusting, really it had the quickest fluff through then I'd settle down to read. Mum maintained she was a 'private detective', certainly I knew I could never do a single thing without her finding out. Maybe she did know and because I was reading overlooked punishment. I still felt guilty.

The day I discovered my older cousin's Don and Keith read comics I thought all my Xmas's had come at once, especially when they offered to lend them to me. One big problem; I had to get mum's approval. This took a lot of persuasions; eventually I was allowed selected ones. I could not see why anyone should be banned from reading comics. Phantom was my favorite.

Music was a great source of entertainment, everyone owned a piano or organ or both, we owned both. Many singsongs were enjoyed around the piano or as in our case hymns around the organ. It was wind driven by pumping the bellows built into the base of the organ with your feet; no noise could be made with the keys until sufficient air was pumped into the organ by vigorous foot work.

Mum or Aunty Agnes played the organ for church each week. All the females in mum's family were good strong singers, mum had a natural alto voice and easily harmonised, she often sang duets with Aunty Agnes a soprano, the church services were filled with melodic hymns when they were in the congregation. I loved it because I knew I could make as much noise as I wished during the hymns. I remember mum saying "I keep her quiet with apple pieces during prayers and the sermon, and then I can drown her noise out during the hymns."

Mum taught me the basics of playing the piano then decided to have me taught. There were no qualified music teachers in the area so mum begged those who could play to teach me. Betty Riddle who played for the local dances started me off. I went to her home not far from the school in the lunch hour, and then I transferred to the local Post Mistress Mrs. (Ettie)Harris who though never played in public had a good knowledge of music. I think she only agreed to teach me after a lot of gentle persuasion from mum. Mum told me she was teaching me as a special favor, and I was to try really hard and to always be on my best behavior... or else. The Post Office was not far from the school, so after school I walked to the Post Office to attend lessons; this was on days mum was in Penong for a meeting, shopping etc. I enjoyed these lessons and yes... I was always on my best behavior.

Singing was a natural activity for us; mum sang duets with me at home and in public. I wasn't happy about singing solo in public which mum insisted I must, from an early age she pushed me up on the stage every chance she got. "When you have a voice, you must use it" she would say.

I didn't think I had a voice; mum had squashed my confidence when she caught me 'being vain' singing to myself in her mirror. I lacked confidence and was terribly nervous when performing on stage; I can still hear the shaky trembling notes coming out of my mouth. I was always so embarrassed I knew I could sing better at home.

An annual treat for me, indeed for all the local kids was the Penong Methodist Strawberry Fete organised by the ladies Methodist Guild held in the public hall at the beginning of strawberry seasons October-November before the hottest days of summer. The nearest strawberry farm was 600 miles away, there was no refrigerated transport, the fourteen-hour train journey from Adelaide tested the quality of the strawberries especially if summer had started early, usually the case. With bated breath to see how the strawberries traveled they were unpacked washed and prepared; usually only half that arrived were edible.

One year it was decided no expense would be spared, air freight would be used to fly the strawberries to Ceduna. This proved to be an excellent option, although the freight charges were exorbitant there was little waste, financially the fete prospered, and every-one had their fill of delicious strawberries.

I enjoyed preparing for the fete. There were many categories of stalls; produce, cake, craft, lollies the kids favourite and of course the strawberry stall that specialised in strawberries, ice cream and cream with icing sugar sprinkled over the top.

Guild members were each allocated a stall to manage, with a prize for the 'best decorated stall". I loved helping mum with her allocated stall, but we never won a prize, there were some very artistic ladies who cleverly turned their stall into a spectacle of art. Mum and dad were usually strict about me spending money, but this was the exception I think because all money raised went to the local Methodist church. I milked this opportunity to the max, when mum decided I had had enough money to spend I worked on dad, he was an easy target especially concerning the church, this was the only time in my childhood I was given five pound notes to freely spend, I felt so rich, and also the envy of the other kids until I shared my plates of strawberries and ice cream with them. I ate so many strawberries at the fetes I was happy to not have another strawberry until the next years fete. Strawberries were a luxury for us because apart from being seasonal they weren't a profitable proposition for the local stores to stock, thus the massive success of the fetes.

During the festivities of the fete a concert was organised, any-one with any talent and enough cheek was expected to perform, of course mum insisted I must sing a solo, I tried to convince her I didn't have the talent or the cheek, she wouldn't hear of it, "if you have a talent you must use it." I embarrassingly dutifully performed my solo thinking it was a small price to pay for unlimited five-pound notes, a tummy overloaded with lollies, strawberries, ice cream and popularity with the kids.

Another annual event I looked forward to each year was Harold Raymond's concert party which traveled from Adelaide performing concerts along the way. Harold Raymond a violinist was totally blind; all profits from the concerts went to Brighton House a school for the blind in Adelaide. The locals always supported a good cause, besides the concerts were so entertaining and enjoyable. The supporting acts were of a high standard as was Harold himself, he had a wonderful personality which projected from the stage; he made his violin talk cleverly entertaining the audience with his skillful playing singing and lengthy conversations between his violin and himself. I thought it was the best concert ever; it was the only professional travelling concert to travel to Penong.

Tickets for the concert were posted to the school well before the concert date; kids who wanted to partake were given tickets to sell with the highest ticket seller getting a prize from Harold himself on the stage during the concert.

Meeting Harold was a big incentive for me to excel with ticket selling which I did with mum's help and co-operation. Tickets were easy to sell every-one wanted to go to the concert, the trick was getting to the buyers before the other kids, this is where mum's strategies worked wonders. I always managed to sell many more tickets than any-one else.

I reveled in being called up on stage to be congratulated and have a chat with Mr. Raymond and his violin. The prize was an autograph book which I proudly showed off while getting every-one to write in it.

The next year the prize was also an autograph book, it seemed this was the standard prize, so one year whilst receiving the accolades from him on stage I told him I had previously received autograph books "Oh!" he exclaimed "we must do something about that!" he beckoned to his guide and a lovely necklace was presented to me instead, how special I thought even though I was chastised by mum for speaking up. I was glad I did.

I still have the autograph books with entries in it dating from as far back as the forties.

Penong wasn't a location people preferred to live; the only new folks that moved to Penong were those that were posted usually against their wishes at the beginning of their careers such as church ministers, policemen and school teachers. They arrived in Penong very forlorn at being sent to such a remote desolate area but newcomers soon settled in embracing the welcoming friendliness of the community as they in turn each contributed with their specialist knowledge and skills and without fail the farewell social for each person was an emotional affair; they didn't want to leave nor did the community want them to leave and in some cases they married a local becoming Penong-ites.

Living in such a remote area necessitated the locals to develop their natural skills which Dad did, he was a Jack of all trades putting his hand to whatever task was called for; he had no choice if he was to run a successful farm. Someone usually excelled and became the 'more experienced' self-taught person in a field and found through demand they were the 'specialist' whose advice and help was often sought. Hairdressers, dressmakers, vets, motor mechanics, blacksmiths etc. emerged from the scant population.

Dad relied on a self-taught motor mechanic whom he trusted more so than Uncle Stan's accredited mechanics and told uncle so, what he didn't tell him was that he had to be sure his mechanic was sober whilst doing the job, even so dad spoke highly of our self-taught local's mechanical skills.

Mum always prided herself on 'foresight'. She had no patience with anyone who didn't use 'foresight', so when I was in grade four because all dads' family had attended the Methodist Colleges in Adelaide, girls MLC, and boys PAC she applied to enroll me in MLC as a boarder. To her amazement there were no vacancies; to get into MLC one had to be enrolled at birth. This really dented mum's pride, enrolling me too late to be accepted.

There was no higher education available in Penong, where would I go to high school? Although Ceduna was a few hours travel time from the farm, mum asked different friends in Ceduna if I could board with them during the week to attend the high school, no-one seemed keen, I thought 'who would want to take in the immature coddled 12 year old kid of Cliff and Ivy Freeman?'

Mum then decided I was really too young to live away from home, so there was no alternative than for me to do grade seven again at Penong, bearing in mind I would then be in a class of kids my own age, six of us. Mum expected me to do well as I was revising the previous year's work.

This was a lazy year for me though one other girl Glenda and I would battle it out for top marks. I didn't care, but it was a battle of the mums. Remember everyone knows everyone. Mum expected me to beat Glenda, when I did her mother reminded mum that I had an unfair advantage having already completed year seven, mum would remind her that we were both the same age so that negated any advantage. Glenda's work ethics and results probably kept me as astute as I ever was during my whole schooling. _Glenda and I had mind games remembering facts of the past right up until she passed. I respected her memory and intelligence._

Poo Hump, our 'tranny' driver was clever at woodwork. He crafted varnished wooden pencil cases with dove tailed joints and a slide out top, large enough to hold all our writing equipment. I so admired these cases which he had made for most of the older girls in the school. I was mystified because he had never made me one. Poo Hump still conducted the church Sunday service in the absence of the Reverend Minister so I thought because he had such a close connection through the church with mum and dad, I should have been his priority. I had asked him many times to make me a pencil case, he always replied "when you are older."

I felt 'very old' doing my second year in grade seven, so I badgered him again. Finally, he agreed to make me a pencil case; I was elated and looked forward to it very much. I proudly bragged to other kids and was mystified as to why they sniggered and giggled. The relevance of sitting next to him in the 'tranny' didn't register with me.

Poo Hump seemed to take ages in making the longed-for pencil case, after still more badgering the day came when he said it was finished and I could collect it. I thought he could simply give it to me at church but no, he was very meticulous about when and where I would receive my prized pencil case.

It was to be the Friday of a church social, this night I was allowed a sleepover with Glenda whose family also attended the Methodist church. I expected Poo Hump to bring my pencil case to the social... NO...

"You must come to my home in your lunch break and collect it, and don't tell anyone."

This posed a problem to me as we had to have permission from our parents and teacher to leave the school yard, which my parents never allowed. I begged with him to "bring it to the social that night."

"No if you want it you must come in your lunch hour."

I was so desperate for this pencil case I decided to make up a story to the teacher as why I had to go to the shop in my lunch hour. I felt very bold and excited walking the short distance to his home from the school. When I knocked on his door a strange voice which didn't sound like Poo said "come in!"

I entered the darkened one roomed building, at first I couldn't see anyone, then I saw Poo laying on the bed which I thought was strange.

I asked "are you alright?"

"Yes!"

"Where is my pencil case?"

"You must pay me first" I was mortified

"But I haven't any money"

"Don't worry! Just a kiss will do"

In a stunned state I walked to his bed bent over to give him a kiss... and he pulled me onto the bed with him.

I froze in a state of shock.

I lay perfectly still in his arms as he pressed me against his body. I was scared.

Whatever had come over the lovely kind man I knew? He ran his hand up and down my leg getting higher and higher until his fingers were caressing under the elastic of my bloomers all the whilst making strange panting noises. I was stiff with fear.

As his fingers got nearer my 'privates' I boldly said "I have to go now."

"Yes, but you won't tell anyone about this, it can be our secret" he whispered as he nuzzled my ear and let me go.

I quickly sprang out of that bed.

"Where is my pencil case?"

He pointed to where it was, I grabbed it and RAN...

When I arrived back at school clinging to the pencil case I was greeted by kids hanging over the fence cheekily asking "Did you pay him?" _giggle giggle._

How shameful I felt. How was I going to tell mum and dad?

That night I went to the sleepover straight from school so didn't see mum and dad till later at the social. I told them I had the pencil case, mum asked "What did it cost?"

"Just a kiss."

Luckily much to my surprise that was the only time mum ever mentioned it. About 50 years later I tried to gently tell her what happened.

"No! I don't believe it, he wouldn't do that!"

What hope did children have against pedophiles in those days?

All the kids at school were friends with each other, off and on; there was a firm bond between all the kids in our grade seven class, especially Glenda and Glenys and me. Glenys and her family lived at Kowalka, a railway siding near the gypsum fields not far from our farm. Glenys's father transported gypsum from the gypsum field works to open carriages at the railway siding in a big old Mac truck. Glenys and I were also allowed sleep overs because her mum was an active Methodist Guild member and occasionally the family attended the church services. I loved sleeping over at her home because her mother was a good cook, she cooked dishes I had never heard of and they were always delicious. One stop-over I asked what we were having for tea, one of the vegetables was sweed.

"I don't like sweed!"

"You will like it the way mum does it!"

I did; it was mashed to a creamy puree with pure farm made butter and pepper added. YUMMY _._ I still prepare my sweed and turnip that way, though now we must make do with bought butter or margarine and it isn't quite the same.

I much preferred sleeping over at other homes, rather than they sleep at mine, it was a huge embarrassment for me to have my friends experience the praying ritual our family did on Sunday mornings. I would try to avoid the embarrassment by getting up after dad had finished breakfast and was out doing his chores, while mum seemed determined to get us out of bed for a family breakfast and prayers which us kids were expected to partake of. It was a battle of wits which I seldom won. It was such an embarrassment for me.

The bonding I made with all the kids during my schooldays hasn't changed over the years. It is quite incredible that when we meet now-a-days we all feel the exact same bonding as we felt at school back in the forties even though for many years we never saw each other as we moved along our different paths raising our families and establishing businesses and securing our futures. Now in our latter years it is wonderful to have the time to renew these acquaintances, it's as if time has stood still. Time doesn't change the feelings of relationships developed in the early years of life.

In the week leading up to 27th July 1952 mum asked what I thought were odd questions.

"Are the kids at school talking about a party?

"Are any of the kids going anywhere special on 27th?"

I realised they were, and wouldn't tell me where, I felt alienated by this slight towards me. I wondered why, when I told mum, she seemed pleased and smug, I thought she should have been concerned I was being shunned, something strange was happening and it worried and puzzled me, even more so when after school on 27th of July mum wasn't her usual domineering self, instead she was edgy and uncertain.

We had an earlier than normal sparse tea which was strange.

Why didn't we have a proper tea?

The kitchen was quickly cleaned and tidied up more so than usual, and to my utmost surprise instead of getting into our pajamas and going to bed before dark, we all dressed in our best clothes and Roger and myself were allowed to stay up.

This very unusual break from the everyday routine was cause for alarm to me, I knew something BIG was about to happen, but no explanations would mum give.

We sat around the kitchen table, mum and dad acting out of character, very strange for them, obviously way out of their comfort zone.

After mum disappearing outside a few times she came in very smugly saying "there is a line of cars coming in here."

I raced outside to see a trail of about twenty car lights driving through our paddocks. I was still concerned "Why?"

I asked mum, but wonder of wonders she was struck dumb, I now realise she was so overcome she couldn't talk.

The cars all parked around our house amid cheers of "Happy Silver Wedding Anniversary!"

The penny then dropped it was twenty five years since mum and dad married and this was to be a surprise party for them.

It was a lovely casual night with lots of cups of tea and country cooked food provided by our guests. I was allowed to stay up and play with the kids from school who reveled in surprising me if not mum and dad.

I remember this night as a highlight of those years because it was a rare spontaneous happy event for me.

Mum proudly stated "They can't put anything over me, I am a private detective!"

This surprise 'Silver Wedding' party was similar to 'Tin Kettling' parties. I loved these surprise parties even though we seldom went to them much to my bitter disappointment.

'Tin Kettling' was a traditional surprise party for newlyweds after their honeymoon as they settled into their new home. Keeping the date a secret was the big issue, the surprise element was the aim as friends and family descended on the newlyweds beating and clanging tins and drums making a horrific din announcing the housewarming party was beginning. As happened in the country friends and family brought all the necessities for the party. It was an event all reveled in... except us. Mum's excuse "It's too late at night for you, you will be too cranky tomorrow."

I now realise if alcohol was there it would be a definite No No to attend and they knew the 'drinkers'.

Mum was a stickler for tradition, routine and rigid rules; she was basically stoic and had no tolerance with folks who had no _foresight_ or _gumption._ Mum seldom laughed, she never joked she was a very sober minded person. Dad on the other hand was an extroverted joker, people who didn't know him thought he was drunk but he wasn't, never one sip of alcohol passed his lips, he even resisted taking a hot toddy of medicinal brandy mum offered him when on rare occasions he had an upset stomach. Dad loved nothing more than being the centre of attention and to take control of the conversation, in mum's words "hold forth".

Dad loved to make people laugh, he related true happenings in such an exaggerated form I was in awe of his imagination, mum obviously wasn't.

"You do stretch things so Cliff."

When dad got 'wound up' and related humorous stories (he never told jokes) mum quipped

"Stop acting the goat Cliff." or "Act your age Cliff."

I loved my dad especially in his jovial mood.

August 18th.1950, I was ten years old; through 'the bush telegraph' we received the terrible news of Colin's death. Colin my treasured cousin was just 15, he was in a nasty accident. Colin was an exceptional boy, a well-behaved studious scholar and good at all sports excelling in football. Uncle Will lived on his farm near ours while Aunty Ethel lived in a converted shed on their block in Ceduna with Colin so he could attend Ceduna Area School. His football team was playing at Mudamuckla, east of Ceduna, Aunty gave permission for Colin to travel with the team to play at Mudamuckla.

The team of young men and boys traveled on the back of an open truck, it had been raining, the roads were slippery; the driver of the truck lost control, the truck rolled over...

Colin and his best mate were killed... instantly. All the others survived.

I arrived home from school this day to find mum in a terrible state, she had been waiting for me so she could proceed with 'the bush telegraph'. We got in the car and drove through our paddocks to Uncle Cyril's farm. Aunty Vera and cousin Ruby were the only ones at home, I remember witnessing mum relating the tragedy to them with much hushed whisperings and "Oh dear me! No! No!" I knew their son Keith would be upset as they were the same age and great pals.

Mum offered to continue 'the bush telegraph' to the next property the Stiggants. Aunty Agnes was the only one home, amid many more tears and hushed whisperings the sad news was told. Don, the only Stiggants cousin still living at home would also feel the loss even though he was six years older than Colin; they were good mates.

No-one could believe Colin was dead.

I couldn't believe Colin was dead.

The next day I continued 'the bush telegraph' trail to school.

Even though Colin lived in Ceduna, because of his popularity every-one knew of him. It was a sad day at school.

The written Eulogy of the late Colin Curtis Cooper........

_Colin Cooper whose tragic and untimely death occurred near Ceduna on August 18_ th _, 1950 was the only child of Mr. & Mrs. Will Cooper of Ceduna. He was born on May 30_th _, 1936, at the old B.C.A. Hospital Ceduna, which was formerly the residence of Mr. Coventry._

As a small boy he had a friendly manner and was a general favorite.

At the age of three he suffered a mysterious sickness and was desperately ill, but the medical skill and persistence of the late Dr. R.W. Gibson and the B.C.A sisters eventually triumphed.

The second twelve months of his life was spent at Renmark & Loxton, and at the age of four and a half years he moved with his parents to Whyalla where they lived under primitive condition, he contracted several ailments, including pleurisy, pneumonia and whooping cough. Colin bore these illnesses with unusual patience and fortitude.

At the age of six Colin commenced his education at the Whyalla Catholic Kindergarten, and later transferred to the public school where he quickly became popular with both schoolmates and teachers. He attended Penong School in 1945 and commenced at the Ceduna School in 1946. He displayed outstanding ability as a scholar and had a stabilizing influence on his classmates. Of an observant nature and with a retentive memory, lessons presented no difficulty to Colin, who was frequently top of his grade.

His pleasant appearance and engaging manner won him many friends of all ages, denominations, and races.

Among many touching tributes were those from the Streaky Bay school children, the Ceduna school children, the Greek Community and the Kooniba Mission Football Club.

Colin's mature and virile mind gave the impression that he was much older than his years.

He was a keen philatelist, having an excellent collection of stamps. An omnivorous reader, he read many newspapers, magazines and educational books, and continually thirsted for knowledge. He could converse intelligently on a wide variety of subjects.

Colin was secretary/treasurer of the Ceduna Youth Club, in which he had a great interest. He attended the Methodist church.

A natural letter writer, Colin had pen friends in ten different countries.

He had part time employment with several business houses in Ceduna and was always planning for his future education.

In sport Colin was a prominent member of the school-boys' football team. He also showed promise at golf, was an excellent swimmer and was runner-up in the junior section of the Ceduna Easter tennis tournament. He was a member of the Ceduna men's football club, playing several games last year and again this season. He rarely missed a practice evening or lecture. The young lad also showed promise in foot-running and was looking forward with great enthusiasm to coming sporting fixtures.

Colin's death brought to an end a most promising young life and ended a comradeship with his parents that were as near perfect as could be.

The day of the funeral I didn't go to school, the sadness of the situation overrode any pleasure of having a rare day off school. The funeral attended by many people was an incredibly sad occasion held under a lot of tension, I could feel it. Later I learnt that Colin had been decapitated.

Uncle Will and Aunty Ethel were at logger heads over the funeral procedure, viewing the body etc. etc. Saddest of all, until the day Uncle died he blamed Aunty for Colin's death, he claimed if he had been in Ceduna he would not have allowed Colin to travel in a crowded open truck, and nor should have Aunty allowed it. They became even more reclusive than they previously were. Uncle eventually sold the farm to Mr. and Mrs. Oats and moved to their modest shed/home at Ceduna. Oats's owned the adjoining farm to the east and also had an only child Bill the same age as Colin and good mates.

Soon after, not wanting to stay in Ceduna with so many memories Uncle and Aunty sold and moved to Pt. Lincoln where they bought a block at Kirton Point on which uncle built another shed making it a comfortable though humble home.

# Chapter 18

## Life Lessons in Isolation

Life on the farm naturally involved learning about _'the birds and the bees"_ but I didn't.

I never saw an animal mating or giving birth. I had no idea how or why it happened.

No wonder the kids at school made me feel inferior and ignorant. I of course had seen sheep trying to mount each other, but pointing this strange phenomenon out to mum I was curtly told "they are just piggy backing."

I was starved for different entertainments and found watching the flies inside our wood paned kitchen screen door amusing, there were plenty; often I saw one fly on top of the other "Oh mum look! The flies are piggy backing."

I never understood why she wasn't as enthralled as me over this discovery, instead she opened the door and shooed them outside.

During my primary school years mum dutifully instructed me on "things you must learn in case one day in an emergency you may need to do it."

Oh my! I am growing up I thought, mum is teaching me _adult things._ I understood the isolation we lived in, no near neighbours, no phones or communication.

The first lesson when I was about seven years old was driving the car.

"In case I have an accident and am not able to drive, you must drive to Uncle Cyril's through the paddocks and they will help" mum explained.

She drove me in the Vauxhall out to the centre of the paddock and taught me the basics of driving. I could barely reach the pedals and found it difficult to take off without massive kangaroo hops or stalling the engine, after many trials and mum's patience wearing thin I could at least keep the car moving, but then another huge hurdle awaited me... changing the gears, four on the floor plus a reverse which was difficult to engage especially with no control over the clutch because I couldn't comfortably reach it, and woe betide me if I grated the gears. I had trouble coordinating the pedals and gears without terrible crunching sounds which I was informed would wreck the car. I just could not imagine I would ever be able to drive let alone in traffic it was a bad enough experience for me in a bare 250-acre paddock.

Mum lost patience with me, I desperately hoped I would never be required to drive in an emergency and certainly I hoped I would never have to reverse. The whole experience was traumatic, especially as I had never previously been allowed to do anything other than childish games with no responsibility involved, it was all too much. Fortunately, my emergency services were never needed.

The second lesson wasn't so bad, learning to handle rifles and shooting accurately at targets. Although guns were a necessity and a natural part of remote farm life, guns for children were a big No-No. They were strictly out of bounds. I dared not touch one of our guns, now I was expected to learn to use one which I found daunting, it was a big turn-around for me to grasp and a huge responsibility. Mum taught me how to safely handle our 202 rifle, stressing the barrel must always be pointed to the ground even when unloaded.

"Especially when unloaded" she said "too many people are shot with an _unloaded_ rifle."

How true that has proven to be, there were many shooting accidents through bad habits and carelessness, fortunately none I was ever involved in. I made sure I handled the gun with great caution and mum made sure I was always alone when handling the gun. I was never allowed to show my expertise to friends. "You'd 'show off' and that's when accidents happen."

I became quite a good shot, so mum allowed me to shoot troublesome crows and galahs. These birds were in plague proportion eating the grain crops and eggs. Not only did shooting abate some of the birds it also acted as a scaring tool, so the numbers depleted somewhat. Mum also told me if necessary, the rifle could be used in self-defense, but only in very extreme circumstances.

"Never shoot to kill, you can be tried for murder if you kill someone, always aim at the legs, this will maim them and you will be able to run away from the perpetrator and you can only be tried for manslaughter not murder."

I have never forgotten these warnings she so strongly stressed to me.

The penalty for murder was execution in those days.

I often think the current Police Force should have had mum training them in self-defense, "aim for the legs"

The third lesson was catching, killing and cleaning poultry and rabbits. We slaughtered all our own meat. Dad killed and cleaned the big beasts, mum butchered them. I was never allowed to witness the actual killing of the beast, but I watched dad clean them and mum butcher them. I was sure I had watched enough to be able to do it myself as I got stronger.

Mum said I had to learn to prepare the poultry we reared on the farm, she was very particular about the killing of the poultry, she had it down to a fine art, other ladies talked of shooting them, mum scoffed at such a notion, she cut off their heads, but it had to be in one accurate fell. Though mum had taught me how to hold the chook; by the legs with its wings securely gripped with the legs rendering the chook immobile while the axe swiftly felled and neatly severed the head I was a dismal failure. Mum allowed me to attempt the kill just once, I made such a terrible effort she forbade me to do it again, I wasn't strong enough to hold the wings tight with the legs or able to wield a sharp enough axe fell, mum was angry with inhumane treatment of the chook as well as both of us being showered with blood. I never attempted to kill a chook again; but I had to pluck and clean it, a regular job as it was our second staple meat after mutton.

Rabbits were our third staple meat, they were a pest on the farm eating the crops, grains and pasture so there were always plenty to be caught consequently rabbit was the first staple meat for town folks and those who didn't own a farm. Catching rabbits was quite an involved procedure, firstly the traps must be serviced and working smoothly, my job was to cut neat squares of newspaper used to keep the dirt out of the steel trap jaws, they were placed on the trap jaws of the carefully opened set trap, covered with a thin layer of dirt and placed on the track at the entrance of the rabbit hole. When the rabbit stood on the concealed paper covered trap it snapped shut. The rabbit was held by the trap which was pegged securely in the ground until we did the rounds. Mum was strict about regularly inspecting the traps; she was horrified to learn other people weren't regularly inspecting their traps.

These traps are not used anymore in fact they are now illegal.

Mum taught me how to wring the rabbit's neck to quickly kill it then peel the skin off the body toward the head, then chop off the skin and head in one fell with the axe, it was okay for me to chop a rabbits head off it was dead having just had its neck wrung. Cleaning the gut out was quite easy and soon the freshly killed rabbit was ready for the pot.

Foxes were a huge nuisance on the farm, they killed the lambs as they were born, they killed chooks, not just to feed themselves but for fun. A favorite pastime for the men and teenage boys, especially my cousins was 'foxing'. Kangaroo dogs (Greyhounds) were kept and trained specifically for 'foxing'. Only on rare occasions before I became a teenager was I allowed to go 'foxing' with them.

Foxing was only successful on dark nights with no moonlight. It involved a fast ute driven by some-one who knew the paddock terrain very well, usually the owner, a strong spotlight and one or two dogs. The ute was driven around the paddocks without headlights with two guys in the back of the ute, one holding the spotlight and one holding the dogs, a very experienced guy could hold both the spotlight and one dog. When the guy with the spotlight saw a fox (their eyes shone yellow in the spot light) he banged twice on the roof of the cabin, this notified the driver a fox was in the spot light, the fox usually turned and ran with the ute giving chase getting as close as possible. The dogs knew and grew very excited, when the handler let them go they bounded off towards the light and the fox. As the dogs were released one bang on the cabin roof indicated the driver to stop chasing allowing the dogs to take over the chase and avoid running over the dogs.

Occasionally the eyes in the spotlight were a green colour, when this was detected a single bang on the ute roof indicated stop, the eyes belonged to a cat. The dogs were restrained because cats had the ability to do much damage to a dog with their sharp claws.

No guns were allowed when dogs were used, no chances were taken with the dogs it would be too easy to accidently shoot a dog in the excitement of the chase. My cousins often went foxing and invited me knowing I really enjoyed this dangerous outing but I was only allowed if dad went along too, he only allowed 'foxing' on our farm when the foxes became too troublesome even then he restricted the dangerous aspect of the chase consequently many foxes escaped. I didn't like dad coming foxing with us, it wasn't as much fun.

Occasionally a dog got hurt and had to be destroyed, this was always sad but if a working dog couldn't perform a single bullet was the solution. There were no Vets, no vaccinations, no medical treatments; all animal ailments were handled with consultation with other farmers through their experiences. The most usual treatment for bad cases was a bullet, no qualms, there was no choice.

Later years when I lived in Adelaide I couldn't believe the treatment care and attention given to animals by Vets... and the exorbitant expense.

Mum also taught me about prevention of bush fires and 'burning off'. It was important to prevent bush fires on the farm, water was very scarce, so firefighting consisted of making fire breaks thus containing the fires. Prevention was only necessary if the previous winter season was productive because of normal rainfall otherwise there was no growth and nothing to burn.

Mum was paranoid about keeping the paddocks around the house bare, either through running stock on them to eat the growth or 'burning off'. Burning off days were carefully selected by the temperature and wind direction. Mum instructed dad where to plough to make fire breaks. Two parallel lines of newly turned dirt a few yards apart allowed a 'burn off' in between the strategically ploughed lines, then the wind gently took the fire in the direction mum planned. To prevent the fire escaping all hands were on deck equipped with wet wheat bags and shovels, the firefighting tools for that era. Roger and I had to yell out real loud if the fire jumped the fire break and dad would be there to contain it with a shovel. Wind changes occasionally caused fires to escape and become dangerous but never one mum had lit or supervised. **"You must have foresight."**

I remember when mum was well into her eighties and living in the retirement village in Ceduna I went with her to the farm; after lunch she announced "The weather and wind is just right, think I'll burn that patch of dead grass off in that paddock."

I was aghast but Roger just grinned. I guess he knew it was no point telling her not to, she would do it anyway. She gathered a rake and wet wheat bag and so lit the fire which was a disused garden area with a lot of dry growth fueled from the grey water of the house in a fenced enclosure. Roger wasn't concerned, so I wasn't either, but I was gob smacked. I watched as she strategically lit the fire so as the wind blew the fire back on itself avoiding it 'escaping, ' and her chosen wind direction blew the billows of smoke away from the house. I think she enjoyed the challenge and was well pleased with herself over "a job well done!"

Living in such an isolated area folks learned by trial and error to be multi skilled, there were no qualified tradesman within cooee and only basic tradesmen at Ceduna. Most farmers were self-taught 'Jack of all Trades' though there was little call for plumbers and electricians as the electricity and plumbing was basic, electricity for those who could afford it was 32 volt and plumbing -a pipe from the sinks out the wall into a drain.

Dad could pretty much make and fix anything on the farm. I loved to watch him making things in his blacksmith workshop and felt so privileged when he allowed me to accompany him whilst he worked because he had very little patience always concentrating on getting the job done: and fast. He couldn't be bothered with any hindrances or distractions, so it was an honour to be allowed in his blacksmith shop when he was working with the forge.

I loved watching him as from the large heap of scrap iron he heated selected pieces in the crude forge he had fashioned from a 44gallon drum. The drum half filled with rocks to weight it down then topped with coal had a homemade bellows apparatus inserted into the drum's side which had to be manually turned as fast as possible to keep the coal fire burning to get the coals all red hot. I liked to think I was 'helping dad' and indeed I felt very important when he let me turn the handle but I was rather miffed when he'd order me out the way and took over turning the handle at an alarming pace. I watched as the coal became redder and redder as he vigorously turned the handle until the coals were all red hot as well as the iron dad was working on. It was amasing to see a solid piece of iron gleaming red with heat and dad shaping it on the anvil with his large mettle hammers, he had to work quickly before the iron lost its brilliant colour as it cooled and lost pliability, then the forge had to be fired up again to reheat the iron to a red hot workable state and so on until dad had moulded the iron to the desired shape. Dad made many of the farm tools and hardware by this method.

Dad was very vigilant when I was with him in the workshop and rightly so, a young school friend when with her father in his blacksmith shop tried to climb up the forge drum and pulled the whole forge over spilling the hot coals onto herself, she was dreadfully burnt. It was a disastrous accident which called for community involvement and support and the flying doctor expertise. This lass spent many painful months in hospital, though very scarred she eventually returned to school and continued with her life engulfed by the love and support of the whole community. I can remember feeling so much admiration for her having endured so much pain and trauma then bravely returning to school her young body covered in unsightly scarring but her natural grace, manner and confidence put us all at ease. This nasty accident affected the whole of our community; we all felt so much empathy for this lovely family.

Dad was capable at everything he put his hand to and firefighting was no exception; he also worked hard to prevent bush fires throughout the whole district. Dad a very active swarthy person had no patience with idlers or ' _wasters'_ as he called them, he worked hard rushing everywhere, on the farm he pedaled a rusted old pushbike between sheds and the house to 'save time'. Folks told him to slow down asking if he ever rested.

"Yes! When I am riding the bike I am sitting down."

Dad had enormous energy and determination, he maintained "hard work never killed anyone, but worry killed thousands."

I was ten years old when mum very formally delivered the most embarrassing lesson for both of us. It came about when Cousin Perce's wife gave birth to twins, one was stillborn giving mum the opportunity to talk about babies and how they were born, then she told me about 'a girl's curse' every month. I listened to her explanation of babies growing in the tummy. I was so shocked I never thought or dared to ask her any questions. I felt this discussion was such a sombre taboo topic I could never discuss it further with mum. I worried about how the babies got out of the tummy and more mystified how they got in the tummy. I sincerely hoped one wouldn't suddenly grow in my tummy but assured myself it only happened to married people, "whew!"

It never occurred to me there was any association with babies and 'piggy backing'.

Mum told me the curse on girls happened every month.

"And because you are now ten years old it could happen to you at any time."

It was upsetting for me especially because she said I wouldn't be able to swim, wash my hair or do energetic exercise. I was mortified; I couldn't imagine not being able to do things I loved to do. I wondered how other girls coped.

I was even more mortified when mum showed me the square bulky cloth pads she'd made, these pads were folded to form a long rectangular pad kept in place by an elastic waist band with safety pins attached, but worst of all she said they had to be washed and reused. I felt sick at the thought of the whole process.

I think this is where my carefree innocent life changed, the worry of growing up lay heavy on my heart. This sombre conversation presented more questions than answers. I worried as to how babies got into the tummy after you married and how they got out? My infantile young mind simply couldn't comprehend how this could possibly happen. I assumed babies just happened to get in your tummy and they were cut out, there could be no other way, on daring to question mum she gave me a book that "explained all about growing up."

I excitedly settled to read this book not only to find out about 'growing up' but simply to read a new book; I was over reading books with moral messages and religious content.

My excitement was short lived I found this book too difficult to understand, the medical terms, the foreign (to me) words and the weird diagrams didn't make any sense. I never learnt a thing from that very adult book about 'growing up'.

I remained an innocent child though a content one. I was still a child in every aspect. I lived in a closeted protected world, this 'growing up' was shattering my life.

At the end of my second year in grade seven, I was still twelve years old, the problem still wasn't solved, where do I do my higher education? School leaving age was fourteen, I needed to spend another year at school until I turned fourteen the following February. College wasn't an option anymore.

It was decided I go to Pt Lincoln High School 240 miles away. I had no idea what to expect in fact I don't think I expected anything, I expected my life to continue the same as usual. I hoped I wouldn't 'grow up'.

I had never been away from mum and dad and barely left on my own at all so I had no notions there could be a different form of daily routine.

High School Days

1953

#  Chapter 19

## Living away from home

Mum and dad considered the Bush Church Aid (BCA) girls only hostel run by the Church of England at Pt. Lincoln suitable for me to live while attending high school. Miss Beck the matron was known to mum and dad, so after conferring with the matron they decided to send me to Pt Lincoln for my year eight schooling in 1953.

It was exciting for me buying clothes and items on the list supplied by the hostel. Apart from the usual necessities and compulsory school navy blue serge box pleated uniforms and six pair of thick navy-blue bloomers we were allowed one going out frock. Mum allowed me to choose the fabric and style of the `going out' frock. I chose gaudy blue silky fabric with a bold black floral pattern featuring a wide frill around the neckline, and full gathered skirt which a local dressmaker made up for me; I thought it was lovely.

The bloomers which mum made were the usual very bulky with longish elasticised legs, terrible to wash and dry. The tailored serge school uniform was worn well below the knee tied at the waist with a belt, it had to be professionally dry cleaned so it was of paramount importance we were careful to keep the uniform clean. Our sports uniform was also a box pleated uniform, the same style as our school uniform also worn well below the knee, made of cotton requiring tedious starching and ironing.

A few weeks before school started our family drove to Pt Lincoln towing the caravan making a holiday of the trip. We parked our van in Uncle Will and Aunty Ethel yard only two blocks from the hostel, it was comforting for me to know they would be living nearby I had never been away from mum and dad and felt shy and insecure. I thought I was so grown up living in a hostel away from home, not realising the ramifications of how immature protected and innocent I was.

The stately original home of the hostel at the front of the block overlooked Boston Bay, an impressive home with unrestricted sea views containing Miss Beck's rooms, the living / dining areas and kitchen areas. A basic three roomed cottage at the rear of the block converted to dormitory style accommodation was the junior girls sleeping area, a large bathroom attached to the building had three showers and three hand basins in a large open room with no partitioning whatsoever, this was humiliating for me as I was very bashful about my body or anybody's body, my rigid upbringing didn't include nudity in our home, I had never seen a naked body or considered exposing any part of my body. I had been taught modesty and privacy was paramount.

Adjacent to the original home was a tennis court also with sea views with a new long prefabricated dormitory directly behind for the senior girls. I thought they were so lucky to be living in such lovely new quarters. There were about thirty girls living in the hostel sixteen in each building, I was the youngest and by far the most immature.

Arriving at the hostel I was so overcome with all the people coming and going, families saying their emotional goodbyes, mine dumping me with no fuss and leaving... and so many girls oozing with pizzazz and confidence.

All the girls' families lived on Eyre Peninsular and most of the girls knew each other. I was in a dorm with five other new year eight girls who quickly organised themselves into the bed they wanted, I took the bed that was left, the one no-one wanted. It was in the middle of the room with no privacy, no nearby drawers or wardrobe. I didn't mind, I was away from home being independent.

Most of the new girls knew an older girl who already lived at the hostel and well settled. I knew of one of the senior girls, a school Prefect, she was the eldest of four daughters of Chaddy (the pilot). Although we didn't know each other very well I felt a bit protected with her presence, she was much older and could not be a bosom pal but she was a lovely girl and it was comforting for me to know she was there and it gave me a smidgen of prestige 'knowing one of the prefects.'

On arrival everyone was excited to be seeing all their old classmates again, the new ones chatting to each other. I was in awe of all this show of emotions and felt inadequate with nothing to offer but stunned silence. After they had unpacked amid a lot of ooos and rrrrs and checked out the new clothes especially the 'best dress' that each had brought, they turned to me "let's have a look at yours".

After witnessing all their new grown up clothes I was feeling very inferior with my case of new belongings of which I had been so proud of when packing. I tried to quietly unpack and hide all my young sensible childish things, especially my new frock which I as an immature twelve-year-old had proudly chosen. Reluctantly I watched as they looked through my things, very relieved when no fun was made of anything especially my new frilled child frock; in fact, they had the grace to say "oh this is nice."

January 1953 still 12 years old ready to start Pt Lincoln High School

We weren't allowed to have unsupervised money. Our parents supplied Miss Beck with a sum of money for her to give us in limited allocated amounts each week to cover personal items. The girls all complained about the allowance not being enough and Miss Beck "being stingy". I didn't think she was I always had enough money to buy all the necessities I wanted including a Kitchener bun every day, a little luxury. Miss Beck never refused me money when I asked her to buy something specific, it may have been I never asked for unnecessary purchases and also I think mum and dad made sure they supplied plenty of funds for my necessities.

I had received a shiny brand-new bicycle for Xmas which was my mode of transport to and from school; this gave me a certain amount of independence. Only a few girls had bikes, the others used buses. Some girls were not allowed to travel by push bike; I don't think they could be trusted without supervision, not the road safety aspect... but who they met up with!!!!!

I soon discovered boys were of great interest to most of the girls which was highly discouraged and frowned upon by hostel rules. I couldn't believe how the girls behaved when boys were around, and there were lots of boys hovering.

What an education those first few weeks were. Early every morning Miss Beck barged through our dormitory with a large bell ringing it loudly until everyone was awake, then a mad rush to the bathroom, first in had the hottest water while others queued watching and urging "hurry up and don't use all the hot water".

I wasn't used to showering and certainly not every day, we didn't own a shower at home, nor did we have the water for such a luxury, the weekly bath and daily good wash was made to do. I enjoyed being able to shower every day indeed more than once a day if I wanted to. I tried to get up early every morning before the rush to have my shower and some privacy, also to enjoy not being hurried along by a queue of impatient waiting girls.

I had never seen a naked body especially an adult body as some of the girls were. I could not believe what I was seeing, pubic hair and developed breasts was a big shock to me... would I ever have that sort of a body?

I was even more amazed to see girls take off their bloodied sanitary pads still attached with safety pins to the elastic belts which held them in place, although mum told me about 'periods' it was a massive shock to have it so openly graphically displayed. I still had the body and mentality of a young girl and yet to menstruate. I was the only girl at the hostel who hadn't menstruated, even though they told me I was lucky it was still humiliating. I felt so young ignorant and inadequate.

Miss Beck allocated jobs to everyone. She was the sole adult at the hostel and had to have co-operation from the girls to look after thirty teenage girls efficiently. The older girls helped with the meals on a roster system with the younger girls doing the dishes, we all had jobs to do and if not done properly we were soon told by either Miss Beck or other girls. Miss Beck really did a good job managing the hostel and the girls, sometimes she was very grumpy, but usually okay with me. Some of the girls I thought were spoilt, demanding and verbal.

I now realise Miss Beck did a mammoth job especially as she had never been married or had children.

Breakfast was in the dining room in the main house. We were expected to be there at the same time every morning; no-one was allowed to start eating till all were seated. Miss Beck selected someone at each meal to say grace then we were allowed to eat, always like ladies with good manners using our linen serviettes to protect our serge school uniforms, serviettes were a priority to minimise dry cleaning expenses. One of the things on the list we had to bring to the hostel included serviettes and a holder. I took Grandfather Freeman's linen serviettes and silver holding ring, very distinctive _. I still have them._

After breakfast we collected our lunch, sandwiches cake and fruit then off to school. I liked the school lunches, especially the Kitchener bun I treated myself to daily, bought on the way to school. Most of the girls complained about the lack of variety with the lunches. I realised those who complained the most were confident young Misses who I thought were ever so worldly. I envied their confidence and was aghast as they complained about most things especially the rules and restrictions in the hostel and boyfriend rules.

Arriving home from school homework was to be done first. I always zipped through mine quickly and couldn't work out why the other girls seemed to find it difficult.

Tea was always a varied hot meal usually with meat, three vegetables and desert. I enjoyed the meals very much and was surprised when the others continually complained, I held these girls in high esteem because I thought they must have lived like queens at home to think the hostel meals were so terrible, their complaining was endless. I thought I must be very naive and unworldly to not to know what was good and what was bad, I daren't disagree with them, so I kept my thoughts to myself.

We had to be in bed by 9pm lights out by 9.30pm. Miss Beck marched through the dorms wishing everyone goodnight as she switched out the lights. Sometimes she was a bit later and the girls relished in these few extra minutes. 9.30 was quite late for me, we at home were always in bed well before dark certainly before 7pm.

I felt so _free,_ so again was surprised when all the girls bitterly complained about strict rules and lights out "so early".

The rule of the hostel, every Sunday night we had to write a letter to our parents, the girls complained. I enjoyed writing and wrote every detail of my life at the hostel in my letters to home. Without fail I wrote home twice a week, mum expected two letters a week from me now that mail deliveries to the farms had increased to two a week (just as well there was not daily deliveries)! Mail deliveries were longingly looked forward to. I without fail received two letters from mum every week on Tuesdays and Fridays, her letters were very distinctive, of course they were in envelopes turned inside out causing much amusement amongst the girls and much embarrassment to me, even so I could see the other kids were a little envious of my regular mail, but... I guess it was my reward for writing to mum twice a week. I dared not ask how often they wrote to their parents because I knew they only wrote when forced to by Miss Beck.

My first day at High School was a huge surprise. I couldn't believe there could be so many children in one school. Most of them were confident young adults. I would easily have been one of the youngest and certainly the most immature. The class levels were First, Second and Third Year, Intermediate and Leaving. We first year kids mostly new to the school were divided into three classes of approximately thirty each, the same amount of kids I had in the whole of Penong school, it was daunting because I didn't know any of them. The three classes were 1A 1B and 1C. I was in 1C deemed the lowliest one.

After the initial shock of being in such close proximity to so many people I didn't know and who didn't know me or even care about me I relished in the anonymity. 'WOW fancy being able to do what I wanted without being corrected or criticised for it'.

Everyone was abuzz talking about this teacher and that teacher, which teacher they had as a class teacher, which teacher taught them which subject. One of the teachers mentioned often was obviously held in high esteem not only from those in his class but all students. I thought this man must be a good teacher, I was never personally to find out as I was never in one of his classes, his name was Colin Thiele. In later years he wrote Storm Boy, which was made into a successful movie, he certainly had an excellent reputation at Pt. Lincoln High before becoming 'known'.

I was just agog at so many kids voicing definite opinions about matters I had been taught to accept no questions to be asked. **"children should be seen and not heard".**  
I was also agog at how the boys and girls interacted. The only boys I ever had any contact with were my cousins who were older than me and very protective of me. I had never played with boys and felt most uncomfortable in their company. I would rather die than talk to a boy; in fact, I would ride my bike around the block to avoid riding by them in the streets.

The first day at school each class formed two lines one of boys the other girls and were marched into the classrooms; these two lines were formed in the same sequence every day. The boy positioned along side of me was a mature lovely boy and quite friendly, but I couldn't talk to him I was so shy embarrassed and tongue-tied. I fancy he tried to befriend me, but I was so shy I avoided him as much as possible, the other kids suggested he was my boyfriend; how embarrassed I was.

Our class teacher Miss Hayden was the school's arts teacher, our classroom was the art room; she was also our geography teacher. Miss Hayden was a young woman who I thought was over dressed wore too much makeup and worried more about her appearance than teaching us kids. She was so different to the only other female teacher that ever taught me my very first teacher Miss Wright who was a dedicated caring teacher. I never learned anything in Miss Hayden's classes, she was not a good teacher, in fact I felt it a waste of time being there and most times wasn't... I wagged most of her classes. I always attended the beginning of the class, got the gist of what she was 'on about' (because that's all it was) then when she started just waffling on I asked "Could I leave the room please?" It was the polite way of asking to go to the toilet.

Of course she always said "Yes!"

My purposely chosen desk in Miss Hayden's class was positioned directly under a window, when planning on leaving the class I reached out and put my books and pencil case outside on the window sill, so when given permission to 'leave the room' I simply walked out of the classroom, collected my books from the window sill, walked the short distance up the hill behind the classrooms to a well concealed spot in the bushes near the school boundary and read books or wrote to mum while safely hidden from anyone's view. I felt this time was spent more productively than in the classroom listening to Miss Hayden waffle on. I always attended the other lessons it was only Miss Hayden's I wagged. Sometimes it was the last class of the day I wagged so when the home bell went I left my hiding spot and went home with the rest of the kids. I often asked the other classmates if she missed me "No!" Miss Hayden was really a scatterbrain. My class results didn't reflect the fact I seldom attended a complete class I did as well as the other pupils which wasn't that good. Surely Principals can see by class results who are the good and the bad teachers, and discipline them, as the kids are disciplined for unsatisfactory results.

I never got caught or punished for wagging Miss Hayden's classes and never respected her for allowing me to do so she deserved what I dished out to her, she was only interested in herself with not a care about teaching. _Because of Miss Hayden I realised that some kids are smarter than some of their teachers, a fact teachers would never admit too, so in later years when my children (and in later years again my grandchildren) complained about a teacher - I seriously looked into their allegations._

When I felt I may have overstepped the boundaries with my absences I stayed in class but was really very naughty. I could easily make the whole class giggle especially when Miss Hayden's back was turned.

One caper I got up to regularly was eating in class, oranges, where do I put the peel? Well it was an art class, so I cut out a set of teeth from the peel and inserted them into my mouth causing the whole class to roar with laughter.

"Eunice Freeman get those things out of your mouth!"

I did, but whenever I ate an orange in class from then on I would cut out the vulgar looking set of teeth, when Miss Hayden's back was turned I put them in and waited for the classes reaction, quickly taking them out before she turned and caught me.

"Eunice Freeman I know it's you, what are you doing?"

"Nothing Miss Hayden!"

One day she caught me with the teeth in "Eunice Freeman report to the Headmaster immediately."

The Headmaster Mr. Johnstone was my Algebra teacher. I had never heard of Algebra and thought it was the most stupid subject, what was the sense in using letters to represent numbers?

In one of our first Algebra classes with my elbows on the desk I was absently engrossed in cleaning my fingernails with the point of my compass. Suddenly I realised all was quiet. I cautiously looked up to see everyone was turned to me, staring expectantly, including Mr. Johnston. His angry glaring look sent shivers right through my body. I was absolutely terrified, so terrified that I actually slightly shit myself.

I waited for the onslaught and punishment. In absolute silence he continued glaring. I looked back at him terrified; we held eye contact for what seemed like ages. After a while he broke the silence

"When you are in my class Girlie you must pay attention. AT ALL TIMES!"

"Yes Sir"

"Is that QUITE clear Girlie?"

"Yes Sir."

He then gave me the loveliest smile saying "we understand each other now don't we Girlie?"

"Yes Sir."

It took the rest of the day for my heart to stop banging uncontrollably in my chest. This was the best lesson I had ever learned. I very diligently then payed attention to all Mr. Johnston taught and discovered Algebra was not only easy but enjoyable. I learnt all the difficult theorems by heart and understood everything he taught us. I was surprised the other kids found it difficult.

The algebra exams were easy for me, the biggest problem being enough time to write the answers. I wrote the whole theorems word for word and knew all the answers of the questions.

Before the results of this exam were given to us I was summonsed to Mr. Johnston's office.

"This algebra paper you handed in...is...ah...in...ah...word for word as I taught you."

"Yes Sir"

"What have you got say about that Girlie?"

I proceeded to quickly recite the forums I had memorised.

"OK! OK! you can go now."

I got always got 100% for Algebra exams.

I really respected Mr. Johnston he was such a lovely man, strict but very fair I just wish all teachers were like him. With teachers of his charisma and personality we would have a super smart world.

There were a few boys who had difficulty learning, and so were quite naughty, these boys after many warnings were severely punished by Mr. Johnston, the whole class shuddered when he grabbed the disobedient boy by the shirt collar and thrashed him. I think these occurrences made me respect Mr. Johnstone even more, even so I didn't fear him like most of the kids. I know capital punishment certainly kept me to always do the right thing.

Most of the times Miss Hayden told me to report to the Headmaster I didn't, I as usual put my books out the window, scurried to my hiding spot to read or write until the next lesson or if it was the last lesson of the day I waited until the last bell then went home. On the rare occasions I did report to Mr. Johnston I simply told him the truth, he never reprimanded me severely in fact hardly at all, so that's why I didn't report to him as often as I was sent to him. I think he realised Miss Hayden for what she was, he was smart enough to be aware of her misgivings.

As well as school lessons I had private piano lessons by the supposedly 'best' music teacher in Pt Lincoln. I wasn't a good pianist, but mum insisted I must learn to play piano, so I did. I found the theory of music enjoyable and easy, and dutifully practiced the piano in my allocated time slot at the hostel piano each evening. I rode my bike to music lessons twice a week before and after school. This was a good deterrent from hostel living and I enjoyed the deviation. The other few girls who learnt music were always so stressed over their music homework, especially the theory. I found music theory so easy I thought there was something wrong with me so secretly completed my homework then pretended to be stressed as well. Towards the end of the year music lessons seemed mundane and repetitive, I felt as if I wasn't learning anything new. I didn't say anything to anyone, I assumed I had learnt all there was to learn about music!! ??

On Sunday mornings we went to Sunday school and church. Most of the girls were Church of England as was Miss Beck, I and five other girls were Methodists. We six girls dressed in our school uniforms, attended Sunday school in the Methodist church hall then into church for the service after Sunday school, then back to the hostel for lunch.

We had to have permission to leave the hostel for any reason what-so-ever. I had permission to visit Aunt and Uncle every Sunday afternoon which I looked forward to. Aunty always had a bought sultana cake which she set out for me to help myself to. I loved the bought cake rather than a homemade one it was a treat for me to eat something bought from a shop. Although there were adequate meals at the hostel, I really enjoyed pigging out every Sunday on this cake and still enjoying dinner at night at the hostel. My legs must have been hollow I ate everything put in front of me and enjoyed it all; luckily, I never became overweight, maybe riding my bicycle caused the appetite and kept me fit.

I always seemed hungry and told mum, so she left extra money with Aunty to give me each Sunday in addition to my allocated money from Miss Beck. I used most of my money to buy extra delicacies as well as my daily Kitchener bun treat. I had to be secretive about this indulgence because we weren't supposed to have extra money. I was never caught though maybe Miss Beck knew and never said anything because compared to the pranks the other girls got up to, I was a good girl and never pushed the boundaries.

I was happy with the freedom and independence allowed, I was enjoying more freedom than I had ever known but I never told the other girls, it would have revealed my strict home life.

Most of the older girls were boy crazy. They continually whispered and chatted to each other about boys, I thought they were acting stupidly, what is it about boys that incurred such strange behavior I wondered. There were heavy iron bars on the bottom of our dormitory windows, why I had no idea, then one day workman came and added similar bars to the top windows, there was much whispering amongst the girls over this work being done, I was mystified but gathered from tit bits I overheard that one of the older 'complaining' girls was caught during the night trying to get out the top window where the new bars were now installed. Oh! Shock! Horror! Fancy daring to attempt such a dreadful sin.

The determination of the girls to meet with their boyfriends was so apparent Miss Beck compromised by letting the boys visit on selected afternoons, with strict conditions.

1. The visits had to take place only during the allocated time slot and beside the shed near the wood heap in full view of the kitchen window.

2. During the visits, the boys had to chop wood.

3. Anyone caught can-oodling was threatened with condition 4.

4. Boys who didn't bide by 'the rules' were banned from visiting.

These conditions seemed to work as most boys bided by them. The ones who didn't suffered the consequences and were banned.

The boys' visits disturbed me because I had to pass right through the 'meeting' area to put my bike away. The bikes belonged in the shed but I was too embarrassed to walk past the 'meeting' couples, not that they acknowledged I was even there; never the less I devised a scheme where I could avoid this confrontation by riding to the hostel the long way avoiding the gate into the shed and leaving my bike in an inconspicuous spot and entering the hostel from a different entrance; later when I was sure the boys had gone home I snuck out hoping like crazy my bike would still be there. Thankfully, it always was, so I was able to put it in the shed without humiliating feelings.

The first term ended, the school holidays were excitedly looked forward to by all the girls, except me. I wasn't looking forward to going home to be continually watched and scrutinised. Some of the excitement from the other girls eventually became infectious and because I didn't want to appear different, I joined in with their expectant excited actions.

1953 All the girls on the steps of the Hostel. I am standing on centre steps second row from top, half hidden.

Many girls traveled home in the train which regularly ran from Pt Lincoln to Ceduna. I was so looking forward to the train ride home, so adventurous and exciting for me, fancy being allowed to travel such a long way on a train alone and at night. This trip was a big disappointment, it was so slow, bumpy and uncomfortable the seats were wooden bench seats around the walls of the carriage. I tried to sleep but it was too uncomfortable and noisy as the carriages rattled along the rail lines built over wooden sleepers. I envied the girls who lived nearer Pt Lincoln and got off first. I watched the enthusiastic excited welcomes they received from their obviously adoring families and thought how lucky they were as they excitedly discussed all the amasing activities planned for their holidays, knowing my most exciting events would be church on Sundays.

I endured the long trip, my stop was the end of the line consequently I was the last passenger to alight, by then I was so tired I didn't care that I never received the enthusiastic excited welcome the other girls had and was glad no-one was left on the train to see my uneventful welcome but was grateful to my non emotional mother for taking me straight home to bed where I slept soundly on my lavishly comfortable Dunlopillow mattress.

It was Rogers school holidays too he was in grade five this year. He struggled at school so as the school tranny had ceased through lack of numbers mum decided with me not living at home she would keep him home and school him by correspondence. This really stretched mum and Roger's friendship, Roger wasn't the brightest of students and mum had no patience, even though there were many harsh words from mum I was surprised how much patience she exercised.

I think Roger did much better under mum's guidance than in a classroom situation, he also completed year six the following year through correspondence with mum's guidance, then rode his bike to Watraba (our nearest railway siding approx three miles away) where he caught a bus to Uworra School and did year seven. On completion of year seven although he was only twelve years old, he left school and worked with Dad on the farm.

I was excited about going back to school at Pt Lincoln and the hostel; upon arrival I was surprised at the warm welcome I received from the girls. We all settled into the routine of hostel life again, the other girls still complained about the boredom of it, but I was used to a strict routine and I just relished in the hostel routine because it afforded me more freedom than I had previously experienced.

There were four 'houses' at the school with names of different colors; each student belonging to one, my 'house' was Flinders we wore yellow. We all worked to gain points for our 'house' either from schoolwork or sports. On sports days, the four 'houses' competed against each other. I was given softball as my sport which I had never played so didn't really enjoy sports days. I wished I could have played tennis or netball but never had the opportunity.

Mr. Johnstone was our music teacher and choir master, he was also strict in these classes, and look out for the person who wasn't watching him at all times especially during choir practice. This was the first time I had sung in a choir, and the first time I had learned part singing. We all found it difficult to sing different notes but after much practice we made it, I felt proud to be part of such a lovely sounding choir. I thought Mr. Johnston was so clever being able to teach such a variety of subjects.

There was a well-equipped Domestic Arts classroom with a haughty, pompous, plump, grey haired English spinster lady with a broad English accent teaching Dom Arts, Miss Parry. I had been housekeeping and cooking with mum on the farm for years and had learned to do everything mum's way, the quickest. I couldn't believe the lengthy procedures she insisted on being the correct way to approach Dom Arts, especially cooking. I just couldn't see why we had to spend so much time doing all the unnecessary extra chores to achieve the same results that I could do in half the time. I tried to do what she taught us, but my common sense took over and I usually made a few shortcuts, inevitably she found out, by spying or some-one dobbing on me, and I was reprimanded. I had no respect for her, she was just so righteous, and obviously loathed me as much as I loathed her.

Miss Parry had a few 'favourites' who were often as confused as me by her teaching methods but dutifully plodded on. The 'favourites' could never do anything wrong even though I thought I had done equally as good as them, she ridiculed me and praised them. This made me hopping mad.

I thought `I will show you Miss Parry.'

One day she set this special exam which she put great emphasis on, she warned us it would be a tough exam. I swatted, knuckled down, concentrated, did all my practical work to her specifications and breezed through the written theory exam which I knew was all correct. The others in the class including her 'favorites' complained about it being so hard. I also thought it was rather tough, but was surprised when her 'favorites' also found it difficult.

The time came for Miss Parry to announce the results.

"I am extremely disappointed with the low standard of results in this exam. Surprisingly, the highest marks were achieved by Eunice Freeman."

I was stunned. I knew I had done well, but I was so amazed I had beaten all her 'favourites.'

I was so excited, I thought I would get the usual four 'house' point for topping the class, she continued..."but I am not awarding any 'house' points because the standard is so low."

BITCH! My respect for her went even lower; just because her 'favorites' didn't do well she wasn't going to give me any credit.

She is another teacher I remembered when my children and grandchildren complained about teacher's attitudes in their classes; I listened and discreetly followed through.

Occasionally we had the opportunity to wear our 'best' frocks. These outing were looked forward to with much excitement and expectations by everyone, except me. I had no confidence and felt excluded intimidated and shy. I don't know why I felt excluded because the girls certainly didn't exclude me, in fact quite the opposite, they made me feel very much part of their groups, I guess I excluded myself with my shyness and lack of confidence, especially in my 'best' frock which I now felt was so girlish compared to the other girls sophisticated frocks.

Once a month when Miss Beck was in a good mood, we were allowed to attend a church social, a picture theatre, a play, or a rare school social. Miss Beck used these outings to keep the girls on their best behavior threatening if any of the girls misbehaved, we would be staying home. I hoped they did misbehave so we would all have to stay home, once this did happen, the offending girls copped so much flack they never jeopardized another outing. These outings were a major event for us, working around allotted chores, homework, and transporting us to and from.

I remember going to a Shakespearian play, how boring it was, the actors just droned on all through the show I couldn't understand the strange language I thought it a waste of time. I would much rather have read a book or wrote letters to mum and my pen friends. I was so glad when it was over. Another boring outing was a piano recital which I looked forward to but was disappointed, all night we listened to a pianist playing the same sort of (to me) music, no variation. I was relieved when it was over, and we went home.

The church socials to my surprise I enjoyed despite being conscious of my 'girlie' frock. Interesting games were organised and we all took part, we had fun and laughed.

Occasionally on extra hot nights when Miss Beck was in an extra good mood, she with the help of the older girls packed a picnic tea which we carried to the beach across the road from our front door. There was no air conditioning in those days so these excursions to the beach were a great way to cool down. I loved swimming, but had to get permission to go into the sea which wasn't given readily. The sea at Pt Lincoln wasn't as clean as what I was used to at Sinclair and Ceduna so my desire to swim waned, anyway it was all too hard to get permission.

There were three terms in the school year in those days, so there were only two lots of holidays between the Xmas holidays. By the second school holidays I was a bit more 'life experienced', I realised there was a saloon carriage on the train, no alcohol of course but a carriage where people met chatted and played games. To think I could stay up all night and partake in **fun** was such a daring experience for me. This trip was more enjoyable I didn't try to sleep I enjoyed myself. Being able to stay up as long as I wished was such a treat, I felt liberated, eventually I was so tired I fell asleep on the hard bench and slept soundly.

Each holiday I went home I realised how much I was restricted and was quite happy to go back to the hostel where though restrictions applied, I had a degree of independence.

Mum and Dad never encouraged education. School was something I knew I had to attend until I was old enough to leave, fourteen in those days. I only had one term remaining to finish the year's schooling. I hadn't thought past this year. Mum had said " _If_ you want to leave at the end of this year you can because you will be fourteen soon after school starts next year; and you can help around the house and the farm".

Hearing mum tell people "I always wanted a girl first to help me in the house, and a boy second to take over the farm." I assumed I was born to help mum with the housework and menial farm tasks. It never entered my head to pursue an education after I was legally able to leave school. Girls weren't encouraged to pursue an education. Girls were groomed to be good wives, housekeepers and mothers; men were educated to be providers for their wives and family.

The last term of my first year at high school was cruisey. I had settled in very well, getting good results in most subjects (not art) maturing slightly, gaining self-confidence and generally feeling amasingly comfortable with my life. Talking and living with thirty other girls from different walks of life gave me an insight into other people's lifestyles. Mum had always kept me closeted and ignorant of lifestyles other than our own. I had no idea people lived different lifestyles to our family's way of living. I think mum was becoming alarmed over my growing self-confidence, she could see that I was becoming independent, but more disturbing for her was me having an opinion of my own. I had never previously been allowed to voice my opinion about anything: mum's word was final. **"SO!"**

I was getting more confidence in myself so much so I dared play a prank. I suffered severe constipation consequently always kept a supply of cascara tablets, these sugar-coated tablets once past the sweet coating consisted of the foulest tasting substance. I emptied the bottle of pills into a small paper bag and offered them around the dormitory as a sweet which the girls readily accepted with thanks... until the sugar coating had been sucked off, then there was a rush to the wash basins and water taps. Luckily, they took the prank in good humour for which I was grateful... until next morning when there was a rush to the toilet. I wasn't so popular then. I didn't foresee the consequences of the pills working so efficiently nor did I envisage only a sample of the foul-tasting substance was needed to be so devastatingly effective especially on girls who had normal bowel movements. I promised the girls and myself I would never pull such a stupid prank again.

One day near the end of the school term our teachers gave us a form to fill out. This form was about our plans for the next year, our career and our future. I wrote my plans for next year and ever after; to stay home on the farm, help mum and eventually become a farmer's wife. It was what I had been groomed for, what a stupid questionnaire I thought.

Very soon I was summoned by Mr. Johnston to his office.

"Now Girlie! have you really thought about your decision to leave school?"

"Yes Sir!"

He proceeded to give me a stern lecture on the benefits of a good education, what a waste of my good natural talent if I didn't continue with my schooling. I could be anything I chose to be etc. etc.

My response to him was "I don't need to continue school to become a farmer's wife."

I distinctly remember him heaving a resigned sigh; then dismissing me.

I remember this meeting with him very well; at the time I was mind set on leaving school, there was no other option for me: I thought! Helping on the farm was what was expected of me I didn't know there could be any life for me other than a farmer's wife. I had all the qualifications; I was a farmer's daughter. I also remember mum and dad's pleasure when I told them of my decision. I felt I had finally done something right.

Many times in later years I realised how uneducated I was and often felt inferior when confronted with issues I didn't understand.

When the years schooling finished I said my goodbyes at school feeling a bit sad, I hadn't realised how much I had enjoyed the years' experience and how well I had adjusted to a very different (for me) lifestyle. I packed up all my belongings in the dormitory at the hostel, said my goodbyes to the girls, thanked Miss Beck, she had been so good and kind to me, and left Pt Lincoln to continue my training on the farm to become a farmer's wife.

This year living away from home probably was the ruination of me (according to mum's gauge). I realised there was a different way of living, fun was allowed. I learned there were other ways to live and enjoy oneself.

I learned I could have an opinion which didn't always comply with mum and dad's strict ideals. I learned other people also had strict ideals and morals, some totally the opposite to what I had been taught at home. I pondered over these different moral standards silently questioning the judgement of my parents.

I thought the differing opinions were legitimate sensible and practical opinions. I could not see any harm in following these new thought waves that were brewing in my brain which allowed me to live a freer happier lifestyle like all the girls at the hostel whom I had grown to respect. I knew mum and dad would disagree with my thoughts. I knew had to keep them to myself.

Mum's deduction **"** **all the rot that those girls have put in your head."**

I don't know if mum realised how much I learned about living out in the real world during this year if she had she would never have allowed me to leave the farm. Certainly I know if I had never left the farm for my higher education though be it for only one year I would probably have stayed on the farm, married a local farmer and become a clone of mum never having known any other way of life. Oh Dear! Spare me the thought...

During the latter part of this year the school had been rehearsing an elaborate school presentation on the oval for a visit from Queen Elizabeth11 and Duke of Edinburgh in March 1954. Although I wouldn't be eligible to take part in the display we went to Pt Lincoln to watch and see the Queen and Duke. I was given special seating around the oval, it happened to be right in front of the Queen. I was mesmerised.

 _March 1954 Queen Elizabeth11 & Prince Phillip with Mayor and Mayoress of Pt Lincoln. Me over Prince Phillip's right shoulder; Mr. Johnson (Head Master) behind him on left (with two medals)._

# MY TEENS.

## 1954 - 59

# Chapter 20

## Life Without School

"Wow! I have finished school!!!! Freedom."

Wrong! There is no such thing as freedom working for mum and dad on the farm. I was woken up before dark every morning "Get up the cows are waiting to be milked.

By the time I staggered out mum had the fire in the kitchen stove blazing and the kettle boiling.

I was naturally expected to do the milking and separating but mum helped because I was too slow. Separating the cream from the milk, while it was still warm from the cow's udder was an arduous chore and so boring but I discovered the faster the handle was turned the sooner it was done and the thicker the cream, I liked thick cream. Even though it was hard to turn the handle fast I did at any opportunity (while mum wasn't looking).

Mum started cooking breakfast while I was separating, this was my chance to get thick cream and she wouldn't know, I thought. Her regular checks of me soon dislodged that theory, she knew how much cream should have been produced for the length of time she was absent, and so I was reprimanded.

" **Be sure your sins will find you out!"** _(They always were)._

I hated milking the cows. I hated the flies, attracted by the milk, buzzing around my face while I was stripping the tits and not able to brush them away. I was scared the cows would bunt me, scared they would tread or wee on me while I was sitting on the stool milking, which they often did. I got into big trouble with mum if they did wee, because if I wasn't quick enough to pull the bucket away it was filled with... yes you guessed right... smelly cows wee, and I was to blame.

"You should know the signs, develop some foresight." Mum admonished me.

I hated the itchy red lumps my hands became covered in, caused by the milk. I made excuses about the jagged edges of the buckets (dad made them from four gallon kerosene tins) hurting my legs, the stool too rickety, any excuses I used to get out of doing work were quashed by mum's quip

" _A good tradesman never blames his tools."_

The only thing I liked about cows was the fresh milk, straight from the tit. I squirted the milk directly into my mouth from the tit, it was warm and delicious, a whole different flavour and texture to any other milk I have tasted, especially different to commercial pasteurised milk, the only milk available in later years.

It was interesting watching the colour changes of the milk. Usually the milk was a pale off white colour because of the dry climate and the cows being hand fed dried oats, chaff and hay produced on the farm from cereal crops. After good rains new green grass shoots appeared from the parched ground, the cows chewed at it as it grew, the milk instantly turned a rich cream colour, if the rains continued the grass grew prolifically and the milk turned a richer cream colour almost yellow, consequently cream after separating from the milk during good rainfall periods was also a rich cream colour which in turn produced yellow/gold butter. Mum always commented on the lovely colour of the butter as she made it and proudly pointed out to all recipients as she gave it away how beneficial the rains were to the land and produce. "See how yellow the butter is, thanks to the rains."

Eggs also benefited from the rains, the yokes normally a pale yellow turned almost orange during good seasonal rains which gave the sponge cakes mum made a rich golden colour of which she was very proud.

Mum did not like pale looking egg yolks, she fed the chooks as many greens as she had from the garden, all the weeds and left over spinach, cabbage, vines etc. which kept the yokes yellow but nothing like the richness of the colour the rains turned them to.

It was like magic how rain transformed not only the produce but the whole farm, countryside and morale of the people. Rain was always the prime topic of conversation.

"Do you think it will rain today?"

"Do you think it will rain this season?"

"Do you think they are rain clouds?"

"The rains have been blown to the south out to sea, we have missed out again!

"How much rain did you receive?"

"We only got a sprinkle." and so on and on.....

Breakfast every morning consisted of porridge, eggs and mutton chops off the farm and occasionally a special treat of bought bacon or sausages and thick slices of home baked bread toasted on the open fire served lavishly with homemade butter, jam and fresh cream. Porridge was made from freshly harvested wheat off the farm which dad crushed under mum's instructions in a purpose bought crusher machine motored by an old tractor dad modified to work it, also it run the chaff cutter.

Every evening mum put the crushed wheat in a saucepan covered with hot water and a pinch of salt and set it on the side of the still warm stove to soak overnight, next morning when she lit the fire she'd put it over the heat of the stove while she milked the cows, I was instructed to "stir it or it will stick to the pan and be lumpy." It was my job to keep stirring the porridge to prevent it becoming lumpy... or else! I made sure it was boiled to a delicious porridge consistency usually gaining mum's approval. Mum insisted Roger and I eat the porridge though we weren't overly fond of it but sprinkled lavishly with sugar and fresh creamy milk it was acceptable, mum ate it for breakfast all year round. Roger and I thought cornflakes a treat. Dad refused to eat the porridge declaring "I see enough of wheat; I don't need to eat it as well."

Washing and wiping the dishes was my job; how boring; there wasn't a sink, all the kitchen preparations and cleaning up were done on a large kitchen table strategically placed under the window, it was topped with linoleum, which mum regularly replaced to ensure a clean bright working surface. The 'sink' was a bowl, cold water was on tap from a crude looking tap poking through the thick stone wall at random into the kitchen under which was always a bucket to catch any drips. Hot water was readily available from the kettle on the stove. I was only ever allowed to use hot water straight from the kettle for washing up, it was so hot I couldn't handle the dishes.

"You need not add any cold water" mum always said "it gets cold quick enough!"

"But it burns my fingers, I can't touch the dishes." I complained.

"It will teach you to be quick!" mum quipped. The dishes were put straight onto the linoleum topped table to drain, I complained about water going everywhere, mum said "Well hurry up and wipe them before all the water drains off."

I hated washing up. I was made to wash up when young, so young I had to stand on a chair to reach into the wash bowl, even then complaining the water was too hot and the chair to low.

" _A good tradesman never blames his tools."_

I just had to get on with it... and did.

The large kitchen was the hub of our farmhouse. Everything was done in the kitchen; cooking on the wood stove, preparing on the work table, eating on the dining table, entertaining around the dining table, relaxing listening to the wireless sitting on the wooden kitchen chairs, playing games including table tennis. I loved the occasions the table tennis table was laid on the top of the dining table, it meant we had visitors and it was fun, many matches were played even though there was not much room for the players to maneuver in.

The kitchen work area was basic, the only cupboards were kerosene boxes stacked on top of one another with a long curtain attached to the top box hanging to cover the contents in the under boxes. Mum admitted this construction was put there temporarily when they built the house in 1927, twenty plus years prior.

I, having experienced working in a modern kitchen in Domestic Arts at High School constantly nagged mum about our dysfunctional kitchen. I must have got my message through because she agreed to install new kitchen cupboards and sink along the wall to replace the 'temporary' ones, also mum liked to be the leader in possessing the 'latest' so a few carefully chosen words may have been an influence.

"Mrs. So-n-so has got a lovely sink installed in her new kitchen!"

I was allowed to help design the cupboards, I felt so privileged. Mum and I measured and decided what was needed, mum insisting the work cupboard replacing the work table had to be as wide as the table, so the table measurements were noted and the new unit was ordered accordingly. The sink, wall units and storage cupboards were also measured and ordered to be made in Adelaide and transported by train to Ceduna where Dad would collect them on our truck. This was an expensive project, but mum never worried about cost for 'up market' necessities. I was so excited.

Weeks later the new cupboards arrived, we were amased at how big the work unit was, not only how long it was but how wide, and so much higher than the table it was replacing. It was so wide it wouldn't fit through the door, how were we going to get it into the house? We never considered getting it in to the house when designing it, mum had her mind set on a large work bench and me a new modern kitchen.

It was a worrying time; our lovely new kitchen wouldn't happen. Mum never to be beaten had a thought. "Let us try the kitchen window, see if it will fit through?"

Measurements were taken. We figured if all the doors were taken off the cupboards, the window and frames removed it might fit through. Great relief, we were able to just maneuver and squeeze our dream kitchen through the window space.

What a change these cupboards made to our kitchen, not only in looks but in practical efficiency. I suggested a light be installed under the cupboard over the sink because it wasn't near natural light, it was installed and well worth the effort. I also suggested the sink be plumbed to drain the wastewater outside. Alas! No way could I get mum to submit to plumbing the sink, she said "We can't just waste water because we have a sink with taps over it." Mum insisted on putting a bucket under the sink which we had to empty... OR ELSE. It was never 'or else' when mum was there, but when she wasn't and I was responsible for emptying the bucket; there were messes and ' _else's'._ I tried to keep these occurrences secreted from her... Oh no, she could always tell

" _Be sure your sins will find you out."_

It was during these renovations a Rayburn stove was installed replacing the Metters No3 stove. The Rayburn stove was an absolute boon providing unlimited hot water through pipes installed behind it and plumbed directly to the kitchen sink, bathroom and laundry, even though there was always plenty of free hot water I was regularly reminded not to waste it, water was the huge issue, not the _hot,_ that was free, it was the water that was so precious. No rain - no water. We were always conscious of not ever wasting a drop.

The installation of the new cupboards made the kitchen chores far more endurable for me; it was so much easier washing the dishes in the sink, even though emptying the bucket was a chore. Mum usually emptied it every afternoon combining this chore with watering the plants around the house. If the bucket needed emptying earlier than usual, I got a lecture about using too much water.

"If you waste the water there will soon be none, how will we get on then?"

I didn't think I did waste water never the less I learned to be very fugal with it.

Now-a-days with water restrictions in most Australian cities I remember how we managed to supply enough water to run the farm, not only for our house and garden, but also all the livestock. Now living in Cairns with more rain falling in a week or even a day than our annual rainfall on the farm, I find it incredible water restrictions are applied.

In mum's words _"Bad Management! No foresight!"_

I learnt to cook primarily by helping and watching mum, what I learnt with Miss Parry at high school seemed irrelevant Mum didn't take kindly to me explaining how things should be done according to Miss Parry she was only interested in the quickest plainest way with no palaver or frills. I liked to use a bit more finesse and pay attention to detail which was difficult because mum always rushed me through everything including cooking. I enjoyed cooking when mum wasn't there and became quite adept especially with cakes, biscuits and puddings for dessert.

Cooking was a special skill in those days; there were no electric gadgets, no controlled oven temperature or thermometers. Everything had to be beaten and mixed by hand. The stove temperature was controlled by the amount of wood added to the fire and the temperature gauged by the feel of your hand in the oven. These procedures became second nature, I am sure I could still cook and turn out prize winning sponges under these circumstances.

Mum was a deft hand at making sponges, even defter when Sunbeam introduced a 32volt electric mixer which mum immediately purchased and used prolifically, she never left home without a freshly baked sponge filled with fresh whipped cream to give some-one we visited that day. I thought it was the most normal procedure to cook sponges before we left for a day's outing. The recipe mum used was in her head. I never saw it written anywhere. We seldom got to eat sponges at home, dad wasn't keen on them, but I loved them and looked longingly at the delicious cakes as mum gave them away hoping I would be offered a piece with the afternoon tea usually provided to visitors. If it were offered mum wouldn't allow me to have any because "she has plenty at home." mum told our host. I tried to say "we never have sponge at home" but mum quietened me before I could get it out. One day I dared ask "Mum why do always give sponges away?"

" **It is more blessed to give than receive."**

"Well!" I thought "I will make sponges to eat at home."

I became as adept as mum, winning many prizes in cake competitions.

When we had special guests, dignitaries from Adelaide, which was quite often, I did more of the cooking than mum, she only helped at the end of the cooking to make sure it got plated before it got cold; this annoyed me because I wanted to plate it attractively, not slosh it on the plates. Everyone absolutely loved our home cooked meals. I think the secret of producing what I thought were ordinary meals was the fresh organic produce from the farm, meat, usually mutton (which I have never tasted the likes of since), eggs, dairy produce and veggies. Without fail the guests complimented me on my culinary skills "You will make a wonderful wife to some lucky man one day."

"Oh! Yeh! Right!" I thought that was a dream I would never fulfil. "Who would want to marry plain old ugly me?"

We always took our guests on the usual sightseeing excursions Pt Sinclair, Blue Lake, the abandoned salt works, gypsum works and of course around the farm. I enjoyed these trips because it was a break from the boring routine I was subjected to. The very staid and distinguished Moderator (head) of the Methodist Church from Adelaide and his wife stayed with us for a few days, we took them sightseeing they following in their car to the picturesque Pt Sinclair, along the way we stopped on the causeway crossing of the salt lakes so they could catch the brilliant pink colour and perfect reflections in the lake, as usual there were no other cars on the road and not likely to be, so I was amased and amused when the Moderator stopped the car in the middle of nowhere giving the hand signal (of that era) to stop, putting his arm out the window at right angles. I know that was the law but no locals ever used car signals we didn't need to; we knew what and where everyone was going and doing in a car and it was proven because we never had any prangs. It seemed so strange to us that this guest didn't realise there was no traffic so no need for hand signals.

There were no turn indicator lights on any cars back then, hand signals were the only indicators used, the right arm outstretched from the driver's window indicated a turn to the right, the right arm out the window bent at the elbow to 90deg indicated stop. There was no left-hand turn signal though occasionally a passenger would stretch his arm out the passenger window to indicate. Even so you could never be sure of the signals because most people drove with their arms hanging out the windows anyway. I remember after indicators were mandatory on cars the law changed; no parts of the body to ever protrude a moving vehicle! _I wondered however we would cope with such a restraining law._

Our guests all raved about our wonderful beaches, sand dunes, salt lakes, granite hills etc. etc. I thought they were being polite; it was all very mundane and seemingly useless to me. I only ever saw these natural wonders when we had visitors, we never just went there for our own enjoyment. I thought anything I had access to was normal and ordinary. Mum and Dad never embellished the beauty of nature to me, or spent time simply enjoying the wonders of nature we were surrounded by. Dad's wonder was bare paddocks that could be seeded and harvested without any obstacles in his way. Dad's motto was work and more work.

" _The harder you work the luckier you get."_

Pets played a big part in my life. On the farm I was so lonely I spent a lot of time with the animals. Most of our farm animals weren't people friendly, but I imagined they were. I found great solace in the cat who seemed to love being with me. I loved it too. I didn't have the same feelings for mum's blue Queensland Heeler cattle dog originally bought as a working dog. Dad had no patience with pets, but he didn't object to mum having them, he was happy to castrate them (I didn't know what _castration_ was) while they were still young. I was never allowed to watch this procedure with any of the farm animals much to my disappointment. I was always curious but as much as I begged to watch I was never allowed.

Mum chose only male pets because dad could de sex males, female desexing was a lengthy procedure needing an incision, there were no vets within hundreds of miles from our farm. If an animal desperately needed a vet, a simple bullet was the quick and only cure. Mum only ever owned one dog at a time and when it died she quickly ordered another pup from Adelaide. I remember at least three different dogs all Blue Queensland Heelers which after desexing became fat and lazy, they were fed lots of meat and scraps from the kitchen. They were fiercely protective of mum. I wished mum would have a bitch dog so we could have puppies, but she absolutely insisted on male dogs only. I never had a close bond with any of mum's dogs; I was frightened of getting bitten.

Mum had a canary that whistled beautifully, I loved the sounds it made. I talked to it for hours repeating the same thing over and over hoping it would copy, it never did, it just whistled, but so beautifully. I wanted mum to get more canaries so we could have mass whistling but she said if there was more than one they wouldn't whistle so beautifully. I settled for this one and spent hours by the cage willing it to whistle for me.

My pony Snowball was a great comfort to me, we went for long rides regularly roaming all over the farm and on the highway around the perimeter of the farm. I enjoyed the freedom and being out of mum's scrutiny and control. I was expected to drove the sheep especially at shearing times when all hands were on deck. Females didn't wear trousers those days, I was embarrassed about my skirt blowing up and showing my bloomers so I wore a pair of dad's old trousers which were much too big for me and so very unflattering, but at least my bloomers weren't exposed.

I liked to work in the shed during the shearing of the sheep, clearing the floorboards and classing the wool. It depended on who the shearers were as to whether I was allowed in the shed, dad considered some shearer gangs too rough a characters for me to associate with so endeavoured to keep me out in the paddocks droving the sheep to and from the sheds, well away from the shearing gangs. Snowball and I became expert at droving, we soon had the sheep where they were supposed to be and I was able to sneak back in the shed and sweep the boards for the shearers between each sheep they shore. I secretly enjoyed the cheeky looks and secret winks the shearers gave me, but only when dad was nowhere in sight, I felt it ' _wasn't proper'_ but Oh! it made me feel good, though guilty. Somehow I realised I shouldn't be experiencing these feelings I knew it was `sinful' but I secretly enjoyed these new exciting stimulating feelings.

Surely it can't be so wrong to feel so good.

Well mum and dad need not know.

I had read about grooming horses, brushing their coats until they shone. Dad or mum never groomed their horses, when the horses rolled on their backs in the dirt they told me they were bathing. I thought it surprising they bathed in dirt.

"How can dirt make them clean?" I asked, but never got a satisfactory answer.

Our horses didn't have shiny coats, how could they? Bathing in dirt? I questioned dad about grooming, not getting a satisfactory answer I decided to give Snowball a treat and brush her till she shone. Snowball didn't think it was a treat, she didn't like it and wouldn't stand still, I didn't like it either, I itched all over, I was gasping for breath, the shortness of breath made it hard to breath, asthma had resurfaced again. I never tried to groom Snowball again.

All but a small parcel on one paddock of our farm had been cleared of the native scrub leaving bare paddocks suitable for cropping. Dad desperately wanted more land suitable for cropping, he threatened he would clear the last piece of scrub, mum was adamant he wouldn't.

"The sheep need a bit of shelter after they have been shorn in the cold weather." mum argued.

One year against mum's wishes dad cropped the area of cleared land in our only paddock with scrub, after shearing the sheep that winter it was bitterly cold, the scrub paddock couldn't be used to protect the sheep because of the crops planted in it, the sheep were turned out to shelter along the back public roads of our property. Mum was cross with dad, she believed he should leave the scrub paddock for the benefit of the stock.

Dad was determined to purchase more land, but there was no land for sale; however on the other side of the highway was a large parcel of new ground land which had never been worked and still covered in natural scrub and owned by a widowed lady Mrs. Nieace. There was no house or buildings on this land known as Block One. Mrs. Nieace lived on another of her farms near Penong with her son Georgie who wasn't interested in farming; in fact they did very little farming, they contracted others to do what they deemed necessary for survival, they liked to maintain as much natural land as they could. Dad desperately coveted Block One. Mrs. Nieace had other ideas, she was determined dad would never own this valuable parcel of land, she didn't want it cleared. Dad was prepared to wait until Mrs. Nieace an elderly frail lady died though he bemoaned the fact "Mrs. Nieace will never allow me to own her property; she will have it fixed in her will somehow."

I couldn't help but remember dad's quote.

" _Wish in one hand, spit in the other and see which gets full the quickest?'_

Dad must have really upset Mrs. Nieace because his suspicions were right, he was never able to purchase this property, instead he bought Murt's farm adjacent on the eastern side of our farm it had a lovely stone home and a few sheds. _Many years later Roger achieved dad's dream, he purchased Nieace's farm, converted it to cropping lands by chaining it of its scrub._

Georgie Nieace was about ten years older than me and a popular guy with the arty local ladies. He was an excellent cook, interior designer and gardener and competed against all the talented ladies in the local shows and competitions, and usually won. There was much speculation about Georgie when he disappeared from our community for weeks at a time. We girls all loved Georgie; he didn't seem so popular with the guys. When his mother died, he moved away from Penong for good. Georgie's flair and bubbly personality was missed by many including me.

Harvest was the busiest time on the farm, though made so much easier since the introduction of tractors. The harvester machine could only operate efficiently in hot dry weather, no problem summer temperatures were mostly well over 100deg and the days were long. Mum and I provided five meals every day, a substantial breakfast was cooked and eaten before daylight, midday dinner, morning and afternoon lunch were taken to the paddocks so they could continue working, it was important to capture the maximum work time while the temperature was ideal, the evening meal was eaten well after dark.

Some of the oat and wheat crops were cut into sheaves for hay which involved a lot of work manually, stooking the sheaves into tepee shaped stooks, allowing them to completely dry before stacking into large haystacks. I hated this work, it was always so hot dusty and dry, I itched, sneezed and generally was a misery guts, but I was made to persevere. The main crops were harvested for the grain and roughly emptied into hessian wheat bags left in clumps around the paddock. It was all hands-on deck to get these bags of wheat sewn up before any rain dampened them; moisture caused the grain to sprout shoots, rendering the harvest worthless; luckily, rain in summer was rare.

The sewn bags of wheat were loaded onto trucks (though I remember in the 40's dad using wagons pulled by a team of draught horses) taken to Watraba railway siding, manually loaded on an elevator leading up to the huge wheat stacks waiting to be railed to Thevenard, from there they were shipped all over the world. Dad did most of the shifting and lifting of every bag on our farm, he easily carried a bag of wheat on his back, always running, he looked quite funny because he was naturally bandy legged and with the weight of a bag of wheat on his back his legs were even bandier.

"Old Cliffy is on the bandy run again." I often heard other men giggle.

I knew no one was fitter or stronger than dad, he worked hard and long.

I absolutely hated sewing up these wheat bags. It had to be done _'just so',_ as hard as I tried, I was not good at it, sometimes I was made to undo the tedious stitches I had striven to sew perfectly. I felt such a failure. A special needle was used, shaped slightly curved with the pointed end larger and triangular, the eye of the needle was large enough to thread thick twine through, but it was still difficult for me to thread. Dad or mum always started and finished the stitching of the bag; I sewed across the top of the bag stopping just before the end. Each end had to have an exact secure shaped ear; these ears were used as handles to maneuver the bags. Before the last ear was secured a bag-filler was rammed into the bag, dad dumped the bag up and down allowing the wheat filled container attached to the top of the filler to drain into the bag. Only dad was strong enough to do the dumping lifting and shifting of the bags which had to be a certain weight, a very heavy weight, I was always being warned to be careful of a bag falling over onto me, it would crush me. (See pics of this era in Chapter 8).

I hated the whole procedure, I didn't feel well, my nose continually ran, my arms and legs itched, I felt asthmatic, I complained, but I'd learned " _not to blame my tools."_

I hated the farm work I was expected to do on the farm. I was a failure. Dad didn't have patience with me or indeed anyone who couldn't work as efficiently as him. I felt useless and worthless.

Excitement when baling of the hay was introduced, much less work than stooking sheaves. Dad bought the machines consisting of a cutting machine, a baling machine a pickup machine and an elevator, quite an expensive rig out, but it saved much work and I was happy not having to be in the paddocks to stook the sheaves.

Mum and dad accepted the fact that I was an absolute failure at farm work. You beauty, I hated it anyway. I used the excuse I got asthma working in a farm environment which salvaged a smidgen of pride in me.

_Years later I realised I was allergic to animals, dust and farms._ STILL AM.

Dad in front of our home with a load of Baled Hay.(top)

Dad completing the Baled Hay Stack.

# Chapter 21

## Housework and Homework

Mum decided she would help dad and do the outside farm work and I was to run the house. Wow what a coup, I was happy, she wouldn't be able to watch me every minute. I didn't have to get up so early I slept in as late as she would let me and got really lazy only doing what I had to do. I loved to read and would do so every chance, luckily Mum believed reading was educational and bought a lot of books though mostly religious and books with high moral themes. I read our books over and over. I loved the 'Little Women' series and Enid Blyton's books.

Mum insisted I read `Pollyanna' because "Pollyanna was always happy and made the most of what she had." I resisted reading it because I knew mum thought I was rebellious and maybe I would learn something from 'Pollyanna' and hopefully become more content with my 'lot'; instead I defiantly read and enjoyed the comic books cousins Don and Keith loaned me, though mum always vetted them for approval before I was allowed to look at them.

I think I was heading to be rebellious; I was getting slightly defiant of mum pushing her ideals onto me, strategically giving me selected books to read, she knew how much I loved reading; it was her way of guiding me to her version of the correct way of life and her way of thinking. It aggravated me immensely the way she thought she could stealthily steer me to do what she expected of me in the proper English tradition, I could see right through her sneaky plans.

Finally, bored and with nothing else to read I read Pollyanna. Mum was right, as usual, (gee I hated that) that book had a lasting effect on me, I loved it, I loved Pollyanna as a person in my imagination, I read it over and over. Okay! I admit mum was right, she had another win.

I think Pollyanna is to be credited with my attitude and ability to adapt to all situations in my adult life including finding a positive from difficult situations.

Back to housework. I zipped through the work, sweeping, mopping, dusting, baking, preparing meals etc. then snuggled down in a lounge chair in the rarely used front room and read until I heard mum coming and quickly hid the book picked up the duster and went about the housework. I loved reading, it was escape from my boring mundane life, but I did so wish I had access to more books and allowed to choose what I read.

Mum always went to bed with the birds; she bragged she never needed to use electric lights although our electric lights were free, when it was windy. I hated going to bed so early every night but mum's motto was _early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise._

I longed to read when I went to bed but no way was I allowed to turn on the electric light. I tried using a torch under the blankets so mum wouldn't see the light, but she found me out when she discovered the torch batteries were flat. I always felt guilty about reading. I loved reading so much. I thought it a bad thing; it must be bad if it gave me so much pleasure.

Monday was washing day. The washing was done to a strict routine it was a long day of tedious work. The wood copper was lit to boil the germs out of all boilable clothes. The new electric 32volt Simpson washing machine made wash day much easier though the wringers weren't electric, I hated turning the handle of the wringer as mum fed the clothes through the rubber rollers to squeeze out the water, the quicker I turned it the quicker this tedious job was finished. I hated hanging the clothes on the line as well, it was a difficult chore because it was usually windy, very windy, and if any clothes were dropped it meant they landed in dirt and had to be washed again. I learned to be very careful not to let any washing touch the ground, if it did I got a sound scolding "because you shouldn't be that careless."

I tried to be careful but was then scolded for taking too long, the clothes had to be securely pegged to resist the strong winds, so time consuming. Oh dear me!

The clothes lines in the paddock just outside our fenced house yard was made of fencing wire strung between strategically placed posts (tree trunks) solidly buried into the ground so as to catch the prevailing winds, a suitable chosen bough of a tree with a fork at the top was used to stake the middle of the clothes line high enough to keep the washing well off the ground. The washing though dripping wet dried quickly because the wind direction depicted which line was used for maximise drying, on days with a hot north wind the clothes dried pretty much instantaneously because it blew directly into the clothes blowing them out to their full extent. Mum was strict about not leaving them on the lines longer than necessary because "the wind blows them to bits." Indeed it did, even though mum was particular in not leaving the clothes blowing longer than necessary (in fact she usually brought them in before they were completely dry) the sheets and tablecloths regularly frayed at the corners caused by the wind furiously flapping them, all our linen eventually had the corners cut off and hemmed.

Lance Hill in 1945 invented the Hills Hoist in a back yard in Glenuga Adelaide South Australia, it was a rotary clothesline that could be raised and lowered by a winding mechanism and could fit in a small backyard and accommodate as much washing as did our crude lines spread around the paddock. Mum bought one and instructed dad where to install it, near the laundry. We were excited; all our washing would be nearby. I couldn't wait it use it... and of course it was blowing a gale as mum and I both tried to peg the clothes on the new Hills Hoist. Tried was surely the operative word as we pegged one garment and reached for another the line blew around and away from us, we wound it down to the stop cogs which supposedly acted as a brake but it was ineffective against the strong winds, the line just whirled round and round with us chasing it. Nothing was going to beat mum; she devised a scheme where I held the line in place while she pegged the washing.

Great all the washing was hanging on the new line.

We watched in horror as the line loaded with wet clothes spun round and round, winding the clothes into a solid wet mass on the lines, they were a bunched up tangled mess knotted into themselves with not a hope of ever drying. "Wow is me."

Mum was disgusted with this " _new-fangled thing_ ". We painstakingly untangled the clothes and hung them on the old fixed wire lines where they soon dried with the prevailing winds blowing directly into them. Not to be beaten mum permanently tied one corner of the Hills Hoist to a solid post, it couldn't move anywhere even so it was nowhere near as efficient as the wires attached to tree trunks strategically placed to catch the winds, consequently the new line seldom got used.

Tuesday was ironing day. Ironing was also a production run to a strict routine all done on the kitchen bench covered with a blanket and sheet. I hated ironing days, so mundane and boring, mum insisted I use the pott irons they were pretty much foolproof so long as they weren't too hot or dirty, but they were always on the stove ready to go. It was an art maintaining an even temperature making it difficult for ironing starched garments and linen which needed a hot iron but not hot enough to scorch. The irons had to be perfectly clean as most garments were white and attracted dirt marks, the stove top suffered many spillages from food cooking and soot falling from the chimney! Am sure you get the picture?

It was quite an art to have the right amount of wood to obtain the desired heat. After a few scorching mishaps I got expert in knowing how hot the irons were by licking my finger and quickly touching the bottom of the iron, the sound of the hiss your wet finger made depicted the temperature. I wanted to use the electric iron but mum insisted Mrs. Potts irons were adequate for me.

The 32 volt electric iron had no temperature control requiring much skill and a lot of luck to operate, it needed a mighty gale to provide free power from the wind mill, or alternatively the newly installed generator had to be started (an art in itself) to provide enough current to the batteries to charge the iron. The generator was a boon on wash and iron days because we knew if all else failed we would be assured the generator would supply us with necessary power... that is if mum could get it started, consequently she deemed it was easier for me to use the Potts. I SO hated ironing days, mundane and boring.

I hated housework; as much as I tried I could never please mum, my efforts at 'housekeeping' were quite dismal. I felt a failure. Mum had no patience; things had to be done in a hurry to her specifications. I did as little as possible, I only did what I had to do and not very well I fear. I wasn't happy. I was thinking maybe I should have stayed at school.

Short reprieves for me occurred when we had important guests stay over. Mum and Dad were hospitable and charming hosts, I liked them in this role and I enjoyed meeting new people who seemed businesslike and seemingly different to the locals, it was refreshing for me. I enjoyed playing my role as a _silent_ hostess. Yes! Silent! I knew my station; to be seen and not heard. I loved to take time in preparing the meals and making them look good, especially for important business type guests. Mum eventually allowed me to do not only the cooking but the plating up as well. (I guess I was making some headway?)

I contrived to efficiently cook the roast mutton and home grown veggies (that's what we always cooked) and plate up with care well before mum expected it on the table by starting preparation earlier than normal hoping to prevent her from taking over from me because "You're too slow."

As usual everyone commented on the delicious meal (it was becoming rather mundane) which finished with a home baked pie or pudding all cooked in the wood fired Rayburn stove. I thought our guest were condescending and just paying compliments to be polite because what I served was our everyday staples with a little more care taken over presentation. Without fail our guests complimented _me_ on the delicious meal and _my_ capabilities as an efficient potential housewife. "You will make some lucky young gentleman a very good wife one day."

I knew they were humouring me I was only doing what was expected of girls especially a farmer's daughter. I was dutifully fulfilling my expected role, so accepted with suspicion the accolades from visitors and their prophesies of gentlemen wanting to marry me. **"Who would ever want to marry me?"**

_I now realise the home grown and hand selected sheep_ ( _mutton)the fresh dairy products plus home grown organic vegies and slow cooked puddings all cooked in a wood fired cooker was delicious and rare fare for city folks._

I got to thinking "Other people work for money; I must ask mum and dad." I did.

"You don't need money; you have everything you need and you can buy on our account from the Penong General Store most necessaries or from the catalogues regularly mailed to us."

I was disappointed. I didn't want for anything and could order whatever I wanted anytime even so I yearned for a little financial independence. I'm afraid refusal of financial independence didn't bode well for my work ethics.

Mum realised we were going nowhere working together, so she endeavoured to get me to work with other families, obviously hoping I would _gain experience!_ I was happy to do this, glad to be away from mum's severity. My cousins on neighbouring farms were having babies, mum volunteered for me to help them, unpaid of course.

Reta and Cliff had three boys under five; I enjoyed helping Reta as each baby arrived. I loved babies and their older siblings, I was good at keeping them happy and occupied which I realise now was a huge help. I didn't feel I was good at housework but I loved to be with the little ones. I also helped Audrey and Kevin when their babies arrived. I felt comfortable living on the farms with these cousins whom I had known and lived near all my life.

I thought I was quite experienced helping new mothers and their toddlers, so when mum sent me to another home where the family lived a different lifestyle to what I knew I wasn't fazed, until I saw their home, a small isolated structure on a neighbouring farm untidy and run down.

My excitement at going to a new place was replaced by trepidation. I had never known such poverty. I didn't realise anyone lived so poorly, it was as I had never seen, besides the scarcity of food (and mum had taken meat, butter, cream etc.) their home and living standards were disgusting. The mother who I didn't know very well had daughters from a broken marriage and now living in a relationship with a guy who had worked for dad when I was only a child, so I knew him. She was sick with mastitis, so stressed trying to breast feed her new baby with a demanding toddler at her heels. The father of the baby seemed to me to be pestering and trying to fondle this struggling nursing mother at inappropriate times, she was severely stressed and obviously uncomfortable.

I too felt uncomfortable I had never seen a man acting with a woman like he was acting with this distressed and ill lady. I was embarrassed. It was not a happy household everything was disorganised and chaotic. I needed guidance in situations like this and there wasn't any. I felt scared and alone.

The makeshift bathroom was situated in an alcove with no door consequently no privacy, I felt I was being watched by the father, so much so I dared not have a proper bath, I didn't feel comfortable undressing, so I didn't. I slept in fear he would come to my bed even though their young toddler slept near me.

I was so pleased to go home, when I walked into our kitchen I couldn't believe how light and bright it was after being in their dim dreary house. I couldn't relate my fears to mum, I knew she wouldn't understand or believe me, I had escaped with nothing untoward happening to me. I was relieved. I don't know what spooked me with that guy, but it did even though he was always nice to me, maybe he was too nice?

Many years later I learned he was jailed for assaulting the daughters of this lady!

One day a large package came from Melbourne addressed to me from McCabe Academy of Dressmaking. It was a series of educational books teaching dressmaking, dress designing, ladies tailoring, lingerie, and children's wear by correspondence. Mum had ordered it as something to occupy me. I later learned she had always intended I would be a dressmaker and music teacher. I briefly looked through the complicated jargon and totally alien details in the books; it all looked like double Dutch, stuff I definitely wasn't interested in.

"No way am I going to do that." I defiantly said.

So the package was put aside gathering dust.

Mum not to be beaten, decided I would teach music, she spread the word around and found some kids that mothers wanted taught and were prepared to pay a nominal amount to learn. Mum knew there was no-one else in the community with qualifications prepared to teach so I soon had quite a clientele; these lessons took place after school on the piano in the Penong hall, I taught while mum was doing her weekly shopping. I was still only fourteen years old, not old enough to drive myself on public roads.

I had no qualifications to teach, nor was I a good pianist, but I knew all the theory of music, so proceeded to teach as I had been taught. It was interesting, some kids took to playing like a duck to water and became good pianists, no credit to me they were naturally talented, some were just absolutely hopeless not even wanting to be there wasting my time and their parents hard earned money. I quickly realised these kids were sent to lessons because their parents wanted them to play the piano. The time available for teaching was limited so I spoke to these parents explaining the situation. "Your dream will never come true, your child just isn't interested in playing the piano, and you are wasting your money... and my time."

I don't think I was too subtle, but I got my message through, and thoroughly enjoyed teaching those who wanted to learn.

Mum also decided I would play the organ at church each week taking over from her. This consisted of four hymns, incidental music before the service started and again after the service finished. I wasn't nervous because the congregation was small and I knew them all, the same few attended each week, though at first I rejected and hated the idea of organ duties, then reconsidered... I had to go to church so thought I may as well be doing something as doing nothing. I wasn't very good as an organist but didn't care, the minister didn't seem to worry about my lack of organ skills either, between him and mum they sang loud enough to drown out my playing. I just concentrated on finishing the music to coincide with the congregation as they finished each verse.

The organ operated by wind with foot pedals manually pumping air into it. It was similar to one we had at home so was easy for me to play it. This one faced the congregation, I was able to watch everyone, at least it was better than sitting in the congregation looking at the minister who I felt was always looking at me and directing his monotonous sermons to me. I complained to mum about the minister directly lecturing me from the pulpit, her retort _"if the cap fits, wear it."_

I loved music and spent many hours in our front lounge room where I played the piano and organ, mostly the piano. Although I never had much opportunity to hear pop music I had grown to love what I was able to hear from friends' car radios Saturdays at the football. I learned to play by ear copying the pianists who played for the dances after footy on Saturdays.

Elvis Presley was the latest popular singer. I couldn't get enough of him but I wasn't allowed to buy his music.

"Why?" I asked.

"It's not good music, it's a bad influence."

"How can it be a bad influence? Surely happy lively music isn't bad!"

I had to accept mum and dad's explanation though didn't understand it so I sneakily listened to every bit of Elvis music I could which was only when I was with friends. Although mum and dad thought Elvis was too risqué my friend's families didn't. Why? I couldn't understand! I never had any idea what Elvis looked like I hadn't seen a picture of him. I had no idea what any of the pop singers looked like except those whose music I was allowed to buy with their picture, (usually a caricature) on the cover. I couldn't understand why mum and dad banned me from buying certain music especially Elvis's; it must have been because it was lively and upbeat, their beliefs didn't win them any `brownie points' with me.

When I saw an Elvis movie many years later I realised the movements must have been offensive to some and the word spread to mum and dad.

One day as I browsed through a catalogue (my method of window shopping) I saw magic tricks. Mum allowed me to post an order to buy the tricks I selected. Mum never stinted on me buying anything she approved of, be it from the local store or catalogues she was happy to pay for it all.

I was excited when the parcel arrived. I disappeared to a private spot, not my bedroom which wasn't really mine, my bedroom was the main flash bedroom which doubled as the guest's bedroom (with me sleeping there as well) so it must at all times be very tidy and presentable... in case of visitors. I'm sure mum used this as an excuse to always have it perfectly presented. I yearned for my own private bedroom though resigned to the fact it would never happen. I retreated to my 'cubby house' outside in the pepper tree. Mum never checked on me for at least a half an hour in my 'cubby house', I unpacked the parcel of magic tricks, the contents looked strange. I studied the directions and contents of each trick and thought no one could possibly be fooled by such simple illusions, "I will test them on mum."

"Mum! See if you can see how this is done?

Mum watched me perform the first trick very carefully, at close range.

"How did you do it?"

I was amazed she couldn't see the simple explanation of the trick. I thought she may have been humouring me especially as she maintains nothing passes by her unnoticed.

"Did you really NOT see how it was done?" I asked.

"No! How did you do it?" she asked again.

I performed the rest of the tricks; I could see the amazement on her face, what a revelation for me I had put something over mum which to me, the solution was so obvious.

I must be onto something special, if I can fool mum I can fool anyone.

Mum's conclusion, a favourite saying of hers " _The quickness of the hand deceives the eye."_

I ordered more tricks along with books of patter and presentation. I practiced the tricks and had so much fun fooling people, especially those whom I presumed thought I was just an 'ignorant girl'. I performed in small concert productions and many parties. I was held in high esteem and actually revered; I felt a fraud at being able to deceive so easily, nevertheless I felt a new sense of power and worth.

Mum contrived to keep me occupied, not only with books which I was losing interest in because of their religious content, but craft work, she bought whatever materials were necessary to keep me happily occupied. After the midday meal was cleared, we often sat together at the kitchen table mum showing me different things to make. I could improve on mum's standard, in fact I thought she wasn't very good at craft work she was always in too much of a hurry as soon as I got the gist of what she showed me she retreated and left me to it. I was at my happiest then.

Where mum got the ideas from I have no idea, they may have been 'fads' introduced to our community. I embraced these 'fads' and produced many works of art some good and some not so good. I particularly enjoyed dressing miniature lady like dolls in fancy elaborate dresses all made of plastic. I made so many it was getting ridiculous; so, mum suggested we sell them.

"Who would buy them?"

I couldn't imagine any-one wanting to buy something I had so much pleasure producing.

Mum took them with her to church meetings and to friends she visited, I watched with embarrassment as she proudly showed off my works encouraging them to buy one. I was amased how quickly they sold. The charge was minimal, so I guess it was easier to buy one than refuse mum. I began getting orders for specific styles and colours. I thought how easy it was to make money simply by asking, not that I needed money, so I decided to start a piggy bank with no idea what I'd do with it.

Some of the dolls I dressed in plastic.

. Me wearing a `Fancy Hat' I made. I won a prize.

The dressmaking books still lay untouched gathering dust until one day mum was out in the paddocks I was so bored and had read all our books over and over that I picked up the dressmaking books to sneak a look. To my surprise I found them not only interesting but easy to follow and soon became engrossed thoroughly working my way through the books as I studied each one. Mum of course was smug because she had another win; she opened a monthly account at Myers store in Adelaide in my name so I was able to purchase whatever materials I needed for the course. Most of the course involved designing and pattern making. I had to make all the patterns before any sewing was done which all had to be done on the kitchen table between meals. What a pain it was to have to clear everything away for meals.

The foot powered treadle Singer sewing machine in mum's bedroom though noisy, stiff and hard to treadle was what I learned to sew on. I complained bitterly about how hard it was to operate so mum produced her trusty oil can and dabbed oil on all the moving parts, magic, the machine purred smoothly along after the oiling. I learned then as a young teenager that most sewing machines usually only needed oiling instead of expensive services from professionals.

The course consisted of six books each of a different subject, dress designing, dress cutting, dressmaking, tailoring, lingerie and children's wear. Each book had a written and practical test. I enjoyed the challenge of exams and tests and flippantly completed the tests without much effort and sent them to Melbourne for marking. The marked work was sent back with all the mistakes boldly detailed, there were heaps of mistakes because I was so casual about the whole procedure.

The only dressmaking tuition I ever received came from these books. I learnt by trial and error... lots of errors. Aunty Agnes gave me a good dressmaking tip "Ironing seams and hems as you sew makes sewing so much easier and neater." She was right. The crude shaped cumbersome pott irons on the stove certainly improved my sewing abilities and there was access to a hot iron at all times. I silently thanked Mrs. Potts for inventing this practical though cumbersome iron. I learnt to test the iron on a scrap of the material I was sewing as each fabric was different and required different heat.

One day a travelling salesman called, these salesmen were welcomed especially by mum, it gave her a chance to see what was new and purchase the latest. My eyes popped wide open when I saw this dear little 32 volt electric sewing machine about half the size of the treadle Singer. On windy days I would be able to sew by the power generated from the free light and maybe if I could convince mum when necessary to use the generator. I begged mum to buy it for me, I said it could be my birthday and Xmas present. So, I became the owner of a brand-new sewing machine, I was fourteen years old.

I found it easy to draft to specific measurements and make the frocks a perfect fit. To achieve a perfect fit it was necessary to try on the frocks while wearing the corset, it really made a lot of difference to the figure. The 'best figure, was achieved by the girl with the most tolerance to discomfort under the corset.

" **Pride knoweth no pain!"** _Mum used this quote many times during this era, my teenage years._

I was surprised when mum allowed me to buy the most expensive elasticised pull on corset. These were worn over the panties. I had discarded the bulky bloomers. This corset came in many styles, mum and I chose the most expensive one a pant style heavily elasticised, a very firm fit from the waist to the upper thigh condensing excess fat around the tummy bottom and thighs. It was very difficult to pull on and so uncomfortable; but made me appear much slimmer.

As mum constantly reminded me " _Pride knoweth no pain."_

The first frocks I made myself were never worn, but as I became more experienced I made some nice dresses for myself always having to get mum's approval before I was allowed to wear them out. Mum's main concern was the length. I must not show the knees or too much skin above the waist, definitely no revealing of the breast, the neckline must be almost to the nape of the neck. Fashions were modest and sedate, so mum's restrictions didn't bother me too much. I continued drafting patterns and sewing for myself, then for girlfriends, we were all about the same size with normal figures (absolutely no obesity in those days).

The fashions in the fifties were firmly fitted bodices with very full calf length skirts. The perfect figure was hour glass, 36ins bust, 26ins waist, 36ins hip; most of us girls were of these measurements. The waist was the smallest part of the torso accentuated by fitted corsets to shrink the waistline as small as bearably possible. The local girls were happy to pay me a nominal amount to draft and make unique frocks they designed. I credit these girls trust in my newly gained skills for giving me so much experience, it was quite a chore to produce something special which fitted perfectly. It was such a thrill to see the girls twirling around the dance floor in their frocks the flared skirts beautifully swishing around their legs.

I was happy to be kept busy making frocks for my 'normal sized' teenage friends consequently I never had a chance to make for different sized figures and avoided sewing for older women whose bodies changed shape as they aged. All young people had similar figures, some were taller, and some were bigger boned, but basically all in proportion. There was no obesity in those days, no-one had excess fat on them, not even the older women they had simply changed shape.

Our basketball team was to have new uniforms. I made mine. The style was basic, the same as all sport and school uniforms in those days. Sports uniforms were made of cotton, my high school uniform was wool serge, uniforms all had three large boxed pleats across the front and back. I was proud of how professional it looked but was mortified when mum inspected it declaring "It's much too short, everyone will be able to see your knees." I didn't think they could, I had made it long enough to cover my knees.

"You haven't finished growing yet and when you do your knees will be showing!"

I dutifully let the hem down to my calves... in case I grew.

I don't know how we managed to play sport in such cumbersome long uniforms. These cotton uniforms because of the boxed pleats had to be washed, starched and meticulously ironed after each match to define perfect box pleats. _(No synthetic fabrics in those days.)_

The hardest part of drafting and sewing for me was the time and space restrictions. I had to do the housework which I still hated and fit my drafting and sewing in between meals. The kitchen table was the only work area available which had to be cleared every meal time causing so much extra work and inconvenience. Dad of course gave me no consideration he was only interested in hard work and hard workers on the farm; and being comfortably fed with no interruptions, especially at mealtimes.

As time passed, I gained confidence in my newly found skill even so I couldn't believe it when I was asked to make three identical bridesmaid's frocks. The bride wanted something special, different from the usual styles bought from catalogues everyone had access to. The style she chose was the latest, beautiful, three layered full flared ballerina length skirts with fitted bodices of flocked embroidered organza. I was thrilled she had enough confidence to trust me with such a special chore. I knew the whole community would be critically waiting ' _to see how the frocks turn out'._

This assignment for me was huge, not only producing the extravagant gowns but working around the logistics of farm work and meals etc. while working with yards and yards of delicate fabrics. Mum did try to accommodate as much as possible by packing as many meals as practical to take to the workers in the paddocks, a massive boon for me to be able to work at the kitchen table without interruption for a whole day.

The day arrived; it was a big wedding as custom in our community. Everyone is invited by a notice in the local West Coast Sentinel so virtually all the locals were there. I knew the frocks perfectly fitted the curved corseted figures of the three lovely bridesmaids and were all identical to the very last detail; but my breath was totally taken away when they arrived at the church. Such a vision of loveliness completed by make-up accessories and flowers, they looked so unique and special. When they walked down the aisle I could hear and see gasps and whispers of approval. I was astounded. I could hardly believe I had drafted and made such a vision of loveliness.

I was congratulated by everyone resulting with lots of orders flowing in; of course, orders were in abundance my fees were next to nothing. I didn't have to earn a living, and I wouldn't have felt confident enough to charge very much in case I 'stuffed up'. I enjoyed the challenge of drafting and making fitted clothes especially evening wear for young 'fashionable' friends. The orders were a plenty from the local girls allowing me to obtain valuable experience. I avoided making clothes for older woman but I did make mum one frock, it looked awful and fitted badly, it discouraged me, even so she insisted on proudly wearing it. I was so embarrassed. I never made her another.

Mum was quite smug with herself; all her plans for me were evolving, except my dismal failure at farm work. I heard her telling friends "I always planned for Eunice to teach the piano and be a dressmaker."

"Time" I thought "to express some of my wishes."

"Mum I need a separate area to sew in, it's much too inconvenient drafting cutting and sewing all on the kitchen table and having to pack it up for every meal." Mum didn't disagree but made no promises. I loved the days the men were working in the paddocks when we took the meals to them. I relished in a full day being able to work without meal interruptions.

Demand for my drafting and sewing surprised me. I was so busy but so unprofessional in how I produced the frocks in a working farm kitchen. It was also inconvenient for mum dad and the workers having to work around my materials and equipment when they did have meals in the kitchen. I continued to badger mum and dad at every opportunity about a designated area for my sewing.

Saturdays had always been my favourite day, but as a teenager they became extra special, it was my chance to mix with the local teenagers who were way more independent than me. Summertime competitive tennis was okay but not so many folks attended, in winter most locals attended Saturday sports day; football (AFL) for the guys and basketball (seven a side) for the girls. This, my best favourite day started with the weekly bath to cleanse not only my body but my mind. Driving over dirty dusty roads to wherever we were playing that week didn't worry us, it was normal. Both the football and basketball games were played at the same time, when our basketball match finished we cheered on the guys. After the matches we teenagers got together and did what teenagers do, can't remember what, but I know I enjoyed this time away from the watchful eye of my parents who were also busy catching up on the local news (gossip) of the area.

A sumptuous communal country style home cooked meal was provided by the home teams in the supper room of the hall. We enjoyed more `teenage' time between tea and the dance, a huge treat for me and even more enjoyable in the shadows of darkness as the sun went down. These country dances in the middle of nowhere were the absolute backbone of all social life in the area. Mum and dad although didn't approve of dancing by now realised how as a teenager I would be alienated from the community if they insisted to impose their stringent beliefs on me, especially as all the other kids danced. After much haggling with mum and dad I was allowed to attend the dances though be it under their watchful eyes.

The older women sat on chairs along one side of the dance floor acting as unofficial chaperones, not missing a single detail. The younger women and girls sat on the opposite side of the dance floor waiting expectantly to be asked to dance. The stage with the piano (and band if it was a special occasion) was at the front of the hall, at the back of the hall all the guys congregated, the older ones sitting the younger ones standing and eying the girls and deciding who to ask for the next dance.

Much to my disappointment shame and embarrassment we only stayed until 9pm when mum and dad insisted we go home because they were tired.

Learning to dance; the older married guys and some of the women, all self-taught, asked us girls in turn to dance. We learned to follow our partners in the Military Two Step, Canadian barn dance, Schottische Waltz, Foxtrot, Quickstep etc. I valued very much the people who took the patience to drag us (especially me) around the dance floor; we all learned to follow and not to tread on too many toes. I regretted having to go home so early and complained bitterly, but to my parent's deaf ears.

No drinks were allowed in the hall until supper time when cups of tea and home cooked goodies were served. Alcohol was absolutely banned in fact there was a hefty fine incurred to anyone found drinking alcohol within 200 yards of the hall, along with the fine came the disgust and disdain of the community.

An exciting time for us sixteen-year-old girls when it was determined there were enough of us to have a Debutante Ball in Penong Hall. This was a first in our lifetime; we were so excited though we didn't really understand the significance of a Debutante Ball certainly none of our lives would change as we supposedly `come out'. We would continue socialising as we always had; as for being 'presented' to some dignitary a citizen we all knew didn't have much meaning to us, but we didn't care, this was an exciting experience we all looked forward to.

We excitedly planned our gowns which had to be white and floor length. I thought I could make mine; a long gown would be the biggest sewing challenge for me so far. We bought the materials from catalogues, very expensive fabric and lots of it, finely permanent pleated organza, taffeta, guipure lace and stiffened vylene to disguise the large skirt hoops. I learnt a lot about designing during the making of this gown... from my mistakes.

The best lesson you can learn is the one you pay for.

Much planning and organising was needed for this ball to be a success. Expertise amongst the locals was pooled, dance, choreography, deportment and etiquette teachers prepared us with lectures and rehearsals; planners and decorators transformed the hall into what we thought was a fairyland.

We all chose a partner, I asked Glenys's brother Bill, some girls dared ask a boy they fancied, and some had their brothers as partners. It was a dreamland ball for us, everyone looked lovely in their long white gown. I was sick of mine, the stress of attempting to make such an elaborate gown and knowing the mistakes in it had depleted me. Though I was assured by many I had done a good job I didn't feel good; but I enjoyed the pomp and elegance of the ball which was deemed hugely successful.

  .

Pic 1.Me with partner Bill Lorimer. Pic 2. Penong Debutant Ball 1956 with conveners Vera Shipard, Nita Brooks. Irene Kelly.

# Chapter 22

## Progress to Independence

As I got older I was allowed to stay longer at the dances, this was a huge effort for mum and dad to be out so late. The dances in those days had to be finished and the doors closed by midnight because the next day being the Sabbath was strictly a NO GO day for anything except church, especially not for fun or dancing. I remember on the rare occasions we stayed until the finish of the dance, dad was extremely verbal about finishing before midnight, I was so embarrassed. I was labelled "the daughter of wowser Cliffy Freeman." I was surprised and grateful to anyone who wanted to dance with me. I felt I was degrading them by being seen dancing with me.

Keith and Ruby usually provided the music for the dances so stayed till the end of the night. I begged mum to let me come home with them, they lived next door, well a couple of miles away, "to save you waiting around." After much persuasion I was allowed to stay the whole evening and come home with Ruby and Keith each week. Mum continually reminded me I was still a child "you are not twenty-one yet."

Twenty-one was the official age of becoming an adult. Not until a person turned twenty-one could they vote or legally enter a hotel or drink alcohol. I still felt very much a child; I was continually scrutinised and chastised. Ruby was a well-respected church-going citizen and her presence ensured Keith and I behaved ourselves. Mum threatened me to always be on my `best behaviour' she warned "If you don't that will be the end of any dancing for you!"

I dared not abuse this trust; I appreciated so much being able to attend the dances without mum's severe scrutiny. Ruby was a fair and caring person; I loved her for her sensibility. I would never dare do anything to disgrace myself; anyway, I was still so innocent I didn't really know what being naughty was. I enjoyed the freedom of dancing without mum and dad watching my every move, though I know full well if I had done one single thing wrong even though there were no telephones mum and dad would soon learn of it, the 'bush telegraph' was so efficient greatly embellishing stories to unrecognisable proportions by the time it reached mum and dad's ears.

Ruby was such a kind caring person; she unquestionably looked after her parents especially her mother who depended on Ruby entirely though she was able bodied herself. Ruby never had a boyfriend; she never had a chance with her mother always by her side besides it was often said "there are no local boys good enough for Ruby." Ruby was always accompanied by her mother and never given the opportunity to meet new young people. I remember taking wedding photographs to their farm of Dawn and Gordon Ditters wedding the last of our cousins to marry besides Ruby. Ruby longingly looked at the photos, her mother cautiously looked at the photos then turned to Ruby and said to her "You'll never leave me will you dear?"

"No Mother!" Ruby dutifully replied.

Ruby never married. She devoted her life to her parents until their death, and then to the community she lived in, Tumby Bay South Australia..

All hotels closed at 6pm where much frivolity and drinking happened right up until 6pm, (on days we were in town I could hear it from the shop across the road) then the hotelier had to close the doors which was quite a task because everyone was happy and wanted to continue drinking and chatting. Whenever dad was in Penong at 6pm he watched to be certain the law was being upheld, mostly the hotel was a few minutes late shutting. Dad made sure the sole policeman knew and reminded him of his responsibilities. Of course, the policeman knew what was going on, the police station was also in the main street only three properties away from the hotel. It would have been very difficult for any policeman living in such a small community, he had no-one to socialise with except the locals, and most of the locals drank at the hotel. The hotel in dad's opinion was 'a den of iniquity', if dad thought the policeman was socialising in the hotel with the 'drinkers' he assumed he wasn't doing his job as was expected of the law and took it on himself to bring it to the attention of the offending policeman. When a new policeman arrived at Penong dad was among the first to make him a social visit. I thought dad was so important being one of the first to welcome our new policeman. If they agreed to come to our church dad was very happy "The new policeman is a jolly fine chap."

Some policemen dad could get on side, some he couldn't and he reminded those he couldn't get on side of their duties. I thought policemen in Penong led a boring life, not able to make friends of their own choice for fear to be seen 'in the wrong company'.

Occasionally a black and white movie was shown in the Penong Hall. This was an exciting event for Penong, especially for us teens. The hard-wooden bench seats were placed in the hall facing the white sheet strung across the wall for the movie to be screened on. We were never sure if the movie would be shown as planned because sometimes the movie reels missed the mail van, or the projector would break down. The nights that all went as planned were so much fun. We young teenagers all claimed the benches across the back of the hall, the daring kids sat in pairs holding hands and cuddling. I only ever got to sit next to a 'boy' once and felt very self-conscious and shy but so sophisticated and grown up.

Progress! Telephones were to be installed! How excited everyone was with such modern technology a great boon to our remote area but there was a cost, not only monetary but labour. There were three areas eligible for connection, Penong Township; farms west of Penong; and farms east of Penong. The east and west areas would be on individual 'party lines' with a maximum of six connections each and could ring within their party line free of charge by ringing the code delegated to each farm.

Each area had to provide their lines. PMG (Post Master General) provided the technology. Dad led the working bee in our area (east) to install the poles for the phone lines (wire) to be attached. Selected trees were chopped down, yes there was still natural scrub land growing which hadn't been chained though all rather spindly with small trunks. The trees with the straightest trunks and a fork at the top were chosen to be used as telephone poles for the line connections. The line ran from the Penong Exchange along the boundary fences of the properties on the Eyre Highway branching off to each farm. The tree trunks were strategically placed, resulting in a strange array of crooked poles along the fence lines, the tallest poles were used over the gateways. On the forks of each of these strange looking poles glass like domes were attached with the wire line wound onto each dome as it stretched its way along the highway. There were two lines one for incoming calls and one for outgoing calls.

The combined efforts of all those involved in installing the lines was a tribute to community's co-operation and tough practical pioneering spirit. We were all proud of this rather crudely built telephone line. The day came for the trial... did it work? We simple country people couldn't imagine it could possibly work; telephones were a luxury only the big cities enjoyed.

The telephone exchange was installed in the Post Office. Mrs. Harris was telephonist while Mr. Harris continued running the Post Office. All was arranged, the exchange would ring a code... we waited... three short tingles came from the bells attached to the top of the phone...

I grabbed the receiver "Hallo! This is Eunice speaking."

"It works!" was Mrs. Harris's excited reply.

It did, how exciting, and I was the first to talk on this wonderful new contraption and a great service to our remote areas. There was no dials or keypads with numbers on the phone, simply a handle to turn; four separate turns creating bell like rings was the code for Mrs. Harris at the exchange, our code was three short rings, others were three longs: long short long: short long short: two shorts and a long: a short and two longs. There were no other three ring combinations, so this restricted the size of the party line. The party lines were able to talk within their party unrestricted at no cost any time of the day or night.

All calls made were registered at the exchange but to avoid confusion the exchange combination was four rings. Mrs. Harris only answered the four rings calls and manually transferred these `trunk calls' to the requested numbers, officially operating only between 8am and 6pm weekdays. This telephone service connecting us to Australia was shared by six farms, with only one party able to use it at a time, a strict code of ethics was agreed to:-

Trunk calls (through the exchange) only allowed during operating hours, except in dire emergencies.

Trunk calls to be restricted to ten minutes, longer calls were charged per ten minutes.

Only one trunk call at a time was possible, each connection had to be manually connected and terminated at the exchange.

One short ring depicted a call was finished.

If a receiving party didn't answer their code ring, repeated rings could be made, and if no answer then a short ring depicted the line was free.

No conversations were to be listened to!!!???

Everyone appreciated the new communications so much; most people respected the operating hours only making trunk calls during operating times. Although the Harris's lived on the premises they did not appreciate being disturbed after-hours and made it quite clear after-hour service was for dire emergencies only. When emergencies occurred, they were capably handled with graciousness. Emergencies such as a bushfire where the community was involved Mrs. Harris kept all lines open, she acting as coordinator, it saved many hours of innuendos and gossip when everyone heard firsthand the actual happenings of the emergency.

The telephone was not only a bonus for business, social and emergencies, but for 'entertainment' and the 'bush telegraph'. Gossip spread twice as quick and exaggerated twice as much, even without talking on the phone assumptions could be made by deducting who received phone calls at what time the calls were received and why? Assumptions could easily be proven by lifting up the receiver during a conversation and listening in to conversations. Astute callers could detect a third party picking up the phone to listen, a slight click could be heard, if we thought someone was listening, we challenged them to hang up, usually they did. If a conversation went on for too long, as it often did, the waiting party would pick up their phone and ask how long before they finish the call? Usually this interruption resulted in immediate termination.

Mum relished in the availability of the phone, she spent hours on it, her two sisters, and sister in law were now only a phone call away. Every morning after mum had milked the cows and completed her morning chores while the rest of us were still in bed she talked to Aunty Agnes for ages it seemed, I didn't mind how long she talked because I was allowed to sleep in until she got off the phone, then she'd tell me to get up. The phone was installed on the wall in the passage just outside my bedroom door, the conversations I overheard while I was in bed astounded me; everybody was discussed, dissected and judged. I thought how wonderful our family was, such good people without the afflictions and problems other people seemed to have. I was so pleased we were not affected like the people mum discussed on the phone each morning. I did wonder why mum still associated with the dysfunctional folks she had been talking about. I think mum thought she was talking softly, but mum had a naturally loud voice which echoed and amplified in the linoleum covered hallway right into my bedroom.

Listening in to others phone conversations on the party line was inevitable, intentional and unintentional. Unintentional if we didn't realise a call was in progress until voices were heard. The tone of the voices and conversation determined whether they heard you pick up the receiver or not, if not, it was too much of a temptation not to eavesdrop. Normal procedure when you interrupted a conversation while in progress was a quick apology before immediately replacing the receiver in its cradle. Intentional eavesdropping listeners had to be real smart. One line wasn't, it was a farm owned by a bachelor and his spinster sister, the Davey's. They kept to themselves, never made or received phone calls, never attended any functions, never owned a car, occasionally driving their horse and cart to Penong to buy supplies. How do we know they listened in?

In the rare silences during mum and Aunty Agnes's phone conversations, they could clearly hear a clock ticking, neither aunty nor mum had a ticking clock anywhere near their phones. Mum being a self-professed 'Private Detective' set about to find out who had a ticking clock near their phone. She knew most homes décor, eliminating those she knew didn't have a ticking clock she paid a social visit to the others. I was excited because it was different outings for me. Mum noted none of the folks we visited had a clock anywhere near their phone, she cautiously asked if they had heard a clock ticking while on the phone, most had. By process of elimination it became obvious to mum the eavesdropper had to be the only home mum or anyone had never been in, the Davey's. Mum saddled up our cart which I thought strange because mum never drove our cart, the buggy was her mode of travel, when I questioned her about taking the cart she said "it needs using, it hasn't been used for a while."

"Where are we going?"

"To the Davey's"

I was amazed "Why ever for, we never visit them?"

"We are today. Get in."

Off we set. We bounced along on the uncomfortable seat of the cart, mum in a very apprehensive mood, I could feel it, and even the horse seemed apprehensive pulling the cart along.

I wondered if mum thought our rather flash buggy may intimidate the Davey's, they always drove a drab cart.

We arrived at the Davey farm welcomed by barking dogs and a suspicious brother and sister who were obviously surprised to receive visitors. I felt humiliated and intrusive, but mum chattered on and somehow we got an invite into their house where no-one else had been allowed to venture. Sure enough there on the mantel piece alongside the wall mounted telephone was a large mantel clock with a very loud tick. I saw mum's eyes rest on the clock. I then knew what this unusual visit was about. I was so embarrassed, I wanted to run. I was so embarrassed I don't remember if mum said anything to them about the clock. We stayed on, mum had a long social chat with them and was amazed how much they knew of local news and gossip knowing they seldom left the farm and when they did they had no social contact except for the shop keeper who was too busy to gossip anyway. The only avenue for them to learn all the news and gossip was from eavesdropping phone calls.

I remembered after that visit whenever we heard a clock ticking while we were on the phone we said "Miss Davey, hang up your phone, we know you are listening."

CLICK! The ticking stopped. It wasn't too long after this discovery both the Davey's died, it was said amongst the community they died of boredom and grief, because their entertainment line was terminated.

The party phone lines changed the way we lived in the bush, farms and businesses were able to run more efficiently, instant communications with distant relatives and friends saved much angst, social interaction was enjoyed; even though there was less privacy now with personal conversations open to the public we didn't care, but we were always aware of eaves droppers.

Glenys's family was on our party line. Glenys and I spent hours on the phone to each other talking about I don't know what, I do remember it being of vital importance that we speak for long periods and often, always as soon as we arrived home from school after spending the day with each other.

Mum and dad often said, "you have only just seen Glenys, why do you have to talk for ages?"

"Oh! I have to!"

_I now find myself saying the same thing to my teenage grand children who get home from school and immediately get on the phone to those they have spent all day with??_?

Many a time while talking on the party line Glenys and I were interrupted by someone wanting to use the phone, we were not surprised, we did tend to spend far more time manipulating the phone than was necessary (though at the time we thought it was necessary) we graciously ended our conversation, waited for the single ring signaling the interrupting caller had terminated their call, we then rang each other and talked until again interrupted. We must have really annoyed the other party line owners, but it was absolutely essential for us to have these telephone conversations????

On selected holidays Roger and I were allowed to invite a friend each. I usually invited Glenys. Roger invited his school mate John who was the same age. We loved the holidays when we were allowed to have friends along, we had so much more fun than holidaying with just our family. A favourite holiday destination was Pt. Lincoln where we parked at Uncle Will and Aunty Ethel's home in close proximity to many shops. We loved the opportunity to shop and browse different shops, a welcome change to shopping from a catalogue. Coffin Bay a picturesque remote seaside bay not far from Pt Lincoln was our favourite beach destination, it had only one building a shop, the general store. The rundown building sported the store incorporating the post office and the bank at the front and the living areas at the back. We parked our van in a vacant paddock near the little general store along with a few other caravan holidayers including Glenda's family and the Methodist minister from Penong. A few small homemade shacks were scattered through the scrublands, one was Glenys's family who also had a boat so often took us out fishing. We had so much fun, mixing with other children holidaying at their families shacks, swimming, exploring the bush, fishing etc. It was a tight squeeze with six in our 14ft bond wood van, but we were so tired after busy happy days we soon fell asleep not caring about being cramped with no privacy.

During these holidays we played board games, Chinese checkers, scrabble etc. Some of our friends liked card games. No! Mum and dad simply refused to play any card games _"It's a form of gambling."_

These holidays were so special for us all, especially for me with dad joining in, he had an amasing analytical mind, he could analyse and solve any problem, he thought beyond the square, he was excellent at draughts and chess, he was confident of winning, and usually did. He was good at all board games but usually too busy to play at home though occasionally I made a noughts and crosses grid on a scrap of paper while he was having a meal and ask him to play as he ate. On holidays I loved playing with him, but it was so frustrating, he not only always won but was able to depict my moves. I played him so many times, finally I worked out his strategy, though I could beat most other people I could never beat dad, but now our games usually finished in a draw.

There was one particular board game similar to noughts and crosses that I learnt to play as well as dad played it, I had played him so often I learnt his strategy. I enjoyed playing this game with people, especially 'smart alecks' whom I took great pleasure in beating.

John and Roger spent most of their holiday time exploring whatever young lads explore. At home John spent a lot of time at our farm with Roger, he lived with his family in Penong, he was the only boy with three older sisters. He was considered by his family as a naughty boy; to his sisters he was a little pest. John was intelligent, far better at schoolwork than Roger. I think John was only naughty because he was bored, he never broke the law; he was just a daring lovable rascal. Roger and John became good friends; John loved it on our farm. Dad loved having him on the farm, he was a quick learner and a willing worker always eager to help Roger with his chores so dad allocated them more chores, John's eagerness and efficiency ensured these jobs were completed in record time, greatly impressing dad. Dad felt John was a good influence on Roger. Most weekends and holidays John was invited; his parents couldn't believe dad's glowing report of John's behaviour. Every time we took him home after staying with us his mum asked "Did he behave himself?"

"Yes he is a model lad." dad truthfully replied.

I can still see John's mum and dad shaking their head in disbelief, they were happy to have their son stay with us. "He will only get into trouble if he stays here." they declared.

"He won't have a chance to get into trouble especially on the farm, I'll keep him busy working." Dad confidently told them.

"We can't get him to work he won't do anything for us."

It was a good arrangement, everyone was happy. John's sister's attitude to their brother was about the same as my attitude to Roger, typical sibling rivalry. John staying with us contributed to my attitude changing toward Roger. My brother was a being in our family I had learned to tolerate. These two boys shared a great friendship and were so much fun to be around, together they gave me a different insight to young lads; they were daring and mischievous without being naughty. John's enthusiastic attitude and willingness to work impressed mum and dad, his zest for life impressed me; his friendship with my brother was so special. It still is.

Our family 1954. Roger 10.5 years me 14

# Chapter 23

## Religion

Mum and dad were involved not only in the church and its subsidiaries but volunteered their time to most of the clubs and organisations in the area. Dad usually held the office of president and treasurer, mum secretary and treasurer. I heard mum say many times "I can always make a profit for the club when I'm in charge of the finances, none ever goes missing." I thought she was so clever. I grew up thinking it was everyone's duty to take their turn to serve on committees, for me it was just a way of life, consequently I have served in office on many committees through my lifetime.

During this decade the churches were spreading their missionaries into third world countries, saving souls especially children. Methodist missionaries often came to Australia spreading touching stories accompanied by graphic moving pictures of how the poor lived in third world countries; they travelled into remote country areas including the Eyre Highway visiting churches along the way. Penong is the last town on the Eyre Highway in South Australia and we often hosted these missionaries whose aim was to canvas support especially financial donations; everyone dug deep into their pockets because of the tragic emotional stories they conveyed.

The churches believed not only the third world countries needed saving, but also our own aborigine population. I remember much hushed whisperings about 'albino' babies born in the native camps in the bush around Penong; these half white babies were outcasts within their aborigine camps, also outcasts to the whites.

"Who would want to associate with a child of aborigine blood?" was the question on many white persons' lips. Indeed, their future was grim. It was decided by the powers that be, these children should be 'saved'. I remember the ministers in church preaching "God loves all children. We must help the unfortunate ones, the ones that can't help themselves. We must save the children. We must take them into our homes and bring them up properly!"

I wasn't aware of how, but I remember aborigine children being allotted to selected Christian families to be raised within that family consequently attending Sunday school and church.

During the forties fifties and sixties I remember many aborigine children, mainly boys, some full blood and some half castes coming along to our church with their foster families, they were pristine clean and dressed in snow white shirts and grey serge shorts the formal wear of that era. The kids I saw were all boys, well-groomed, well behaved and subservient. I thought they looked rather forlorn and often wondered how they felt living such a different life from the freedom of their bush camps, it must have been so different for them living in such a strict regimented Methodist environment made to attend school or college, they didn't look happy to me. The belief was they were being saved; it was for the betterment of their well-being. The alternative was a life living in whirlies, scrounging the bush or begging for food, with no income or prospects for the future, thus the well-meaning authorities took the children and placed them into 'safe homes' in a 'proper' family environment where they could attend school and become educated. It was the belief they were doing these unfortunate children a huge favour.

When some of the children reached their teens they just disappeared, it was said they 'went walk-a-bout'. I remember disgusted whispers amongst the church people as they gathered outside the church after service. "Fancy, after all that family have done for him, he up and disappears, gone walk-about. The blacks just can't help themselves, can they?"

It was assumed the kids were ungrateful for the provision of a home, food, education and their keep. When a new native kid was relocated into a family I heard the gossipers saying "they will be disappointed when he goes 'walk-a-bout' and doesn't return, all their time and money will be wasted."

Some of the kids who were relocated stayed with their foster families throughout their school years, some going to college, some graduating with degrees from universities. These educated kids grew to be well connected successful respected citizens, some in business, some influential leaders. These kids would surely have many stories experiences and feelings to impart about their younger days. I, as a young girl watched these children grow as they lived with well-meaning Christian people in their homes. I with my childish thoughts thought these kids were lucky to be cared and provided for instead of having to live in squalor and poverty in their scant whirlies in isolated communities.

These aboriginal kids are now known as 'the stolen generation'.

Dad was passionate and very verbal about Methodism, so passionate and verbal that as I grew older it caused me to question much of his idealism, beliefs and narrow-minded opinions. I had lived away from home for a year with girls who were either Church of England or Methodists, these girls parents hadn't had such strong religious ideals as my parents, I could see they enjoyed themselves more than I was allowed to and yet I thought they were still good people, people whom mum and dad allowed me to associate with, why was I expected to lead a stolid fun deprived lifestyle while witnessing other respected people enjoying themselves? Dad tried to influence me to live by his standards and beliefs, in fact both dad and mum expected me to be a dutiful Methodist. I tried to oblige but to no avail, to me it was a boring existence, I became bold enough to express my feelings to them... I sensed their discomfort it must have been a shock that their shy suppressed obedient daughter dare to question their authority, lifestyle and beliefs. I was surprised they didn't demand me to adopt their beliefs in fact they appeared to have accepted my resistance though with shocked disdain. I felt a great sense of relief. Maybe I would now be allowed to have some fun and privacy... But... life went on the same, work all week, sports on Saturday, church and devotions on Sunday.

Gee I hated Sundays! So boring! No Sport! No shopping! No fun! My continual complaints and relating activities of other teenagers must have got through to dad and mum they finally relaxed the rules and decided that it couldn't really do any harm if we played social tennis on our court at home on Sundays, but definitely no competition matches. That was fine by me. I invited friends for Sunday afternoons of social tennis and laughter; soon dad was joining in, he loved his tennis. A huge step forward this was for me and Roger.

During the next summer school holidays, the Church of England invited Methodist youth to a youth convention held at Ceduna. I suspect dad influenced the invite he contrived to conspire anything to trick me into submission and be `converted'. I was billeted to stay with the Branch's, trusted family friends in Ceduna for the week of the convention, the family were friends of mum and dad and had a daughter my age also attending the convention.

This week was fun, the most I had ever enjoyed myself. Each day was like a mixed social with lots of teenagers playing all sorts of organised games; on nice days we were on the beautiful sandy beaches of Murat Bay at Ceduna. The leaders were young, fun loving and vibrant. I enjoyed mixing with the kids, especially the boys. I began to view boys in a different light; I enjoyed the camaraderie we shared. I grew up during that week. I realised boys could be fun, not to be intimidated by or to be avoided. At the end of each day we'd gather together for devotions. OK! That was acceptable after all the good fun we'd shared. The devotions were practical, spoken in plain English easily understood and quite moving. I didn't want this week to end.

The organisers of this convention were clever, each day the games and activities became more intense, more and more enjoyable. The devotions on the last day of the convention consisted of a big production becoming even more intense to our vulnerability, virtually demanding we give our lives and trust to Jesus. It had a very moving effect on us all, most of us publicly declared to follow in Jesus way and trust him. I was so moved by this week of social experience the final devotions on the last day really touched me. I pledged my life to Jesus, to follow his way, to be guided by Him, He would show me the path to lead me to righteousness. We were all dismissed and told to "go forth and lead your new life following Jesus path."

I was on top of the world, all my frustrations were solved Jesus would see to it, I was confident after such a positive week He would show me the way to be happy...

WRONG!

Back at the farm I was expecting life to be wonderful, I was positive my pledge to serve Jesus would reap many rewards. Mum and dad were pleased I had enjoyed myself so much, no doubt they had been told by the Minister of my 'giving my life to Jesus'. I could sense their smugness they were extra nice to me agreeing with all I said though I didn't say much. As time went by life returned to same as... same as... all the fun from the convention was forgotten; mum and dad's attitudes changed back to normal stoic. I felt restricted. I felt bored. I felt unhappy. I felt deprived of happiness. I felt alone. I couldn't find the _path_ I had pledged to follow. Jesus seemed to have deserted me. I tried to do and think all the positives I experienced at the convention. There was no response from my prayers for help and guidance. My newfound happy confidence slowly dwindled. Jesus seemed non-existent in my real world... BUT... I had discovered boys could be fun. Would I get to mix with these young people again? I hoped so.

Dad spared no expense when it came to church needs, each week our family put more money in the collection plate than I could dream of ever having for myself. Dad also pondered as to how he could get more people along to church. Many times he bemoaned how many people attended the hotel bar.

"If they came to church it would do them more good."

I dared say to him "Well take the church to the pub."

Oh dear! What a terrible thing for me to voice, let alone conceive.

I thought the pub wasn't such a bad place, lots of the local 'accepted' citizens even friends of mum and dad drank at the bar in an environment I was told was filled with laughter and fun which mum and dad considered wicked and destructive. Dad dearly wanted everyone to be devoted churchgoers, he continued pondering how he could get more people to attend church, he felt so many locals needed 'saving' besides the more who attended church the more in the collection plate, everyone was expected to give 'an offering'.

Dad continuously bemoaned the fact that the people in the world were becoming so wicked God would surely send another global tragedy to end the world abating all the unbelievers. I often heard him dramatically relate how God chose Noah to build an arc suitable for a mating pair of all living creatures to live in. When Noah had completed the arc and all pairs were safely aboard God sent the floods. It rained for forty days and forty nights, flood waters rose, all the beings in the world were drowned except for Noah and the occupants of the arc. Dad believed the people on earth were deserving of another similar fatalistic catastrophe thus enabling the world to begin populating again with believers. Dad was certain the tragedy would not be a flood because... "God promised he wouldn't send another flood."

Dad speculated the world could be blown up with bombs. I wondered what construction could be built for us to shelter in, one which would survive a bomb. I felt sure we would be chosen to be saved; we were good law-abiding Christian citizens.

Dad was so sincere and dramatic in telling these stories to anyone who would listen I thought he should be preaching from the pulpit, his stories had me believing what he said. I asked him why he wasn't a preacher.

"I haven't got the gift to preach, God has given me the opportunity to be a good farmer making good money which I am able to give to the church, so I work hard and give to God that way." I couldn't understand why dad thought he couldn't preach from the pulpit; I thought his stories heaps more interesting, believable and far more moving than the ministers boring sermons we sat through each Sunday.

The Methodist church sent a qualified delegate to Penong to educate the leaders on how to introduce tithing to our Methodist circuit. I suspect dad was the instigator of this mission, he being the prime leader embracing the event wholeheartedly and he alone paid all the costs involved. A formal three course free dinner (tea as we called the evening meal) was planned for the community; all the protestants received an invite. The area was abuzz "a **free** tea!" This evening in Penong Hall was planned and provided by the few regular Methodists churchgoers who were each dedicated responsibilities, thus ensuring the evening would be a success. We girls were to be waitresses, we were excited and looking forward to the event with great anticipation, an event like this had never been held in Penong. I was particularly excited and proud because dad seemed to be the `boss'.

The day of the dinner was spent in preparation, food being prepared by the ladies, the hall decorated, tables set, place cards to be strategically placed etc. As the guests arrived I could feel the excited expectations. Compliments on the presentation of the hall and tables were gracefully accepted. We girls had been given a crash course on table waiting etiquette, we were doing our best to remember all we were taught. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves even though there was no alcohol served, under no circumstances would Methodists allow any form of alcohol on any occasion. After three courses and cups of tea had been consumed the tables were quickly cleared. The delegate from Adelaide entertainingly addressed the diners, he amused them with his speech about a lot of relevant _stuff_ then when everyone was suitably primed he delivered the punch line... "Money is needed to provide and maintain the church and the services of a Reverend Minister including a manse for **him** to live in." _(Yes,_ **him** _was the operative word; never in those days was a_ **she** _considered worthy or capable of the position of a Reverend.)_

The diners while sated and grateful for the free meal were virtually told to tithe 10% of their income to the church. Many did. Dad was satisfied with the success of the evening. I remember him thanking profusely the representative for his professionalism in planning and overseeing the event and especially the final address which resulted in many promises. Dad declared "It was money well spent.

Dad assumed the promise of a weekly donation would commit the donors to attend church thus boosting the congregation numbers. The first few weeks after the dinner a few extra people attended and put their tithing envelopes in the collection plate, but these extra numbers soon dwindled away. Those dedicated to promises and could afford it paid their tithe in a lump sum. Most of the people didn't go to church or pay their promised tithe, dad took it on himself to visit them and ask them to uphold their promise, preferably by bringing it to church each week. I thought dad was an especially important person, visiting people, reminding them of their promise of commitment. I can remember dad getting very discouraged as the success of this scheme petered out. Soon the same usual churchgoers were the only ones upholding their promises.

I enjoyed participating in the dinner; it was a pleasant deviation from the boring regime I lived. Mum and dad seemed content with my attitude, we enjoyed a great camaraderie, so much so that dad obviously felt he could talk to me; with reason he said "You are old enough now to have an allowance, I will give you a pound a week but in return you must do the jobs around the house that mum asks you to do."

I was ecstatic. Of course I would do whatever mum asked, I did that anyway without getting paid. Wow! How wonderful! Independence! Receiving an allowance from dad and earning money from dressmaking.

"Thank you dad that's great."

Dad watched my reaction with pleasure then said "Now you are earning money you must tithe 10% of it to the church."

I was stunned. I voiced my immediate reactive thoughts.

"I am not giving 10% of _my_ money to the church, you give enough for our whole family, and what does the church do for me?"

"You get married and have your funeral in the church."

"I will pay someone to marry me, and I don't care what happens at my funeral. I don't need a church I wish I didn't have to go to church at all."

I was cross and hurt, so much so I felt brave enough to express for the first time how **I** really felt. Dad was in total shock at my retort, he was a kindly man always going out of his way to do what he thought was the right thing for everyone according to his standards. I think I shattered all his aspirations for me. I couldn't help it I was growing up and developing my own ideals and expectations. I think I was one of the few people who dared disagree with dad to his face. He looked a dejected man.

I didn't tithe 10%; I did however put a nominal amount in the collection plate each week. I did dutifully have to attend church, playing the organ for the church service was a deviation which helped me tolerate attending every week. During the sermon I moved from the organ to the front pew and designed dresses in the air above the Ministers head. My best styles came from these sermons. I mentally went through the process of how I'd design and sew the dresses to completion, fully absorbed the sermons seemed to take no time at all, sometimes I was so engrossed in these thoughts I didn't realise the sermon had finished, dead quiet brought me to my senses and I quickly went back to the organ found the hymn page and proceeded to play. After being sprung like this a couple of times, I left the hymn page ready to play so I didn't cause a stir trying to find it in a panic at the end of the boring sermon.

Life continued along the same. I had accepted my lot and got on with making the best of it. Mum and dad still had not given up hope of 'converting' me to the church, but never openly approached me about it, they knew better. I noticed if any touchy subjects were to be discussed with me now-a-days it was always dad who did it, mum had obviously given up on me and deferred me to dad whom I had limited time with because of farm commitments, even so I had always felt a closeness to him I never felt with mum. I could usually get my way with dad, coaxing him into my way of thinking which I honestly believed was reasonable anyway. I loved dad; he was the kindest most genteel generous man I have ever met _(except for my youngest son who obviously inherited his grandpa's genes)._ Dad was such a jovial man, the life of the party... well we never attended `parties' but he was certainly the life of gatherings be they social or business he always had a lot to say, mum often referred to him as **"holding the fort again."**

The epic movie `The Robe' was released and showing in Adelaide. It was rated as the best movie ever made, a must see by everyone. It was a BIG DEAL to fly to Adelaide from Ceduna for any reason, so I was surprised and excited when dad suggested I fly with him to Adelaide to see The Robe. I couldn't believe my parents could be so generous and eager for me to see this movie. I was impressed and excited about this wonderful opportunity. How decadent! I had never flown, so the flight alone was an adventure, only the wealthiest people could afford to fly to Adelaide, I felt extra special. I had never been to a real picture theatre. The only pictures we had seen in Penong were the cloudy black and white movies on reels shown on the white double bed sheet hanging on the wall in the local hall.

Dad and I flew to Adelaide, it was a great bonding, and probably the most time we ever spent alone together. We went to see The Robe. What a wondrous glamorous experience it was, the elaborately adorned theatre, the massive curtains that opened to expose the huge coloured movie screen were just mind boggling to me. I couldn't believe the splendour of a real picture theatre, especially the comfort of the plush individual upholstered seats. Dad was relishing in my awe.

Watching the big screen for the first time was mind blowing, I felt so privileged to have the opportunity. I was so enjoying the movie and whole experience when I realised what The Robe was about, a heart wrenching biblical story with heroic connotations about being a Christian. I was disgusted to think my parents stooped to such bribery and trickery to try to influence my becoming 'converted' to Methodism. I never said anything, the spectacle and story of the movie had me enthralled, at interval halfway through the movie dad bought ice creams and lollies a rare treat for me which I relished in. We settled back in the theatre to watch the second half of The Robe. I could not help but be moved by this unique experience, the theatrical experience, the movie, the drama, Victor Mature (what grit of manliness and strength) and the experience of being alone with dad as he spoiled me rotten and cow-towed to my every whim, which I milked to the utmost.

On the flight home dad asked "What did you think of The Robe?"

"It's a great movie thank you for taking me!"

"Did you get any spiritual feelings out of it?"

"No!"

Nothing more was ever said.

The next attempt to 'convert' me wasn't so subtle. I received a letter in the post. It was strange because it was from the Methodist Minister in Penong who I thought could have saved the postage and personally handed me the letter at church on Sundays. Knowing mum's stance on economy I thought she would also think it strange especially as she regularly saw him each week when she took hampers of meat, butter, eggs, milk, cream etc. but strangely mum didn't show any reaction which surprised me, in fact she wasn't even curious about the letter which was even stranger because she usually insisted on knowing every detail of my life and certainly dissected all the mail I received. We knew the minister and his family as friends, as we did all the locals, and he knew me, but I couldn't fathom why he would write to me. I read the letter and was surprised, flattered and proud to read so many compliments. I had never been paid compliments I was taught it was a sin to be vain.

" _Pride cometh before a fall"_ I just tried to always do the right thing.

The letter blew me away; I couldn't believe these things were written about me:-

I was a popular fun loving person.

I was kind and compassionate.

I was an asset to society and the community.

I was honest and hard working.

I was an achiever.

I was a born leader etc. etc.

I couldn't help but to feel guiltily proud, then I read on...

"You would make an excellent missionary, you would be a great asset to the churches missionary programs overseas, you would be the choice of all the chosen people etc....."

I was absolutely _disgusted._

I knew then dad and mum had plotted with the minister. I knew then why mum wasn't curious about the letter. All my vanity flew out the window. I didn't believe a word the minister had written it was only to bribe my ego. I put the letter straight in the fire, and never mentioned it again. No-one mentioned it to me either.

Life went on. I dutifully performed all I was expected to. I still behaved as the obedient teenager I was expected to be. I accepted this was my lot in life. I promised myself I would do my best and make the most of the situation. A reprieve came in the form of Reverend Ozzy Edwards who replaced the previous Methodist Minister at Penong. Church ministers, teachers, and policemen stayed only two years the duration of their contract, mum believed no-one could stand the harsh isolated conditions of the area for longer and she was probably right, though I well remember the emotional farewells of these folks when they left, they had grown so fond and became part of the close knit community there was much sadness in saying goodbye.

Rev Ozzy was a good singer. I accompanied him on the piano or organ when he sang solos. I, not being a good pianist, never felt confident playing for him, but he never once complained he just sang on. I made sure I ended the accompaniment on the right notes at the same time as he did. Rev Ozzy suggested us teenagers put on a concert at Charra hall where he conducted a service each Sunday. There were a few teenagers in the area that weren't regular churchgoers but were willing to participate. I reveled in the idea of taking part in a concert. It involved lots of rehearsals and late nights. I was allowed to travel with Ruby and Keith. I looked forward to these nights. The short devotions held at the start and finish of the evening wasn't intrusive to me, I didn't feel as if I was being preached at besides it was a small price to pay for the fun and freedom I enjoyed on these nights. Rev Ozzy was not only talented but fun to be working with, he was the capable Producer, Musical Director, Production Manager and everything else needed for a concert. We performed singing items, dancing and short skits I offered to show some magic. I asked mum if she thought I was good enough to fool the people.

Of course she said "Yes."

I had fooled her hadn't I?

These concert rehearsals were virtually my ' _coming out'._ I enjoyed mixing with the boys, a new experience for me especially at night. Some of the boys weren't from our school so I didn't know them very well, but I sure enjoyed their company. I discovered what it is like to be alone with a boy in the dark... in a car... with no-one around to spy on us. I was still very shy, cautious, prim and proper but didn't feel guilty about enjoying myself so much because the concert was church orientated, supervised by the Reverend whom mum and dad trusted. I never felt I was betraying anyone. I was having fun without scrutinised supervision from mum, I felt free. Rev Ozzy never asked us where we had been if we were out of his sight for a time, I couldn't believe it. I felt so liberated and daring! Spending time alone with a boy! Never did it enter my head to do anything I considered not proper or anything that would embarrass my parents. The boys also young were from respected church families, they never took advantage of my innocence: we simply enjoyed each other's company though not in a way my parents would have approved.

The night of the concert finally arrived. We all excelled in our performances really enjoying and relishing the experience contributing to its great success. I performed my magic tricks, to my amazement I had everyone baffled, they thought I was SO clever. I couldn't believe the many complimentary accolades I received. "How did you do it?"

I had made a promise to myself never to tell anyone how the tricks were done. Let them think I am so clever!

I was sad after the concert I missed the regular rehearsals, the secret fun I enjoyed alone with some of the boys. Strong friendships had been established; comradeship has continued through the years with these friends. _It still exists and will until the day we die._

1955 me in the first frock I made myself.

Taken in mum's garden

# Chapter 24

## Progress to Independence

One morning three weeks before I turned fifteen, I woke up with terrible tummy pains and bathed in sweat... I thought... but all the dampness wasn't sweat it was deep red... blood everywhere.

`At last' I thought with mixed emotions I have my 'monthlies'. I told mum; she produced the bulky square padded rags she had made showing me how to use them. I fixed one awkwardly between my legs. Too soon blood was dripping down my legs the pad had soaked through, this happened every half hour, I thought I was dying, indeed I felt so ill I wished I could die. I couldn't for one moment imagine what the rest of my life would be like having to endure this debilitating experience every month. I felt so ill. I spent most of the next week in bed bleeding profusely while enduring painful stomach pains. I mourned the loss of my lifestyle because of mum's warnings.

"Whilst with 'rags' you can't go swimming."

Of that I was certain I couldn't bear the thought of a trail of blood following me as I swam.

"You can't have a bath."

Oh dear me! That meant I wouldn't be able to attend social functions. I didn't want to be amongst people smelling as I did. Good, maybe I could get out of going to church!

"You can't wash your hair."

Oh dear me!

The few other minor restrictions mum had warned me of, I thought I could defy; I felt so miserable.

The bleeding didn't subside for three weeks, during this time the chore of washing out the rags had to be executed. The dirty rags were put to soak in the decorative china water jug set sitting in pride of place on the washstand in my bedroom. The jug was part of an expensive china jug and basin set used in pre bathroom days by the gentry to bathe themselves in the privacy of their bed chambers, for us it was decoration because we had a bathroom. I felt privileged to be able to use the decorative jug, which I covered with a towel. This privilege turned sour as the stench from the jug filled the room causing me to wretch. The ultimate insult was actually washing the stinking rags. I watched mum from a distance wash them that first month.

"I will do this for you this first time but you must do it yourself after that." she informed me.

I absolutely dreaded having to perform that ghastly disgusting chore.

I asked mum "When the bleeding stops will I have a month before it starts again?

I was mortified when she told me it was a monthly cycle.

I felt my life had come to an end. What was the use of living if every month for three weeks I was bleeding profusely confined to bed in pain, not able to do normal things, plus the ultimate insult - the chore of washing the stinking rags; I only had one week of the month to be normal. My life was boring enough as it was without this added burden. I dreaded the next month, only one week away. I lived each day in fear of the dreaded 'monthly' appearing. It didn't return for a couple of weeks, which gave me a reprieve and time to reflect. I remembered the girls at the hostel cursing their 'monthlies' but I didn't recall any of them being prevented from leading a normal life. I also remembered they didn't have homemade bulky pads which had to be washed, they used disposable pads. "I wonder if I can convince mum to buy disposables."

"No! You don't need to buy them when we can make them; SO!"

My second period wasn't nearly so bad. I was so relieved and thought I may get to cope after all until... I had to wash the stinking pads. I could not put my hands in the bloodied water so with a cloth tied around my face to stop the smell permeating my nose I got two long sticks to pummel and prod the pads, (there were no plastic gloves) after getting most of the blood out they went in the copper to boil with the rest of the 'whites', then pegged on to the clothesline in grand display for all to see, how embarrassing. Mum said "we must mark on the calendar the date you start your monthlies so you know when to expect them next time."

So on the hanging calendar on the kitchen wall for all to see were the dates I menstruated, how embarrassing this 'monthly' business was.

I slowly adjusted my lifestyle to this monthly regime and managed to take it in my stride. I decided I would continue living my normal lifestyle, bathing and washing my hair when I wanted to. The bulky pads were the hardest to adjust to then I heard through talking to girlfriends of Meds (internal sanitary pads). I secretly bought a packet on our account at Penong General Store, locked myself in the bathroom to experiment. I felt guilty doing things to my 'privates'. I couldn't believe such a small tampon could hold the blood. I read and followed the directions in the packet and inserted the tampon into a place in my body I didn't know existed. I was sure once it was in place it would hurt. After inserting it and not feeling anything, I thought it must have fallen out, I looked for it everywhere. Where had it gone? I peered into the area I had inserted it and there the string was hanging out. What a revelation that was for me, I only wore them when I went out, so mum wouldn't wonder why I never had pads to wash. I couldn't wait to brag to my girlfriends "I wear Meds."

I didn't tell mum I was using Meds because I was sure she would not approve. I was right. One day I left one by mistake in the bathroom. Mum worriedly accused me of doing unnatural things; I don't think she knew about internal sanitary pads. I explained to her how they worked, finally she accepted me using them. I was slowly introducing her to a 'modern' world; she was nearly fifty years old now and very set in her Victorian ways, the only way in her mind.

I was growing up, I wished I were prettier. I was such a Plain Jane. I had ugly freckles which I hated. I didn't like my photograph taken because I was so ugly. I complained to mum each time she insisted on taking photos of us "I don't like my photo taken because I take an awful photo."

Her usual response _"A camera never lies."_

I begged mum to buy me an expensive 'freckle removal' package which in the catalogues painted glowing pictures of freckles disappearing leaving beautiful clear skin. She did: she never refused to buy anything that was new and modern especially if it could improve our lifestyle. I was excited about finally getting rid of my dreaded freckles. I meticulously followed the instruction, all to no avail. The freckles stubbornly remained as bold as ever. I decided then that advertised expensive beauty products promising to remove problem blemishes and make you beautiful was a fallacy. I still believe it. I am glad I realised this while mum was willing to pay for the many 'beautifying' products I was tempted to buy from the embellished advertisements in the catalogues we shopped from.

Okay; I was stuck with the ugly face I was given. I would work on my mousy, straight and lanky hair. Glenys's mother was adept at home perms. I bought a Toni (a packaged home perm) and Glenys's mum permed my hair, I was so thrilled with the results, it transformed me but I now wanted to get rid of the mousy colour. I studied the few hair dye products available in the catalogues and decided I could dye my own hair. I chose a deep auburn. It turned out a lovely rich auburn colour, I loved it. I was a wee bit more content with my looks. Dad didn't approve of me doing anything to enhance my looks.

" _Making yourself what you aren't. If God meant you to have red hair and wear lipstick you would have been born like that"._

Mum about this time started planning who would be a suitable husband for me. In my wildest dreams I couldn't imagine who she would choose. The criteria: must be from a good churchgoing successful farming family, heir to farmlands, a non-drinker and a Methodist. I knew all the local lads very well and couldn't imagine me marrying any of them, anyway they all drank beer though maybe the few who didn't drink so much may meet mum's criteria. I couldn't imagine me being married at all let alone to one of the locals. Our nearest neighbours were mostly relations, except one, Albert and Grace Oats. Mr. and Mrs. Oat's farm was north east of ours their south-west corner abutted ours. They were an elderly couple with an only child Bill who being the sole heir would inherit their extensive lands which now included the farm mum's father pioneered. How tidy would this union be? Mum's daughter married to the owner of her childhood farm, thus keeping the neighbouring farms totally within the family. The Oat's along with all our other neighbours were often visited by mum and us kids in the buggy. Bill was three years older than me and good friends with my cousins Keith and Don. They were all a bit too old for me to be bosom friends with, but they were very protective of me and treated me like the child I was.

Mum insinuated I should marry Bill, in keeping with the tradition of her generation of neighbours, all farms neatly intermingling with 'suitable' marriages. Mum initiated visits to the Oats' home which I accepted as normal, but I remember the adults acting strangely. Bill was always kind and respectful to me, as much as I respected him, he didn't appeal to me as a husband, he was too quiet and not very tall. _Even then I must have been more attracted to extroverted taller guys. I still am._

I was quite definite about not wanting to marry Bill in fact I was horrified and made my feelings plain to mum and dad, to their credit they gave up on the idea.

As I grew older I was allowed to go to selected church functions with Bill and my cousins who protected me and always treated me with respect, especially Bill.

Early in the sixties Bill married a lovely girl Laura from near Ceduna, they are still happily married, their off spring now running the farm as they live in retirement in a new home they built on the waterfront in Ceduna. We often talk of our teenage lives and giggle over our parents' quaint plans. Laura a capable lady takes all life's challenges in her stride, she makes and decorates all manner of cakes to order of a standard to surpass any I have seen, she is also an accomplished dressmaker fulfilling orders which would send me insane, all the while being a truly dedicated farmers wife and supporter of Bill.

I told Bill "You married the right girl."

" _I don't think I could have kept up with you anyway." Bill replied._

To this day we all remain good friends... till death do us part.

With Bill ruled out of a possible husband for me mum set her sights on (I'll call him) Sam from a Church of England farming family in the area. I was a bit surprised mum and dad accepted a Church of England family. I questioned this.

"This Church of England is not a high one, it's more like the Methodists, and his family attend their church regular, which is better than some Methodists who never attend church at all." was dad's explanation.

Sam was two years older than me, he was a good looking popular lad; we had gone through school together. At school he was a clever student and a daring dare devil larrikin. Mum insinuated Sam would inherit the family farm making him an acceptable husband for me. I was quite excited at the prospect of marrying Sam; at school I had been in awe of him and his daring escapades while feeling quite inadequate to him and his standards. I felt secure in the knowledge mum could arrange a suitable union for me.

We rarely mixed socially with Sam's family we had never been to their home. Mum set up a meeting with him and his family, I was so nervous although I had known his family all my life. When mum and I arrived Sam's mother took us inside and formally sat us at the kitchen table which was set for a meal, she seemed like someone I had never met acting so formal and proper. I can't remember what was said, I know I felt extremely uncomfortable. When the meal was served Sam was summonsed into the kitchen and sat down beside me. I don't know how I got through that meal I know I was so embarrassed; I think he was too. I was glad when it was over and we were on our way home. I never let mum organise another meeting for me like that.

Somehow it was agreed Sam and I write to each other while he was attending College in Adelaide, the letters were spasmodic and terse. I remember waiting in enthusiastic anticipation for letters, when they didn't arrive regularly I felt I was letting mum down. When a letter did arrive of course mum knew who it was from and made a showy production of strategically placing it in an obvious position for display, as soon as I saw it I grabbed it and disappeared to read it privately, then as a good girl should I gave it to mum to read. The letters were written with no feelings but as pen friends would write to each other, which is basically all we were. Eventually the charade finished, we were embarrassed and uncomfortable in each other's company. As we grew older it was obvious we wouldn't have been suited but we remained friends as you do in a small country town. **So much for mum's scheming.**

I enjoyed music, shock horror, pop music. Mum and dad vigorously discouraged me from listening to the hit parades on our only wireless, in fact I wasn't allowed to ever tune into a hit parade on it. I heard about the latest hits from Keith who listened to all the hit parades, he bought sheet music and learned to play them on his saxophone. Finally, mum had to concede her stance on hit music, though I wasn't allowed to listen to hit parades on our wireless she allowed me to buy sheets of selected music. I spent hours in our front room very amateurishly playing this music over and over on the piano imagining I was a great pianist. The hit singers in those days that I loved were Vera Lynn, Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby, The Platters, Glen Miller and his Rag Time Band and a new sensational singer Johnny Ray who mum and dad tried to ban me listening to, I couldn't understand why. I argued my cause until I was allowed to buy the sheet music he sang.

I had a lot to thank Keith for; he paved the way for my introduction into what I thought was a normal happy lifestyle, including popular music, dancing, outings and comics. Ruby also had a big role in paving my way to a normal life, mum and dad trusted Ruby to keep us both honest. It never entered our heads to betray the trust Ruby had in us. I did push the boundaries a bit far with Elvis Presley. He was a star he was idolised, his music was so lively upbeat and addictive. Mum and dad maintained their stance banning me from buying his music until I was well in my teens. I idolised the pop singers even though I never had any concept of what they looked like. I never saw photographs of the artists just their caricatures on the sheet music ordered and sent from Allen's Music Shop in Adelaide. I learnt all the songs spending many hours on the piano playing popular music from my precious sheet music, it was a great comfort for me to express myself through music and feel close to the musicians that were icons to me.

The only media contact we had in Penong in those days was the wireless with limited reception and stations. There were no picture theatres capable of showing the latest movie, we had never heard of a television set, the only images we had of our 'stars' were drawings of them on sheet music.

Mum and dad had bought a house in the main street of Ceduna on the corner of Poynton Street and Merghiny Drive right opposite a small hall which at the time had many uses including Lodge and RSL meetings. The newly purchased home was intended for mum and dad's retirement; in the meantime, they leased it to selected friends. One January school holiday between tenants, mum decided to paint the house, inside and out. What a terrible job. I hated it, but I was allowed to choose the colours... wow. I don't know what possessed me, but I chose a bright orange roof with bright ming blue woodwork. As we were painting the roof many people stopped and asked if it was the undercoat? We proudly told them "NO!" I will never forget the shocked look on everyone's face when they realised the massive corrugated roof was to remain bright orange. I can't imagine what they thought as the ming blue woodwork evolved?

This tedious painting task was made so much more interesting with the activities happening at the hall across the road, it was a social gathering place for the workers from Maralinga. Many young men gathered at this hall amidst lots of noise, music and laughter. I yearned to be allowed to join them... but NO WAY... mum watched me and made sure I never had a single opportunity to talk with them. They were guys on rest and recreation leave from Maralinga. We locals aptly called them `Maralingerers'.

Maralinga was an establishment especially built for 'secret business' approximately 256 miles (412kls) north west of Ceduna, many hours' drive along the rough corrugated gravel Eyre Highway (as it was then) through Penong to Eucla, then branching off to the north on a hastily made long dusty dirt track from the highway to Maralinga. We all knew 'something' was happening at Maralinga, something to do with tests in the outback involving Americans and English, much speculation was discussed, but no-one really knew, and no-one was allowed anywhere near the area. We were warned of occasional explosions which raised our curiosity.

We heard explosions in the far distance and though the explosions left an eerie feel in the air we all went about our everyday living accepting the explosions and the strange atmospheric feel. We locals soon accepted this secretive phenomenon and took it all in our stride, we continued with our everyday activities. I was peeved because I wasn't allowed to mix or even talk to the Maralingerers as they lingered aimlessly around the hall while on R and R. I was sure I could have charmed them into telling just what was going on behind closed areas in our 'outback'. What a coup that would have been for little ol' me, to be `in the know' of the secretive operation which we were all so curious about.

I yearned to join the activity happening across the street, young men, lots of them. What a coup for Ceduna, the young local guys all drank beer and were typical okkers, maybe there would be some 'nice' gentlemen amongst the Maralingerers. I never got a chance to talk to them, mum watched me every second. Those who did get to mix with them said they gave away no clue as to what was happening at Maralinga they were sworn to secrecy. This made us locals more curious. The brash bold girls who dared have anything to do with these guys said they were wild, much worse than our local gentle yokels.

We knew the aborigines who lived in the bush in that area must have been terrified, none spoke fluent English they wouldn't understand what was happening in their domain. We heard they thought it was their spirits sending terrible violent messages. Reports from aborigines floated amongst the locals about big mushrooms loudly appearing out of the ground killing everything for miles around. We didn't take too much notice of these reports it was all happening in 'the outback'. What did it matter to us?

I recently read Judy Nunn's novel Maralinga which I found so interesting, though she wrote it as a novel, to me it was very real. It answered many questions we posed to ourselves about Maralinga during the fifties. Judy's accurate account of the area, the terrain, the wonderment of the locals, the fear of the aborigines was so accurate. I know. I was there. I experienced the atomic bomb blasts. Judy's book provided many answers and even answers to many questions unknown at the time. Thank you Judy, for helping me understand Maralinga as it happened in the fifties.

Dad had a Bantam motorbike which he taught me to ride. It was quicker than saddling Snowball, so I used it regularly for doing jobs around the farm and running errands and meals to the paddocks. I was still not old enough to drive on the public roads, though I did, but only along the back roads away from the highway. Riding the motorbike gave me a degree of independence which I enjoyed.

January 20th.1956 I went to Penong Police Station to sit for my driver's licence. In those days a written test was all that was required to obtain a full drivers licence. I had studied the handbook and 'knew' how to drive. I conscientiously answered the questions with much consideration, I must have taken too long and it was getting late in the day because the policeman who we knew very well took the pen from me and completed the test.

"There" he said "I will get that posted and you will receive your licence in the mail, then you can legally drive where-ever you want."

He obviously knew I already `drove illegally'. My driver's licence arrived in the mail before the end of January. I wasn't sixteen until February 11th. I obtained my driver's licence at fifteen years of age.

"WOW freedom, I can go anywhere, do anything!" I thought.

WRONG! I was restricted about where and when I could take the family car, our new Holden. I was allowed to drive to Penong to teach piano. I had strict instructions as to how fast I could go, 30mph was my limit. The car's maximum speed was said to be 60mph, we never tested it, but others bragged about doing 60mph which was very daring and dangerous because the dirt roads were narrow and badly corrugated. Sometimes I would be running late getting home from piano lessons and stupidly sped up to 40mph; fortunately, I never had an accident.

Teenage lads' entertainment in the community revolved around cars and drinking beer, how fast they could drive and how much they could drink. There was only one stretch of road smooth enough to test a cars speed, this road less than a mile long was on the way to Pt Sinclair along remote salt lakes, it was the central hub of weekend entertainment for the lads with many bragging rights emerging from these gatherings. Amasingly there were only a few serious accidents resulting from these escapades, there were more accidents along the highway due to the corrugated graded dirt road.

I assumed I could now drive myself home at midnight on Saturdays after the dances, I thought I would be able to drive myself to Saturday football and basketball games and stay for the dance saving mum and dad having to wait for me or Ruby and Keith from having to transport me. Wrong. No way was mum going to let me enjoy myself without someone keeping a close eye on me to make sure I didn't overstep the mark; or do something to embarrass them. I realised I was lucky to be allowed to travel in Ruby's guardianship and be transported home by her and Keith after the completion of the dances and it made sense with them living so nearby. I accepted this situation because Ruby wasn't judgmental, I really appreciated her open mindedness.

Ruby had accepted Keith who was three years older than me as no angel, though he was at times a scatterbrain he was a good cousin to me, we were trusted by our parents under the watchful eye of Ruby. Saturday sports and the night dances were so special to me especially now that mum and dad weren't sitting in the hall watching my every move, I felt _free._

1956 In a dress I made. Typical of this era's style.

# Chapter 25

## My Sexuality

Sex to my family was the forbidden three letter word. The current day four letter word starting with 'f' _(even now with my upbringing still engrossed from my teens era, I can't say it)_ wasn't known to us, it was certainly not in our vocabulary or any dictionary.

"If a word isn't in the dictionary it isn't a word, and must not be used" mum repeatedly told me.

I spent many hours looking through the dictionary for naughty words I could legitimately use and not be reprimanded for. That theory didn't work because when I found words which were a little risqué mum gruffly said "It shouldn't be in the dictionary; they are too naughty and I don't want to hear you say them SO!"

So, I didn't, mum always achieved her goal...or else... SO!

I asked mum about _sex_ one day, very abruptly she said

"It's only for having babies." END OF DISCUSSION!

Mum and Dad were born at the end of the Victorian era. Queen Victoria reigned from 1837 till her death in January 1901, she was the longest serving British Monarch until Queen Elizabeth11 surpassed her in September 2015. Queen Victoria's reign was characterised by strict moral values, low crime tolerance and sexual repression. All forms of sexual stimulation were opposed, such as bathing suits showing any skin other than lower arms and legs, no advertising of underwear and dresses, never reveal ankles or breasts. Victorian women were taught never to partake in sexual advances, have fantasies or be anything other than their husband's obedient chattel. Respectful husbands didn't expect sex more often than every few months and then strictly for the purpose of making babies. Male homosexuality was illegal and female homosexuality wasn't even considered a possibility (to my knowledge). The British Empire's values in the Victorian era were spread all through English speaking countries.

Mum's parents both immigrants from England lived under Victoria's reign and as with most other English immigrants at that time brought Queen Victoria's strict values to Australia. Mum and her sisters dutifully lived and abided by this strait-laced regime resulting in what seemed to me a very dour lifestyle which they thrust on me. I didn't like it. I wanted to do exciting things like I heard other kids talk about. Laughter and fun were frowned upon, it was as if we weren't allowed to have fun. Life for our family seemed all work and no play. Sunday was the only exception; there was no work; and no play because _"The Sabbath day is a day of rest and devotions."_

My cousins and I were brought up with these strict morale values, we were naturally expected to live to these standards. My older girl cousins would have made Queen Victoria proud, but Win the only daughter of Agnes and Roy Stiggants left the farm to live and work in the town. I overheard mum and Aunty Agnes talking about the _terrible_ antics Win was partaking in (shock horror) wearing make-up... dancing... going to the movies... talking to boys etc. etc. Mind you her two brothers weren't chastised for doing what they wanted to, it was okay for boys to be risqué. Then more shock - horror; lots of secretive whisperings. Win returned home, though not for long before she quickly married amidst lots of disapproving remarks. I was mystified: I thought a wedding was a happy occasion. Mum wouldn't talk about the wedding to me, so I felt privileged while visiting their farm one day I was allowed to see the wedding frock. I thought it was the most beautiful gown of exquisite lace so soft and silky. I desperately wanted to go to the wedding but wasn't allowed. This mystified me!

Win recently told me she wanted me to be her flower girl but mum refused. Why I wondered? Surely choosing to lead an alternative lifestyle to mum's ideals wouldn't command such a harsh reaction.?

Win's marriage to Roy Bates lasted until Roy died of cancer 30 years later, having produced four great kids.

My other cousins, Ethel and Carl Kunst four daughters would have made Queen Victoria proud. The youngest Audrey ten years older than me, many years later revealed she also was a very unhappy child and teenager, she also found it hard to live up to the standards of her three older sisters who constantly reprimanded her and reported any misdemeanors' to her parents resulting in harsh punishment. _In recent years Win Audrey and I the three 'black sheep' cousins have become very close, exchanging memories which gives us answers to many unsolved happenings in our minds, certainly in my mind. We call ourselves the 'Three Black Sheep" of the Cooper family._

I was getting to the age where I wanted to know _things._ One day I asked mum "Do you want more babies?" She was taken aback and curtly answered "I only ever wanted two, a girl first to help me with the housework, and a boy to take over the farm."

Mum inevitably always achieved her goals.

"Could you still have some more babies?" I ventured to ask.

"NO!" she snapped blushing with embarrassment.

Mum always instilled in me " _Sex is for making babies._ "

I remembered those words; I would abide them until the day I married. I was absolutely determined I wouldn't get pregnant before I was married, though goodness knows if I would ever get married, who would want to marry me?

I secretly questioned my strict upbringing, occasionally daring to question mum about rigid rules I thought totally unnecessary. I was firmly informed that was the way it was. SO!

So I continued to be my obedient self... until... I was just 16.

At a Saturday night dance after a day of playing football and basketball I had my first kiss. What a wonderment experience it was for me. It was at Coorabie a two to three-hour drive from home along the dusty dirt track of Eyre Highway. The football events at Coorabie were always enjoyable, the home cooked evening meal provided by the Coorabie ladies was especially sumptuous and the dances were lively. Everyone knew everyone and danced with everyone. It was always a fun time at Coorabie. I had the last dance with Dennis who was in his early 20's. I felt guilty dancing with him because he was much older and alas a Roman Catholic. He asked if he could walk me to the car. I was speechless but found myself walking out the door with him, very glad that mum and dad weren't there. Before we got to Ruby's car he stopped, put his arm around me and turned me to face him, I wondered what he was doing when suddenly he bent his head and I felt his lips on my closed mouth, I was shocked, what a strange sensation, slowly his lips prised my mouth slightly open and we enjoyed a long lingering kiss. I was stirred by senses the likes of which I had never felt. I felt so guilty; something so wonderful must be evil, especially with a Roman Catholic lad and one so much older than me.

"I have to go Ruby is waiting for me."

Off I sped to the car where Ruby and Keith were patiently waiting. Ruby bless her cotton socks said nothing; Keith silently teased me all the way home. (No secrets could be kept in those days).

I felt so many mixed emotions, feelings I had never before experienced, excitement, betrayal, pleasure, guilt, relief, remorse and loving. I relived that kiss over and over; and couldn't wait for another. Yes I was in love. I floated along on cloud nine... until... three days later mum verbally attacked me

"Did you kiss Dennis?"

I was mortified. I might have known she'd find out sooner rather than later. The gossip would have been rife.

"Did you know that Cliffy Freeman's daughter has gone out with a Roman Catholic?"

It was no use denying anything to mum she would have inquired until she knew every last detail. I may as well tell her the truth than deny the rumours that would be sure to follow.

Mum then proceeded to give me a lecture on the pitfalls of marrying a Roman Catholic.

"If you marry him the Methodist church will disown you, you will have to become a Roman Catholic, they drink alcohol, they gamble, they don't respect the Sabbath etc. etc."

I couldn't believe what she was saying. Finally, when I was able to get a word in...

"Who is talking of marriage? We only had one kiss."

Consequently mum and dad kept a very close watch on my every move. We only played against Coorabie every four weeks, so it was four weeks before I saw Dennis again. It was rather embarrassing; I was very shy and had no idea how to deal with my feelings. Dennis owned a large black Chevrolet sedan and drove it proudly around the oval like all the lads with cars did. I wasn't game enough to get in the car with him fearing retribution from mum and dad, not that they allowed me an opportunity to be in his car. At the dance Dennis asked me to dance once or twice, I was very self-conscious awkward and shy, knowing full well the older ladies sitting around the hall would be watching us closely and my every movements with him would be elaborately translated in the extreme to mum and dad, I am sure Dennis also knew this.

I never relived that exciting kiss again with Dennis, as time went by with little chance to communicate, I forgot about him as he obviously did me, but Dennis had introduced me to my sexuality. I was maturing.

Females never made advances to a male in those days; it simply wasn't done in `proper circles', we girls sat and demurely waited to be approached hoping it would be someone we liked.

The winter football days and night dances took on a different meaning for me; it was the only regular chance I got to socially mix with teenage kids... and... BOYS. I found myself mixing with the teenagers with a newfound confidence and surprisingly to me I was being accepted by them. I had always felt alienated because of my family's strict moral and Methodist beliefs. It was so much fun hanging out with the young people, driving around in boy's cars, even flirting with them, a totally new experience for me and I enjoyed the company and frivolity so much.

All the boys drank alcohol mostly beer, lots of it, in fact if a boy didn't drink beer he wasn't accepted into the locals group. The population of Penong and surrounding areas was sparse, amongst the teenage boys there was really only one social set, the fun loving larrikins who smoked tobacco and drank alcohol, consequently the odd lad who didn't conform found themselves outcasts and lonely soon succumbing to peer pressure in order to be accepted. Beer was the favoured drink for the lads who drank directly from the large long neck bottle of that era as they passed it around. It held 26 fluid ounces (750mls) and each lad taking turns to have a sip, occasionally a daring girl might have a sip. I was often wickedly tempted by the lads to have a sip. I always refused. I was afraid of the consequences if mum and dad found out as they surely would. I didn't want to give them any reason to not trust me, though they didn't really trust me anyway. Twenty-one in those days was the legal age for drinking alcohol but defiant kids didn't worry about legalities. Ladies weren't allowed in hotel bars and expected not to partake in drinking any alcohol. I never did though some of the more daring girls boldly sipped from the long neck bottle of beers as they were passed around groups.

As I gained personal social confidence my suppressed extroverted personality slowly emerged, my confidence was becoming more apparent. I socially became accepted into the 'social set'. Gossip was rife about me. The most outrageous accusations and lies soon came to mum and dad's attention. When mum or dad attacked me with the accusations, I was aghast and horrified to think such awful untruths were labelled on me. I knew they were untrue so I without any guilt feelings scoffed at these rumours. Mum and dad wouldn't believe me they wanted more assurance, so they spent many hours tracing the source of the gossip only to find out what I had said was the truth. I realised the gossip delighted some of the locals who would like to see 'Cliffy Freeman' through his 'wayward' daughter toppled off his righteous perch. Dad begged me not to put myself in situations that gossipers could make something off, this was virtually impossible if I continued mixing with the young locals which I intended to do.

Although I was regularly the subject of malicious gossip, I continued enjoying my new-found confidence and popularity knowing I never would do anything I or my parents would be ashamed of. Many arguments occurred during this time of my life. I accused my parents of not trusting me which they didn't and told me so. I thought it unfair they expected me to live my life restricted to the unrealistic standards of their old fashioned narrow-minded Methodist ideals.

I consoled myself by spending many hours in our front room singing and playing the piano. I imagined I was a `star'. It was my solace and escape from reality. I diligently practiced all the sheet music I had which though vetted by mum was now quite an extensive selection. I watched the local self-taught dance pianists play and copied their methods, though I never became a competent player by ear I enjoyed the freedom of playing without music, especially the lively pop dance music. Music was my saviour in my restricted inhibited life.

We visited friends on our way to Adelaide, a staunch Methodist family. The visit was religion orientated with their whole family happily participating in prayer and devotions. I could feel mum and dad enviously wishing our family could be as devoted to religion as this family, and I could be as 'nice' a girl as their youngest daughter only a few months older than me. I didn't think I was 'bad', I just didn't want to be like her, I wanted to be me. I wasn't a _bad_ girl. Why couldn't I be accepted as I was?

There were many innuendos in the months following to be as nice a person as her and become her friend. I compromised by becoming a pen friend, I soon became bored with her subtle inferences and our letters petered out. Mum never stopped taunting me about what a lovely girl she was. The ultimate insult for me came after mum instructed me to sit in the rocking chair next to the wireless and listen to a request program. I felt privileged to have the honour of listening to the wireless whilst sitting in dad's chair but did wonder what the occasion was, surely it was something extra special.

"We are now going to play `A Girl as Lovely as You.' as requested by Mrs. Freeman especially to be played for _this_ girl!

I then realised what this was all about, I was absolutely disgusted and distraught. I could never be like _that_ girl; I didn't even want to be like that girl. I didn't like the sneaky way mum showed me how much she thought of _this_ girl. I despised the girl and mum for trying to influence me in such a sly underhanded way.

I so looked forward to the winter months specifically for Saturday footy and the evening dance. It was my only chance to socialise with the younger set and the only opportunity to be alone with a boy because nobody would dare ask Cliff Freeman's daughter out on a proper date, they knew I wouldn't be allowed, apart from the fact there was nowhere to go except the beach or a drive in the bush. The big deal was to be 'asked out' during the Saturday night dance by a boy.

'Out' being to a car where a bit of smooching was partaken of. It was a massive learning curb for me to discover what went on when you went ` _out'_ with a boy. I loved kissing petting and cuddling; it was a wonderful new experience I relished in. The first time a boy's hand touched my breast was sensational. I had never experienced such wonderful feelings; surely it is sinful to enjoy such pleasure. My body was a forbidden element of my life, I had no idea it could respond as it had. I loved 'going out' with boys, any boy who asked me. I knew them all; we had all known each other all our lives. BUT it was so interesting getting to know them in this intimate way; it was a huge discovery for me. I had to be sure I wasn't found out by mum and dad, so the encounters were all very brief. These 'outings' were stolen moments so we wouldn't be missed from the dance hall, usually during a walk to the toilet which was a long drop quite a way from the hall. If I had been missing from the hall for too long there would be questions asked. I found myself `going to the toilet' at `every opportunity' but never going to the actual toilet.

The first time a boy clumsily probed under my skirt I was shocked and stunned, so was he I think to come across the tight fitting elasticised corset securely protecting the bottom half of my torso. I made my escape in stunned haste thankful for my expensive top of the range corset mum had allowed me to buy `to give me a slimmer hip line'. The next time I went _'out'_ with a boy I wasn't so surprised, though I was surprised to discover he had the knack of peeling off the skin tight corset, he could remove it much quicker than I could put it on, though not quick enough to be able to intimately touch me before it was time to make my appearance back into the hall. I realised why mum had happily bought me the most expensive 'passion killer' as the corset was nicknamed by the local boys. It wasn't the corset that alone protected my virginity so much as my own ethics and the fear of getting pregnant.

I found it interesting how differently each boy approached the smooching act, some were rough, some gentle and irresistible. I enjoyed the experiences with them all, but I especially liked the experiences with the ones who were gentle. There were absolutely no feelings of love for any of the boys; they were all friends I was getting to know better; but there was never any chance of me allowing any boy to go further than smooching and feeling. The vaginal area was forbidden, as soon as I felt things were going too far, I got out of the car and returned to the hall. I was determined I would not get pregnant; mum had made so many snide accusations about pregnancy and sex I was always on the alert not to find myself in unsavoury or unsafe predicaments. I enjoyed discovering my sexuality and looked forward to boys 'asking me out'.

One night I was _'out'_ with a boy I liked, even though he was rather rough, I was caught by surprise when he seemingly without too much effort quickly pulled my tight corset down far enough to thrust his fingers roughly into my vagina, it hurt, it felt as if his fingernail scraped down the sides of my vagina. I jumped and cried "Ouch! You scratched me."

My reaction caught him by surprise, he pulled back and away, I straightened myself and fled back to the dance hall. _Many years later I realised this must have broken my hymen because I never again experienced pain in my vagina that could have been my hymen breaking._

My sexual feelings were always aroused during petting sessions, I looked forward to experiencing these wonderful new feelings. I desperately wanted to continue petting to see where it could lead; I had no idea to where! During these heavy petting sessions my inner conscience must have taken over, I couldn't help but think these sensual exciting titillating feelings that were SO wonderful must be so sinful. I believed such pleasure was wrong, but I wasn't prepared to stop petting... but "I must be careful not to get caught!" My conscience always made me break the momentum and make my escape during the height of sexual titillation. Abstaining and resisting further petting left me frustrated with sexual hungry feelings I didn't understand. I knew I wanted more.

I had no idea how the body worked. I felt wicked because I enjoyed petting so much. The corset certainly added a certain modicum of protection and mostly added extra time to my 'safe' petting. I was too innocent and ignorant to realise what a dangerous game I was playing. I think the only reason I wasn't raped was because we all knew each other very well, and the boys all knew my parents and their strict moral stance and either feared or respected them.

Girls who didn't `go all the way' were labelled as PT's. Though I didn't understand the full ramifications of this title I didn't like the innuendos and nearly suffered the consequences when... at Coffins Bay on one of our annual caravan holidays, a girlfriend and I met our match. This was a great holiday because mum and dad were busy socialising with their accompanying friends allowing us to roam unsupervised. We met two older guys in a car who we didn't know but were pleasantly chatty and friendly, we agreed to meet them that night before dark, I knew we wouldn't be allowed out after dark.

We excitedly took off to meet these guys, next thing we were in the car with them; each pulled one of us onto their knee. I was startled and taken aback. The guy whose knee I was sitting on roughly caressed me and pulled me close to him while kissing me with his mouth wide open and grossly slobbering against my tightly closed lips. I had never been kissed this way; our local guys didn't kiss like this. I didn't like being kissed like this. I wanted to escape. I immediately pushed myself away from him saying

"I have to go now."

My friend said "Me too."

We made our escape and hurried back to our caravan, relieved to have safely escaped without a scene... _or worse._

My newfound sensuality dramatically changed my life. I questioned mum and dad's beliefs; their strict rules and unrelenting ways made me feel they were hamstringing me. When a hamstring is accidentally severed on a sheep while shearing dad put the sheep quickly out of its misery... cut its throat. I'm not suggesting I should be treated so, but I felt like it.

It was many years later I learnt what a PT was. "How terrible" I thought.

I was then told in no uncertain terms that I was the worst (or best) PT in the district.

_For those of you who don't know what a PT is........._ **Prick Teaser.**

We always had a workman to help with the farm work. It was hard to get workers to live on the farm and abide by the strict regimented standards and work ethics expected from dad so I was surprised when he employed local lad Jonny, a complete rebel and dropout at school.

Jonny was the eldest of a large family and a few years older than me, we went through Penong Primary School together. Jonny refused to learn or do any schoolwork; he had more defiance and stubbornness in his demeanour than I have ever seen in anyone. The teachers persevered with him through his school years; he was always an unsettling presence in our classroom, but so entertaining. He spent most of his time in class making things like cars, bikes etc. out of whatever he had on his desk, erasers, drawing pins, paper, pencils, chalk crayons etc. He produced some very inventive clever creations. During our school days mum questioned me regularly about his daily antics and escapades, there was always plenty to report so mum knew about his classroom habits, also what he was capable of with his inventiveness. I was surprised when Jonny came to live with us.

Dad bragged "I will make a worker out of him; he needs to be kept busy. I will give him a chance while keeping him busy."

This I would enjoy monitoring. I had spent many years in a small school with Jonny, everyone knew what he was like; he was such a renegade and rebelled at discipline. Jonny to my surprise readily adapted eagerly into our farm life. He slept in the workers quarters away from the house and ate all meals with us. He ate heartily everything we served him up. A full tummy and healthy exercise regime while working and earning money it seemed was the secret to changing Jonny's life while leading him into a future of solid work ethics.

Jonny had a definite mind of his own, as hard as dad tried to coax him into going to church, Jonny never went, while we were in Penong at church Jonny visited his parents, (so he said), never the less dad seemed happy with Jonny as a worker, they worked well together, Jonny willingly doing everything dad asked of him. I think everyone was pleased with Jonny's changed attitude to life.

I began to see a different Jonny to the naughty boy I attended school with, he was fun to be with definitely not in a romantic way but I enjoyed his wit, he was quick with word quips and jokes, in his occasional spare time I found myself enjoying talking to him. I felt guilty spending time talking joking and laughing with him, regardless we sought each other out for chats and laughs at every opportunity.

"We mustn't chat together so often." Jonny said to me one day. I couldn't understand why. What could be the reason we shouldn't enjoy innocent friendly fun chats with lots of laughter? It was the most fun I'd had on the farm in my whole life. I felt life could be enjoyable and bearable for me on the farm with Jonny to break the monotony. One Sunday as we were going to Penong for church, Jonny had his belongings packed in the car,

"Why have you got your things packed?'' I asked

"I have been given the sack."

We never had another opportunity to talk alone.

Later I asked dad "Why did Jonny get the sack?"

"He was getting too cheeky with you."

I was aghast! I could not believe it! How could dad be so fickle to sack a worker for such a naive reason? I felt so BAD about Jonny losing his job. I was innocent of any of the concerns my parents had about our relationship, it was strictly a friendship only relationship from my point of view. I was just having fun... is that SO BAD?

The next guy we had working for us was Donald a seventeen year old lad who with his parents and younger brother had recently immigrated from England to Adelaide, Donald came to live with us on the farm, dad had great expectations of Donald after an interview with his family. Donald was a fresh innocent English lad full of enthusiasm who didn't smoke or drink; and _knew_ everything about everything including farming. I watched with amusement the interactions between my parents and Donald. I didn't like him. I am sure the feeling was mutual. I thought he was a pompous pommy upstart. I couldn't believe how dad accepted criticism from him about running the farm. Donald was always extolling the virtues of his parent's, his brother, their lifestyle their food etc. etc. He was a fussy eater questioning what the ingredients were in the meals, how they were cooked etc. I was amazed mum and dad put up with his criticism and superior attitude, his attending church with us each week was probably the reason they overlooked the superiority he showed. I thought he must have come from an upper-class family, who apparently did everything proper, while we did everything wrong.

Donald must have been a good worker he stayed with us for a few years. I think the fact I didn't like him may have added to his employment virtues, no risk of us getting intimate, though in the back of my parents mind they may have thought if Donald was a good farmer he could be a marriageable proposition for me. Dad had previous workers marry local girls and became successful farmers eventually owning their own farms. Not this little girl, I wasn't going to marry Donald, I wasn't that desperate to get married... not yet anyway.

We met Donald's family in their small modest house in Blackwood SA. They were very charming and hospitable to us; they didn't appear to be upper class in fact I thought they were just an ordinary family. I have no idea what happened to Donald and his family after he left our farm.

I was seventeen it was 1957, I developed strange pains in my tummy, I often felt sick. Could I be pregnant? Although mum had made sure I never spent any time alone with a boy therefore I never had the opportunity to fall pregnant I knew she wanted to be sure I wasn't pregnant. I also wanted reassurance. I didn't really know what contributed to pregnancy I had experienced many brief cuddling and heavy petting sessions. Could I be pregnant? Could I get pregnant by probing fingers?

Mum took me to the Doctors. I wasn't pregnant. The question of pregnancy didn't even come up. I was diagnosed with gall bladder problems. The doctors at Ceduna wouldn't do any exploratory operations, so I was to go to Adelaide for the operation. Uncle Stan and Aunty May Freeman recommended a doctor who was the 'best' in Adelaide. I wasn't a bit concerned about having an operation, I loved being in hospital being waited on and spoilt like never happened at home. Dad took me to Adelaide, he uncle and aunty and even the doctor made a big deal of the pending operation. I thought they were all being overly dramatic. I didn't know what all the fuss was about. I wasn't in a lot of pain I just didn't feel quite right. I even suspected there was nothing wrong with me, maybe I was stressed because of my restrictive lifestyle at home.

I was admitted to Memorial Hospital at North Adelaide. Dad appeared quite worried. I was in my element the nurses were all very kind helpful and caring. Bring on the OP.

The first three days following the op I was sick sore and sorry.

"The operation went well" (as if I thought for a moment it wouldn't) "there were no stones in the gall, but the gall bladder was full of grit, so they took the gall bladder out." Dad somberly told me. Dad was so serious in relating this news to me I thought it must have been a terrible tragedy to live life without a gall bladder. I later asked the nurses who assured me it was nothing to worry about; living without a gall bladder was not a problem. So dad, why all the drama?

I was the youngest patient in the hospital; in fact I was the youngest person they had seen to have a gall bladder removed. I felt quite important, my claim to fame... the youngest person to have a gall bladder removed. Being the youngest patient in the hospital proved a real boon to me, I enjoyed interacting with the young nurses, we had so much fun bantering with each other. I enjoyed listening to their revelations about the antics they got up to during their regimented nurse training while living in the trainee quarters at the hospital. The biggest problem I had was I couldn't laugh, I was so sore, the nurses stories were so funny it caused me much pain as I tried to stop from laughing, they continually apologised saying "We won't tell you anything more to make you laugh."

"Oh NO Don't stop I love to hear of your capers." I pleaded.

I was in hospital ten days, during that time I had a lot of visitors. Everyone who happened to be in Adelaide from Penong visited with flowers and gifts. Special visitors were Ted and Bill. Ted a popular local guy in Adelaide at that time and Bill, Glenys's brother, they each brought me a small gift as a get well wish. I was so touched they were so kind and loving toward me, as everyone was who visited. I felt special even though I was very sore. I had a six inch incision across my waist the nurses said

"You will never be able to wear a bikini."

That wasn't an issue for me because I would never be allowed to wear such a skimpy covering.

I decided while I was in hospital I wanted to become a nurse. I wanted to help people, I wanted to tend and care for patients as the kind nurses had done for me. I also wanted the freedom to live away from the restrictions my family imposed on me. I spoke to a senior sister about becoming a nurse, she said "You go home and get yourself recovered completely from this operation, then apply to Matron."

I had such a happy time in hospital and felt so good it was hard to contain myself, I didn't want to leave.

When discharged I stayed with my cousin Patsy and her husband Matteo at Morphettville. I asked Patsy if I could go to the movies, such a treat, she allowed me to see Dean Martin and Gerry Lewis in a comedy. I was excited to go to a real movie theatre again and really enjoyed the movie even though I was in pain throughout because I couldn't help but laugh causing unbearable pain. Oh dear! I hurt, but SO enjoyed the treat, movies in colour on a huge screen was so special for me. Three weeks after the operation I was given the all clear to go home "take it easy for six weeks" was the doctor's orders.

On the way home I spent a few days with my pen friend Val at Beetaloo Valley. I felt good. Val's family were great hosts and asked what I would like to do?

"I'd just love to go to the movies!"

"Easy." they said. Val had an older brother who drove the family car, so he drove us to Pt Pirie where we saw Houdini with Tony Curtis. Wow! This was living, being driven to the movies by a young guy unsupervised, how I wished I had an older brother who could drive me to social events. I just loved that evening and the movie so much, I loved watching the magic tricks, but especially I liked watching Tony Curtis, he became my pin up man. I thought he was so handsome and strong. I enjoyed the company of Val and her brother, I'm sure we all enjoyed each other's company.

It was unbearably hot during my stay with Val, as they had no air conditioning it was decided we'd again travel to Pt Pirie for a swim to cool down. I knew I must be careful not to strain my stomach swimming. The sea was so cool and refreshing, I loved the sea; soon I was fully swimming though it hurt a little. I could feel something pulling inside my tummy, but I thought "it's OK I can put up with that."

I felt proud that after only three weeks after a major operation I was swimming.

Arriving back at the farm I quickly realised I was back to reality. No more being pampered and waited on, though I did have one ace up my sleeve, I was to take it easy for three more weeks, so I was relieved of heavy chores. But Alas, soon after arriving home I developed nasty pains in my tummy. Diagnosis: straining of the inner stitched tummy muscles too soon after the operation caused by swimming. Treatment: total bed rest for six weeks to allow the muscles to heal.

I was quite happy to stay in bed for six weeks; I don't know why maybe I needed to mentally recover from the operation, or the lows of my life before the operation, or the unusual (for me) highs I had experienced in the last few weeks. Mum waited on me. I loved not having to work around the house or farm. I spent the time in bed reading and embroidering. I embroidered exquisite doyleys and a small tablecloth, I was so proud of them. I enjoyed doing nothing, I happily settled into a lazy idle habit.

One day mum said "Okay! You have rested long enough; I think you are well enough to get up now."

"OH!" I hadn't considered I would have to get back to the old work habits, it was a shock. I don't know how long I thought I could spend in bed having mum waiting on me.

I accepted the fact my 'rest' was over and soon slipped back into the usual boring routine of life on the farm. While 'resting' I dreamed of becoming a nurse, each time I mentioned it to mum and dad they put me off by saying "You can't think of nursing until your tummy is mended."

"OK mum! My tummy is mended now, I feel well and strong again, I want to become a nurse at Memorial Hospital."

Becoming a nurse meant living in nurse's quarters at the hospital in Adelaide. There were many stumbling blocks put in my way by my parents to prevent me from going to Adelaide to follow my dream.

I never did get to train as a nurse, indeed every time I mentioned going away to train as a nurse dad increased my allowance. I was now getting quite a good weekly allowance which was just for me, I banked it all because everything I needed was supplied by mum and dad with access to credit accounts at the local Penong store and Myer Emporium. I was so pleased I had objected and refused to tithe 10% of my income to the church.

Word soon got around I was well again, orders started coming in for dresses to be made. I was getting more and more frustrated trying to design draft and sew in such confined restrictive spaces between mealtimes. I grumbled vigorously, wishing I could have a designated sewing area. Occasionally I suggested I would sooner be nursing than trying to sew in the conditions I was subjected to. I could see mum and dad anguish over my desire to leave home.

I must have worn mum down, she decided we needed a modern toilet near the house with a septic tank; she convinced dad it could be attached to a new room purpose built for me to use solely for sewing. I learned of this plan after one of my many pleas to be allowed to go to Adelaide to train as a nurse. I was astounded but very delighted with the idea of a room solely to myself. I could happily stay on the farm and sew in my own private domain without interruptions.

I was allowed to have a say in the design of the room, a freestanding twelve feet by twelve feet room for me and a toilet and storage area added on one end. Dad and his workmen built it on the northern side of the house the same way he had recently built new car sheds and shearers quarters further away from the house. The building area was marked out on the ground where the walls were to be erected, long planks about a foot apart were staked in place, one depicting the inside of the wall and one the outside, the walls would be about a foot wide. A cement mixture mixed by hand was shoveled into the cavities between the planks over strategically placed stones to give the walls stability, this procedure was repeated after each layer had set, at least twenty four hours; it was a feat of engineering and typical of the farmers' skills and work ethics. There were ten layers making the walls ten feet high.

I watched _my_ room emerge with excited anticipation, it had a door opening into the back yard near the back door of the house, windows on the northern and western walls allowed plenty of light to flow in, high thick high walls and high pitched roof kept the room cool as possible in the harsh hot summers. I proudly painted the ceiling and walls; and set up _my_ sewing room to _my_ liking. I felt _free!_ I then started producing many more orders with enthusiasm and zest like I had never experienced. I loved my new sewing room; the bonus was the adjacent modern toilet with an electric light which no snakes or spiders could invade undetected.

I enjoyed drafting the designs chosen by my clients, they were also happy to have a garment of their design made confidently with only one fitting. I wasn't as neat a sewer as I should have been, but my clients were always happy with the finished product made for them without any fuss. I was happy working in my new very own environment, eventually I gave up the thought of nursing. Mum and dad were content with the way I had settled into life on the farm. Even though I spent the majority of my time in my sewing room I was still under their supervision and control, but at least I had the freedom of my own space in my new room without interruption.

While still seventeen my parents went away for few days leaving Roger and I home alone with strict instructions to

"Look after the place and the animals and no getting up to any pranks.

I had no notions of getting up to pranks. I did how-ever decide to ask a few friends around one evening. Without mum's scrutiny I enjoyed cooking and preparing supper, we all enjoyed the evening also without mum's scrutiny and we didn't behave any differently than if she had been there. I found hosting much harder than I had imagined but I enjoyed the freedom and experience. I did all the chores making certain the house was clean and tidy especially for mum's return. I was so proud of my achievements, I expected mum to praise my efforts. Wrong! She chastised me for menial jobs I hadn't done. I was deflated. I was deflated even more when she heard of the ''party" I had thrown.

"I never threw a party" I declared "I just had a couple of friends over."

"Well why don't you have them over when we are home?"

"Because you are always disapprovingly snooping around" I dared tell her.

We agreed then and there I could have friends over when-ever I liked and she and dad would give us privacy and keep their distance. Wow! More independence.

Dentistry was always a cause for concern on the far west Eyre Peninsular. Fluoride wasn't heard of then, our drinking and household water supply was natural catchments from the rain on our roof caught and stored in a tank next to the house, no chemicals were added except for a spoon of kerosene if mosquitoes were breeding. Natural dairy products were relied on for healthy teeth.

A dentist occasionally visited Ceduna, on these occasions bulk appointments were made from patients all over the west of Eyre Peninsular. These visiting dentists never had any modern dentistry equipment they mainly alleviated toothache by extraction. If fillings were preferred, we had to go to an Adelaide dentist which I did a few times while we holidayed in January. Dentists were so cruel in those days. They just drilled, the pain of the drill hitting the nerve was excruciating for me, in fact unbearable. I was so terrified I contrived not to have any more fillings. I found the dread of dentists wasn't only felt by me; all the teenage girls in Penong had the same fear.

When the dentist told me although my teeth were a perfectly spaced and shaped they were chalky and would need many fillings. I expressed my fear of fillings; he suggested I have all my teeth out and replaced with false teeth made to the exact replica of my own. I immediately thought "Oh good. I'll never have to endure another filling." then I considered what the procedure would be for the extractions, I did not take pain very well.

The dentist explained "Firstly I'll take an impression of your natural teeth so we can make your new teeth identical so it won't alter your looks." I thought I wouldn't mind my looks being altered it would be nice to have a nice face instead of my ugly one.

"We'll then take out all your back teeth, top and bottom, and let the gums completely heal."

"Will you give me an anaesthetic?"

"You can sit in the chair with a local anaesthetic or have an anaesthetic in the hospital which will be more expensive."

"I'll have an anaesthetic in hospital thanks."

Cost wasn't an issue, all our medical treatment was covered by the local Bush Church Aid Society, this Church of England service was unique to far west Eyre Peninsular with the locals contributing providing a comprehensive medical service.

I had the anaesthetic and woke up feeling awfully ill, along with a very sore terrible tasting bloody mouth. All my back teeth had been extracted; my face was unrecognisable. I still had my front teeth and canines, if I didn't smile too much you couldn't see the gaps behind the canines. It was difficult to eat for the first few days I mainly ate soups and custards. The hardest thing was chewing, I had no molars. I had to learn to eat like a rabbit on front teeth only, by the time I had become accustomed to chewing on my front teeth, my gums had healed and it was time to have all my front teeth out. I was dreading it.

The next operation involved not only taking out the remaining teeth, but replacing them with false upper and lower dentures, replicas of my own, while I was still under anaesthetic. The new upper dentures didn't have any gum along the front, they were set in place where the extracted teeth had been. The gum less set of false teeth pushed into my own gum giving the appearance of them protruding from my gums, which they in actual fact were. This had all been explained to me before the operation. My consoling thoughts were `my last painful trip to the dentist I will have good looking teeth I won't have to suffer any more fillings.' You Beauty!

I woke up from the operation, groggy and feeling ill from the ether, with a mouth stuffed full of something hard and foreign. I figured my mouth didn't feel as bad as the first operation, I couldn't feel the bloody gaping holes where my teeth had been, they were replaced with my false teeth on plates which covered my bloody gums and filled my mouth. As the anaesthetic wore off the pain took over, I couldn't talk, I couldn't chew; it was too painful and the terrible oozing gunk that was trickling down my throat from under the full upper palate false plate in my mouth was repulsive. The dentist told me to leave the dentures in for a few days "to settle" before I took them out. I was dreading taking them out then having to push them back into my gums. When I finally took out the dentures, cleaned them and gave my mouth a strong salt wash the dentures fitted back into my mouth easier than I expected.

One week after this procedure, feeling more comfortable with my new teeth I attended a dance in Penong; I had thought I wouldn't be well enough to go. I was. I went, proudly displaying my new false teeth, everyone oohed and aahed complimenting me on how good they looked. I felt good, I even had a little kiss from one of the boys, it was a 'little' kiss I was conscious of the foul taste still in my mouth and probable odour, but as least I was able to have a little kiss so soon after the harrowing experience of all my teeth being removed, how exciting! And I was very relieved I wouldn't have to have any more fillings. I was seventeen years old.

Following my dental experience most of the girls of my age in Penong also had all their teeth removed through the same procedures. Now-a-days it would be classed as a crime, back then, 1957 in Penong there was no alternative for toothache or badly shaped teeth other than extractions or many trips to Adelaide which most people couldn't afford _._

I must say I have never regretted having all my teeth out. I have had many new sets of dentures over the years, each set I insist on the dental mechanic padding the dentures to improve my looks.??

# Chapter 26

## Fashion

I loved my new sewing room. I loved my little 32volt Singer, but I found the machine so small I couldn't sew bulky garments, only small quantities of material could fit in the space between the needle arm and the motor arm. It was always a nightmare managing bulky garments in the limited space my dear little machine offered. The regular travelling salesman called into our farm on his rounds and suggested I must need a bigger machine and would you believe it he said "I just happen to have a near new 306K Singer it's only a year old, traded in by a lady who always buys the latest but doesn't do much sewing. It zigzags, it's the first machine to do so."

This machine was twice the size of my little one with the added bonus of zigzagging thus able to neaten raw edges. I made the decision to buy this new fashion machine which had extra cams to manually attach for decorative stitches, a brand-new feature. Mum wasn't impressed she had bought me the little one only a few years prior and thought it was good enough for me. I traded it in and paid the balance. The 306K Singer cost 17pounds 10 shillings ($34.10) and came with eighteen different cams of different decorative stitches. I loved this machine the first zigzag ever to be invented.

It was 1957, I was 17. I had my own sewing room, an amazing as new sewing machine allowing me to comfortably sew larger garments and wonder of wonders it did fancy adjustable stitches. I was so happy. Word soon spread not only about my new sewing room but also my sewing machine and so I received more orders. The fashions of the fifties for females were very feminine frocks. Ladies or females young or old, didn't wear trousers of any description. Jeans were unheard of for either gender. Dungarees were as near to jeans as was available and then only acceptable for work wear made to withstand heavy work and strictly for men only.

Skirts blouses and frocks were worn by women and tailored skirted suits. I avoided tailoring even though it was part of my course, I didn't enjoy the tedious workmanship required for tailoring. I loved creating romantic style frocks fitted bodices nipped in at the waist with various styles of skirts either flowing or straight. I especially liked creating evening gowns. The demand for feminine dresses kept me busy, and I was happy creating them.

Fabrics were basic, only natural fibres of cotton, wool, silk and linen were available, until, during the fifties a miracle new man-made fabric emerged called nylon. Nylon was a miracle material because it was strong wearing, it didn't rot or fade or crease so never needed ironing, in fact it couldn't be ironed we found out to our detriment; if a hot iron even slightly touched nylon fabric it simply melted and disintegrated; excessive heat immediately melted the fabric, never the less nylon became very popular even though it was sheer requiring lining or petticoats in those days to protect the modesty of the wearer.

The fifties fully flared skirts falling from a fitted waistline to calf length or ballerina length were enhanced by the soft flowing nylon fabrics. Sheer flesh coloured stockinged legs, ankles and high heeled fashion shoes showing beneath the graceful ballerina length hemlines complimented the gowns. I felt self- conscious of my legs showing because they were skinny, I felt sure it looked as if I was supported by two sticks sticking out from under my billowing flared skirt.

Nylon was also a revelation for ladies' stockings, sheer tight-fitting stocking of fine denier nylon was so much more comfortable and appealing to wear than the pale silk stockings worn prior to nylon. The stockings were held up with suspenders, either a skimpy suspender belt or suspenders attached to the bottom of corsets or pull-ons. Ladies legs were never bare it was considered very risqué for a lady to show any part of her leg without a covering, stockings were the standard form of dress, as was hats, gloves and matching handbags worn to compliment the frock. No lady would consider `going out' without being correctly attired as such.

For us, attending church was the venue to show off how well dressed you were. No-one would dream of going to church in any less than the whole regalia perfectly matched... until... 'travellers' a gentleman and his lady friend and another lady all from the UK stopped over at Stiggants farm and resided in the implement sheds in return for help with the harvest. They were travelling around Australia in a ute obtaining work and accommodation along the way, it was a good arrangement for all concerned especially Uncle Roy and Don who needed extra hands at harvest time, they were lovely people mixing happily with the locals and... didn't drink or smoke, so were readily accepted. They wanted to attend church but because they were `working' travellers they didn't have any suitable clothes to wear. A serious discussion was held amongst the regular churchgoers.

"Would they be allowed into church not correctly attired?"

It was decided after serious discussions that under the circumstances these `unorthodox travellers couldn't be expected to carry suitable `going out' clothes as they worked their way around Australia, and they seemed to be respectable people; therefore it was determined they would be allowed to attend church in clean work clothes, besides it boosted the small congregation.

When these `travellers' walked into Penong Methodist Church as large as life brimming with confidence, everyone including me was gob smacked. An unnatural silence fell over the church; everyone was agog staring at them. They were indeed clad in `work' clothes and the two ladies wore short shorts, blouses and sandals with no stockings, hat or gloves exposing much healthy tanned skin. I felt so ashamed for them I didn't know how to handle my feelings. I was so embarrassed. I had never seen anyone attending church without the proper attire. No-one ever dared `go out' let alone into church in such clothes as these travellers wore, and ladies NEVER wore shorts in public especially in church.

Don accompanied them, unusual to say the least because he never attended church, he didn't seem a bit perturbed, he along with them sang the hymns with gusto, prayed reverently, listened attentively to the sermon and put money in the collection plate, they boosted the congregation by four to fourteen.

Don looked very happy and content. I was confused. I figured these strange people must be OK, they did everything right, the only faux pas they committed was the way they dressed. I was lucky enough to be sitting behind them so I could look at them without them knowing. I couldn't help but notice how healthy and tanned they all were, there was plenty of skin showing off their healthy glow. I especially noticed the girlfriend of the guy, she was a very good-looking lady with natural wavy hair, sporting a perfect figure with long slim legs, I thought she was the most beautiful lady I had ever seen. Church that day wasn't boring I entertained myself silently looking judging admiring and pitying them.

Don fell in love with the single lady 'traveller', she was a trained nurse called Eunice, the other couple continued their journey around Australia. Eunice stayed behind, nursing at Streaky Bay Hospital until she and Don eventually married. It was obvious we couldn't have two Eunice's in the family, so mum and aunty decided one of us would be called by our second names

"You are not calling me by my second name." I said.

"You are not going to call me by my second name either" the other Eunice said.

I asked "OK! What is your second name?"

To all of our astonishment she said "Winifred."

"My second name is also Winifred."

I couldn't believe there could be two people in the world with the same two names, especially with both names being uncommon ones. We both remained Eunice's.

Don and Eunice married at Streaky Bay. It was an unusual wedding by Penong standards; usually no-one is specifically invited but everyone is expected to attend per a notice in the local newspaper, the catering amply provided by the community, all expenses paid for by the bride's family which wasn't excessive because there was no alcohol allowed in the halls where the receptions were held. The bridal party always had at least two attendants each, the frocks were usually very elaborate with each wedding trying to outdo the other. Eunice had other ideas much to mum and aunties shocked dismay; she insisted on a small intimate wedding with only close family invited and no bridal party attendants.

Eunice's frock to my disappointment wasn't traditional, though it was a beautiful clever design of the loveliest shade of blue shimmering satin with exquisite embroidered lace around the bodice and floor length hem, no train and no veil. I couldn't feel it was a wedding, regardless they were married, and we had to admit it was a lovely wedding. Eunice looked lovely, Don looked so in love and besotted.

I had never known a wedding could be anything other than the traditional lavish show off weddings always held by the locals. Eunice pioneered `different trends' to Penong with her own way of doing things; although mum family and friends didn't approve of such radical changes to `their norm' they accepted Eunice without provocation. Don marrying Eunice qualified them to take over the farm allowing aunty and uncle to retire. Men weren't perceived to be suitable farmers unless they had a wife to cook, clean and help on the farm. Don now qualified and moved into the farmhouse with Eunice. Aunty and uncle happily moved to their beachside home in Ceduna spending the rest of their days there happily retired.

Eunice was a breath of fresh air to Bagster. I thought she was a hero she dared do and say things differing from mum and auntie's staid set ways. Eunice didn't talk down to me, in fact even though she was much older than me I felt I had an ally in her, she even discretely insinuated mum and dad were too strict with me. I had never had another adult see my point of view. I thought all adults had the same narrow mind set _. Eunice and Don eventually sold that farm and bought a farm in south west Western Australia where they prospered._

Back to fashion... Fabrics were plentiful again after recovering from the shortage of fabrics contributing to shorter skirts during the Second World War; the ladies fashion frocks of the fifties were ankle length until the late fifties when they began getting shorter again. I was never allowed to show any knee and mum made certain I didn't, she always inspected frocks I made for myself before I was allowed to wear them out. The biggest argument I had with mum over skirt lengths was over my sports clothes, my tennis and basketball uniforms.

"Your knees are showing" she scoffed on inspection.

As usual she won I had to let them down till they were well below my knee.

Now I am an old age pensioner I don't wear day frocks that long, even my sports skirts barely cover my sagging bum.

Hair fashion during the fifties was rigid waves and tight curls. Straight hair could achieve this style with a perm; the waves were set in butterfly clips requiring much skill to achieve a fashionable hairstyle. There were no hairdressers around Penong, Glenys mother was very adept at cutting hair and setting this style, she was in great demand.

Men's fashions were dull, brown, grey and black were the only acceptable trouser and suit colours for men, shirts were white or pale sedate colours. Tailored suits were made of wool and always worn with a tie, a felt hat and shiny freshly polished shoes completed the gents outfit along with a clean ironed handkerchief (a must for damsels in distress) clever chauvinistic males carried two clean ironed hankies, one for their use and one in case a lady in despair needed one.

Nat King Cole and Elvis Presley started a revelation for men's fashions. Nat King Cole's hit song 'A White Sports Coat and a Pink Carnation' spurred those few who dared to be different to wear a white sports coat, how handsome they looked. Elvis Presley's hit song 'Blue Suede Shoes' also had the same effect on men's fashion.

Young boys when they grew too old for baby rompers wore tailored wool suits amd a plain cotton formal shirt with a tie for best. Trousers were knee length until the boy was classed as an adult then they progressed to wearing long trousers. It was a problem keeping boys' wool suits clean, they couldn't be washed they had to be dry cleaned. Mum used white spirits for spot cleaning the worsted wool garments, occasionally fully immersing the garment. Boys also only wore their `best' clothes for outings when gentlemanly behaviour was expected, when home again boys could be boys... after they had changed out of their `best' clothes.

By the end of the fifties, skirts were creeping up to knee length, even the flared skirted ballerina frocks. At Victorian Derby Day in 1965 Jean Shrimpton a visiting model from the UK dared to wear a sheath frock finishing just above the knee with no hat or gloves. The Shrimp as she became known made headlines in all the Australian and some overseas newspapers: "The Shrimp shows knees."

Disgusting descriptions, stories and photos of her _inappropriate_ attire flooded the nation _(disgusting by protocol standards)._

Soon skirts were so short the tops of the stockings were exposed showing the suspenders the ladies wore to hold up the stockings, this prompted pantyhose to be introduced. Pantyhose allowed the skirts to be worn even shorter, so short they barely covered the knickers with no allowance to bend over. All girls wore these short skirts even those with legs that maybe should have been covered, there were so many different shaped legs on full display covered only by the sheerest of nylon pantyhose stockings. As the macro mini skirt became widely accepted, no-one was embarrassed to show their legs (or their knickers), even those with big legs described as 'gateposts' (by the local lads).

It wasn't until the end of the sixties the skirt lengths dropped to just above the ankles, this suited me just fine. I was the first person to wear this new length 'out' in public, though it wasn't a popular fashion. Slowly as longer frocks were accepted and expected the miniskirts disappeared. I was sorry because the longer skirts added to the cost of my clothes. I now needed four yards (an extra two yards) of material to make a frock. All fabrics then were 36inches wide, one yard. _One yard = 90cms._

Now in my latter years, living in the tropics I wear skimpy mini frocks made from just a single meter of material (though the fabrics are much wider) I know I shouldn't at my age, but I feel cool and comfortable in them. "SO!"

Fashions from the seventies on seemed to merge into easy wear, any wear and comfortable wear. This was the Hippies era. Hippies lived an alternate lifestyle and dressed accordingly, light, loose fitting, dyed cheesecloth type fabrics that clung revealingly to the naked body, no undergarments were worn. The Hippies wore no tight restrictive undergarments. **"** _Burn the Bra_ "was the slogan in the 70's.

In the beginning of the Hippy era, we supposedly sophisticated citizens looked down on the way the Hippies lived and dressed, but I think their casual ways slowly crept into the narrow minded upper crust society making a positive impact on our attitudes, resulting in us relaxing our staunch old fashioned ways. (Yes, I admit to being prudish and thinking I was _upper crust.)_ Certainly, I loved the comfortable loose fits with no restrictive corsets and tights. I enjoyed the comforts of all the mod cons so didn't go along with the lifestyle of the Hippies but I loved the casual way they dressed, I literally took _burn the bra_ on board. I was too skinflint to burn my bra but I never bought any for many years, and very seldom wore a bra, when I did, it was to enhance the outfit I wore, my favourite was a special pair I remodeled to give me an amasing cleavage, amasing because my boobs were as like fried eggs.

During the early seventies, trousers were introduced as casual and formal ladies' fashion. Maggie Tabbera was the first female I saw wearing trousers. I was aghast when she compeered a fashion awards show on TV wearing a suit with a tailored jacket and shock horror... trousers and tie. We wondered if this gave the OK for guys to wear skirts. Slowly trousers became more popular for women, and now look how popular they are?

The early eighties ladies' frocks changed style again; the clothes were tailored straight frocks with emphasis on the shoulders and sleeves. Huge shoulder pads and high puffed sleeves created an absolutely new look. Waistlines and body shapes were cleverly well concealed under this loose style, no need for undergarments to help hold in the bulges. I found it hard to adapt drafting to this style, I had no concept of how much bigger to make my patterns or cut the fabrics in conjunction with the exact body shape which I had mastered to fit. It took many outfits before I could bring myself to allow as much allowance as was necessary to achieve the fashionable larger look. This era was probably the time I had the best figure and mourned the fact it was hidden in large straight bulky outfits.

I am getting ahead of myself here, back to the fifties..............

1957 Our family dressed for church as we did each Sunday

# Chapter 27

## My Brother Becomes a Teen

Roger had reached his teens. I felt sorry for him having to face and live by the strict disciplines I endured. He completed his final year of school at Uworra, riding his pushbike to Watraba Siding to catch the school bus. He left school before he legally could, getting dispensation before he turned fourteen because he would work on the farm, he was still thirteen and a happy boy to be free of school. Roger would now take over the role of Dad's worker.

Roger seemed to have a close relationship with mum I couldn't believe the things he got away with, stuff I was chastised for. I couldn't see how he could feel for mum the way he did when she was so strict. As young kids she certainly favoured Roger over me in most things, I thought it was because I wasn't a worthy child, causing me to bully him every chance I got when we were out of mum's sight.

Roger was still attending school during my first two years at home after high school, we had different schedules and rarely communicated, consequently, when Roger left school as a teenager I saw a different Roger. A more grown up Roger, in fact he had become a sensible strong-willed person, not the meddlesome younger brother I had always known him to be. I couldn't bully him anymore, he stood up to me with a strong stance; this was a shock. I changed my attitude toward him and we became soul mates, sharing many of our secrets and feelings. I had discovered a new ally in my life in the form of my brother.

Roger loved speed... racing... power in the form of vehicles be it on two four or six wheels or four legs, he proudly boasted his secret capers to me of which dad would definitely not have approved.

I took the motorbike along the back roads flat out all the way."

"I had the car flat to the board today. I got up to 56mph."

"The truck is slow; flat to the board it will only do 35mph."

"Can't wait to test the tractor."

"I had the horse and cart at a gallop in the middle of the paddock, would love to test the wagon with a team of horses." _(Thankfully that wouldn't happen dad had sold most of the horses.)_

Roger worked with dad on the farm, dad regularly complained to me about his work ethics and being so slow, I always told dad "he's not so slow, you are too quick, he'll be okay."

Roger's slow methodical way of working drove dad to distraction, I don't know whether Dad conveyed this to Roger, but he certainly did to me. I heard dad seriously telling people "Roger is the slowest thing on two legs, and the fastest thing on four wheels" who thought it a huge joke, dad didn't it was a serious problem for him he really believed Roger would not be a successful farmer because he didn't rush around as dad himself did.

Roger had been driving cars, trucks, motor bikes and farm implements around the farm for many years and now refused to ride his pushbike around the farm as dad still did. Roger's pushbike days finished when he left school. His mode of mobility around the farm was the motorbike, not the one I rode but a more powerful one which I was told was too powerful for me to handle, I didn't care; I was now a licensed motor driver. Roger as a younger lad was never allowed to drive our motorised vehicles around the farm so he took to a one horsepower vehicle which he pushed to the limits. The one horsepower actually had four legs which he harnessed into a vehicle. Mum executing her foresight skills refused to let him use her buggy... wise woman. We had a cart which was rarely used, so Roger harnessed up the cart, a homemade wooden box contraption measuring approximately 6ftx5ft with sides about one foot high, this cart was attached between two wooden spoke wheels about four feet in diameter joined by a single wooden axle with two wooden stocks to harness the horse into.

I never went with Roger on his cart adventures, I was never invited; these adventures were always well away from the house, he related to me how spectacular he could broadside with the cart and horse. I wasn't interested in boy's escapades, I thought they were silly. On his return both mum and dad noticed how hard the horse had been working and warned him about considering the horse's well-being.

One day Roger rode the horse home without the cart.

"What happened to the cart?" mum cautiously asked.

"It tipped over!"

"How"

"I don't know; I was just turning a corner."

The cart was wrecked. Mum and dad were not happy, the fact that their son and horse didn't come to any harm seemed irrelevant; they said such a stupid accident should have been avoided. I don't know if mum and dad ever realised how the cart actually turned over, I know dad was not impressed, it did not help the father-son relationship one bit.

I recently asked Roger if he remembered broad siding the cart and wrecking it. He smugly informed me he had broadsided and tipped the cart over about four times prior to its demise.

Dad was a very caring and loving man full of fun frivolity and righteousness but he never had much to do with us kids, he left the child rearing to mum while he worked long and hard on the farm. I always felt safe secure and loved as a child. I don't remember dad ever chastising us, certainly not me and certainly he never laid a hand on me, or Roger that I know of. I loved my dad though the four-letter word ' _love'_ was never mentioned in those days, it wasn't necessary; **actions spoke louder than words.**

Although I never spent much one on one time with dad we had a good relationship. He had begrudgingly accepted my resistance to Methodism; I felt as if he now understood me and trusted me. I would never have broken that trust. I was however concerned about his relationship with Roger, he complained regularly to me.

"Roger will never make a farmer, he's too slow."

"Yes he will, wait and see, just give him a go."

I really believed Roger had what it took to be a farmer. I never had the same feelings for mum as I did for dad, though Roger and mum seemed to have a special bond. I thought I may be able to get around mum through Roger. I certainly covered for Roger with dad many times; I guess Roger may have done the same for me with mum.

Pets were of high priority with us all accept dad. Dad had no patience with pets; in fact, dad had no patience with anything that didn't do as he wished... immediately. To dad's disgust Roger loved dogs and desperately wanted his own dog to train as a working dog with sheep. Dad thought this was a waste of time, and proudly bragged "Give me a good horse and I can round up any sheep anywhere much quicker than any dog can."

This was probably true, but Roger wanted a dog to train and be a mate. He had a series of different dogs until he found 'Brownie'. Brownie was incredibly special to Roger he went everywhere with him and consequently also with dad while working together. Roger was sure Brownie had potential; he had the right breeding and simply needed the right training; and much to dad's annoyance at every opportunity Roger worked Brownie with the sheep. Brownie was showing lots of promise. Roger and Brownie were inseparable.

Dad often said to me "that dog is a waste of time; it will never amount to anything."

"Give it a chance dad" I begged each time he complained.

Roger was very good with his dogs prompting mum to say "Roger will make a good father because he is so good with his dogs."

One day Roger found Brownie shaking in pain and not able to walk. Roger was distraught Brownie had obviously eaten some poison. Poison was regularly used to cull rabbits, strychnine was added to bait food and laid near rabbit burrows, Brownie must have taken one of these baits; he had been poisoned. Roger retreated to his bedroom distraught and not able to watch Brownie die such a horrible death. I really felt for Roger and Brownie.

I had heard my cousins Don and Keith talking of curing dogs who had eaten a bait though rather gruesome I thought it worth a try. Salt water was forced down the dog's throat causing it to vomit, the tip of the ears were cut off (the ears because it was the least painful way to draw blood) and the dog swung around and around by the tail causing the blood to flow from the cut ears, this combined with vomiting helped rid the poison from the dogs system. I couldn't do it alone. I needed a man's strength. I asked dad to help me try and save Brownie.

Out of Roger's hearing Dad said "this could be a way of getting rid of it, it's a useless dog anyway."

I was horrified I didn't think dad could be so callous. It took me no time to decide I would try to save Brownie alone. I mixed up some salt water; miraculously I was able to get Brownie to swallow some.

I yelled to dad "Can you sharpen the butcher's knife please?"

I think dad then realised I was serious about saving Brownie.

I don't remember if I cut the ears off or dad did, I know I would have if I had to.

I do remember in a very demanding voice saying to dad "Get hold of his tail and swing and swing him around until he is sick. GO ON! DO IT."

I had tried to swing him around, but he was too heavy for me. Finally dad reluctantly did as I asked, he was surely sick of me screaming at him.

As dad was swinging Brownie around he was saying "this is all a waste of time, he will still die."

"We have to try dad, come on give him another swing."

Brownie spewed and spewed and soon seemed out of pain and breathing normal. I was elated. I was so pleased I had persevered. I was so pleased I had listened to my cousin's stories about saving their dogs.

I raced in to tell Roger the good news, now we just had to wait and see if Brownie recovered from the ordeal he had been through. He did. Roger was one happy boy. Dad accepted Brownie as Roger's mate without complaining to me ever again.

Roger allowed his dogs to travel on the cabin roof of the truck as he drove around the farm; they jumped up on the roof at every opportunity and had great balance. Mum warned Roger many times how dangerous it was. Roger was sure Brownie would be able to fall safely if he lost balance. Sure enough, mum's prediction eventuated when one day while feeding the sheep Brownie in his usual spot on the cabin; when Roger braked quickly, the dog fell onto the bonnet of the truck, bounced off and straight under the wheels and was killed instantly. Roger was completely devastated. He never let another of his dogs ride on the cabin roof.

Roger also had kangaroo dogs for hunting, he loved his dogs but expected them to perform, some performed as he expected and some didn't. The ones that didn't perform didn't last long. _Many years later when visiting Roger on the farm he had the most gorgeous sheep dog puppy called Lucky._

" _Why Lucky?" I asked. "Lucky he is still alive, the rest of the litter didn't show any promise."_

Roger was old enough now to partake in Spotlighting, I hoped to be allowed to go with him and his mates. We had listened in awe as Keith related his experiences, he could be an allay if we could convince dad we would be eradicating foxes thus saving untold damage to lambs, poultry and any young unsuspecting animal. Keith was well set up for `foxing' with a purpose built work ute complete with safety bars, Roger was allowed to go with him and in time I was as well though mum and dad weren't happy continually warning us to be careful. I loved it; it was the most excitement I ever had on our farm, and I got to stay up after dark. Teenagers lads loved the challenge of hunting, it was one of the few forms of entertainment in the outback with a `bragging rights' reward on offer. A large bushy fox tail was the ultimate prized possession which young lads attached to the aerial of their car, very distinctive and admired as it blew horizontally as the car was aimlessly driven for all to notice. The bigger and bushier the tail the more successful the owner was perceived to be. _There were no kangaroos or wombats roaming freely back then, in fact we often went looking for them, but never saw any. Four decades later they appeared in plague proportion. It's a wonder where they emerged from._

The dog fence to the north running east west parallel to our farm was built to keep dingoes out of the farming areas. Dingoes could easily wipe out a herd of sheep, the livelihood of the area. There was a man employed to continually monitor the security of the dog fence. This man led a lonely existence because he had the maintenance responsibility of many miles of fencing through desolate country. Although I never heard of a dingo being seen on the wrong side of the fence, as an extra precaution a strict rule applied which dad strongly policed, no-one living inside the dog fence was permitted to own a German-Shepherd dog. It was believed the mating of this breed and a dingo would produce a dangerous destructive animal, not only to stock but to humans.

Bush fires were always a threat; much preparation was done before summer especially after a good winter season with rain ensuring lots of growth and dry stubble (the remainder of the crops after the grain had been harvested). Fire breaks were strategically ploughed to prevent bush fires from raging uncontrolled. Mum started hounding dad to plough fire breaks around the house while the growth was still green, well before the hot weather set in. _"You have to have foresight."_

At the first sign of smoke everyone accessed their vehicles with knapsack sprays and those with trucks filled with water raced to the scene. (Dad always had a 200-gallon tank filled with water on his truck). The new telegraph lines made communications more reliable, the party lines remained open, what an asset to the outback.

Mostly fires were started by lightning strikes then extinguished by the rain that usually followed. If the fires were to the north outside the dog fence there was no threat to privately owned property' even so it was closely monitored and usually burnt itself out. Fires also started from engine sparks igniting the dry growth especially during harvesting which could only take place on hot dry days. Every farmer had a knapsack on hand for these occurrences; fortunately we never had a serious bushfire, probably because of the vigilance of the locals.

One extremely hot day during summer not far from our farm, a transport truck caught fire on the Eyre Highway, a blown out tyre caught fire and soon had the flammable contents of the truck was engulfed. This was serious. If the fire got away it could burn the nearby crops ready to be harvested. The fire had to be contained to the truck on the highway. Dad was the first to arrive with his knapsack and shovel, he worked tirelessly with the truck driver to save the truck, word spread quickly, other farmers arrived with their knapsacks; trucks arrived carrying two hundred gallon tanks full of water for refills, including mum driving our truck with the tank full of water on board. I was with her; it was a very scary situation. I watched on in awe as the men worked tirelessly spraying the blaze with their limited water supply and shoveling dirt onto the blaze. Dad had taken on the leadership role (as he usually did) decided it was an impossible task to save the truck with such limited firefighting equipment, it was imperative that this raging fire must not escape and burn out the adjacent paddocks and crops. Shovels were handed out to clear growth from the roadside, it was FULL ON. Dad worked full pelt without a break for many hours until the fire was out, sadly the truck was completely gutted but praise be, mission accomplished the fire had been contained. Dad looked ready to collapse, he arrived home black with soot and absolutely spent. I had never seen him in such a state, he retreated to bed for a few days, most rare for dad.

Dad suffered recurring nightmares of this fire and attacks of high temperatures, he called these attacks 'chills' and they re-occurred often rendering him useless and bedridden for days at a time, he was very impatient with the doctors who couldn't cure him of these 'chills''. It was not like dad to be disabled and consequently became depressed during these spells in bed. Eventually he would emerge as his bright and bubbly self so happy and relieved to feel normal again consequently he went like mad to make up for lost time, yes, of course he was soon laid up again. No persuasions from mum or the doctors could convince him to pace himself to live at a slower pace. "Don't tear headlong into everything and wear yourself out." Mum often told him "and don't rush me. I won't be rushed. SO."

"If I can't work how I want to work I may as well be dead." dad replied.

I think these turns gave mum and dad thoughts of retiring, they had their house at Ceduna ready for their retirement. There was much talk and speculation from mum and dad how retirement could work for them the biggest consideration being what would happen to the farm. They, or I, had dispelled their ideas of marrying me to a 'suitable' farmer to co-join farms. They didn't hold much hope that Roger would be a successful farmer he was still way too young to take over the responsibility of the farm anyway.

"He's too blanky slow." Dad continually complained.

"But dad Roger is thorough, he'll be OK!" I always told him.

No retirement options were obvious, life continued on the farm with dad suffering and accepting his `chills' without grace but full of life again after his forced rest.

"When dad and I die we don't want any fights over who gets what, you and Roger each get half, then there can't be any fighting if you get half each." This statement from mum was a shock because I didn't for a moment think they were going to die any time in the near future, in fact I never thought of them dying ever but I thought it was very fair and the way it should be. I felt privileged that mum had bothered to say, I never for a moment connected mum's statement to dad occasionally wincing in pain and holding his left heart area. although it scared me.

"Are you all right dad?"

He always brushed it off "Of course I am."

Dad's greatest fear in life was dying a slow painful death as he had witnessed with his father and brother. I knew dad in his daily prayers, prayed every day to die quickly without suffering as his dad and brother had. Dad tried to pretend he wasn't in pain, the fact he tried to hide his attacks worried me. I couldn't believe either of my parents could die. They would always be there!

Roger aged 15.Car shed and shearers room behind. Pigsty on far right of slaughter tree

# Chapter 28

## My First Love - Ted

During my time living on the farm, the only places we went where I could get friendly with a boy was sports on Saturdays and church on Sundays, much to mum and dad's disappointment there were no boys attending church, even if their parents came to church the boys didn't, consequently Saturday sports day was my only opportunity. I loved sports days, it gave me a chance to interact with all the local teenagers including the opposite sex, between the matches and the dance was the chance to bond in groups or one on one. I had no confidence in myself and certainly I had no confidence or know how for a one on one bonding with the opposite sex. I followed the flow and went with the mob.

Some of the older boys had cars, these boys were the popular ones usually with a car full of teenagers as they proudly cruised around and around the sporting fields and town going no-where special. There was a lot of smoking and drinking alcohol amongst most of the boys which was a concern for mum and dad, we had many arguments about who I should and shouldn't mix with, they would have had me segregated from the young community if they could, but it would have been impossible even if I agreed to do so, the community was so small it became one unit, with everybody agreeing to agree. The majority of people in our community were the ones that lived life to the fullest including smoking tobacco and drinking alcohol. The only absolute tee-teetotalers were my rellies who lived around Bagster though most of their offspring males drank only to be sociable. It was an adult status symbol amongst the young ones to smoke and drink, the popular boys drank a lot, the girls occasionally had a sip of the boy's beer and a puff of their cigarette, I never did. Sometimes I felt they were making fun of me and my family, and as much as I wanted to be accepted I was determined I wouldn't give in to peer pressure. I never did. I talked hard and long to convince mum and dad I didn't want to smoke and drink, I just wanted to mix with the young mob and be accepted.

"If you are hanging out with the boozers and smokers you will be labelled with doing what they do."

Many arguments were bandied between us over my freedom to mix with whom I chose. I was so suppressed and depressed I actually thought I'd sooner be dead and even thought of ways I could end my life knowing full well I wouldn't succeed because mum would find out and stop me and I'd be in worse trouble, anyway I realised I wouldn't have the guts to do such a rational act.

I continued to badger mum and dad about the strict limitations they imposed on me until finally after my sworn promise that I wouldn't smoke or drink alcohol I was allowed a little more freedom. Great! That was fine with me. I enjoyed driving around with `the gang' in their cars on Saturdays. I enjoyed mixing with the `gang' at the dances especially with mum and dad not there. I behaved myself not only for my parents but Ruby as well. I dread to think how restricted and bored I would have been if not for Ruby. I was allowed to spend time with Glenys and her family because they occasionally attended church. Glenys's mother attended the monthly Methodist Lady Guild meetings, she was very arty and contributed many skills to these meetings. Glenys's older brother Bill and I were good friends he was a sensible sensitive boy who drank only to be sociable. Mum and Dad didn't class him as 'marriage material' because his family weren't inheritors of farms. I enjoyed a noncommittal friendship with Bill during our teenage years; that same friendship still exists today when our paths cross.

A new school teacher arrived in Penong, Trevor, a lovely sensible respected young man who owned a car and didn't drink. If you didn't drink alcohol you didn't `fit in' this small community. We not so popular young ones who lived a more somber lifestyle had befriended Trevor, him owning a car was a bonus. We had such great fun. I was allowed to go to selected places with him and the small gang of friends we had formed. I was allowed to entertain them at home under strict supervision of course, the tennis court was regularly used and my sewing room proved to be a great teens' entertainment room with a modicum of privacy. Of course absolutely no alcohol was ever allowed which didn't bother us, girls didn't drink alcohol then and the lads when with us didn't either. I was allowed at last to live a sort of normal life like the other kids, enjoying friendships and outings. I still wasn't allowed to go out after dark and still had to attend the church services each week. I didn't mind, a small price to pay for a modicum of freedom.

Trevor soon was tempted by the 'popular gang' to drink beer with them, it happened to all the lads that lived in Penong, there was not enough young lads in Penong and surrounding districts to form a group of non-drinkers, eventually every lad succumbed to drinking beer to be 'accepted'. Trevor was no exception, but he was a guy who didn't hold his alcohol very well, causing him to become very drunk and incoherent after a few drinks, fortunately this wasn't a common occurrence. Surprisingly, I was still allowed to travel with him, I don't think mum and dad realised how badly alcohol affected him. Trevor was the first person I had seen who completely changed his personality after too many beers, he was a totally different person, not an offensive person just a stupid, happy, loud, incoherent individual instead of the usual sensible well-mannered sober Trevor. I'm sure Trevor had no idea how he behaved when under the influence of alcohol; he transformed into a person he would have been ashamed of. _I often wondered what happened to Trevor. I do hope he was posted to a less remote area where he had a choice of lads to befriend; he was a likable chap, and an excellent school-teacher with a promising future._

Easter 1957! I was allowed to stay in Ceduna with cousin Reta and Cliff to play in a tennis tournament. Mum emphatically warned me I was "on trial". On the Saturday night I went to a dance unsupervised in the local hall, it was absolutely wonderful being allowed out without an adult watching my every move. It was the latest I had ever stayed up I felt so sophisticated and 'with it'. I was going home in Trevor's car with two other boys whom I knew well, it was such a treat to be able to hang around with the young ones after the dance joining in the frivolity which included lots of beer. I didn't drink any, but the ones who did were so much fun. Time to go home, I felt a bit guilty being allowed out on trust and getting in a car with only boys to be driven back to my cousin's home.

Trevor was very tipsy; he hopped into the driver's seat and took off at top speed... BANG... straight into the rear of a stationary car parked at the curb side directly in front of us. No seat belts in those days. We all were thrust forward. I was in the back seat and suffered no injuries the others had a few bruises. We were all questioned by the police, examined at hospital and sent home. I was never so humbled or mortified in my life. I was just so grateful my first weekend away didn't end with a fatal tragedy.

It was well after midnight when I eventually got back to Reta and Cliffs, it seemed my head had only touched the pillow when they woke me up to prepare for the tennis tournament match I was to play that morning. I remember having to concentrate like never before. I played very well considering the lack of sleep and the trauma I had experienced, I can't remember if I won, didn't matter, I was alive. How could I explain to mum and dad? Reta and Cliff didn't chastise me but made me ring home which I reluctantly did. Surprisingly I didn't get too much of a reprimand. I had learnt a valuable lesson. I realised how easy it is to die by bad decisions.

One night at a dance in Penong Ted a quiet shy older boy asked me **'out'** he had visited me in hospital in Adelaide, he was much older than me and left school soon after I started so I didn't know him as well as I knew boys of my own age, Ted hung around with the more popular boys who drank lots of beer I knew mum and dad would not approve. They didn't, and of course they found out very soon after our first 'outing'; a quick cuddle behind the dance hall before I got in Ruby's car to go home. Damn that bush telegraph, dear Ruby wouldn't have tattled on me either.

Ted was a shearer and had no prospect of becoming a farm owner; he was immediately dismissed as a suitable husband, as if I was thinking of marriage. To add to Ted's being non husband material he was part aboriginal, his mother's mother was a full blood aboriginal who preferred to live the lifestyle of the aborigines in the bush rather than our western style and I was not allowed to forget the fact; mum reminded me often quipping _"love is blind."_

Ted the second eldest of a large family all of whom had attended Penong School hated the aboriginality in him, staying out of the sun so his skin stayed as pale as possible. He was a handsome guy always spotlessly clean, well-groomed and well dressed; he was a top sportsman excelling in football. I immediately liked him he was not only handsome but kind and gentle a respected member of the community and captain of the Penong football team whom he guided to a premiership. As a teenager Ted had been selected to play in the SAFL training with the Pt Adelaide squad, though playing most of his matches in the reserves team. Returning to Penong he used his professionally trained sporting knowledge to take his team to premierships.

Ted's best mate Goofy came from a respected Church of England farming family but mum and dad thought he was too wayward and drank too much. Ted and Goofy were inseparable, they always did everything together including shearing making good money during shearing season then drinking most of it. Ted and I become a foursome with Goofy and Marlene though only on sport days I was never given the opportunity to associate with them other times. I enjoyed the 'sophisticated' company I was keeping; I was heady with the idea of having a boyfriend and such a popular guy. It didn't worry me that he had no prospects or ambitions for the future, he was a kind loving guy and best mates with a good time fun popular guy who owned a car, a rarity in those days, it was so much fun hanging out with them, I enjoyed their company and every moment I shared with them.

Mum and dad of course didn't approve, they tried everything to separate us. The more resistance I got from them the more I was determined to choose my own friends. One day during one of the many heated discussions regarding my friends and future, in utter despair mum broke into tears saying to me

"OK, we'll give you a caravan for a wedding present and you can get out of our site and we never want to see you again."

I was speechless, deeply hurt and devastated. Who ever mentioned marriage, it had never entered my head? I was so hurt hearing mum say she wanted me out of her sight. I felt I must get away from this environment, it would suit mum too I thought, I knew she was in despair over my stance to independence. I had overheard many conversations from their bedroom during the night where mum complained bitterly to dad about my behaviour and rebelliousness.

I knew mum expected me to fall pregnant. I was determined that would never happen until I was married. I knew mum carefully watched the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall to note the date my `monthly' was due, I purposely though seemingly innocently refrained for as long as I dared to enter the date it actually appeared.

It seemed the more my parents objected to my friendship with Ted, the more I was drawn to him. There was never a verbal commitment made between Ted and I, we were just good friends pushed together through my parents endeavouring to keep us apart. I leaned on Ted for friendship support and comfort which he gave me even though we seldom spent time together alone. Ted was the most genteel loving kind guy I had ever met. I had never experienced such kindness and understanding from a human. I was in love. We had pet names for each other he called me 'Flying Doe.' I called him 'Curly Headed Darling' alias 'CHD.'

Ted didn't own a car. He never saved any money he was a good time fun guy, spending his money as he earned it, mostly on beer. The day came when Ted decided he must get his own car, I was so excited. He found the one he wanted, in Adelaide, a second-hand Ford Customline ute. `I would love to go to Adelaide with Ted to pick up his car.' `What's the use of wishing, I would never be allowed.' BUT WAIT...

Billy Graham an American Evangelist and Crusader was in Adelaide on his campaign around the world converting people to 'believe' and be 'born again'. My opportunity!

"Dad, Billy Graham is in Adelaide, he is doing a big crusade at Memorial Drive. Can I go?"

Of course I could. I knew that would work.

"Dad, Ted will be in Adelaide too."

Dead silence.

"He would like to come with me to see Billy Graham."

I knew dad wouldn't refuse."

Billy Graham's 'show' was very moving, many people walked down the grandstands to centre stage and gave themselves to Jesus that night. I was also moved, though embarrassed through the whole 'show' Ted gave no indication of his feelings. I was happy using this show as a means for me to be alone with Ted though being alone together seemed kind of strange; it was as if we were strangers. I don't know how ever I was allowed, but I travelled back to Penong with Ted alone in his new ute. We proudly took off from Adelaide in the afternoon for the twelve-hour trip. I was excited at the prospect of spending so much time with Ted; we wouldn't arrive home until _tomorrow._

The Customline cars had bench seats wide enough to lay across (b _ucket seats, seat belts and automated cars were unheard of then)_ girlfriends snuggled close to their boyfriend as he drove usually with his left arm around her shoulders, experienced girls learned to change the gears of the car allowing the driver to keep his arm around her. I had dreamed of driving around with my boyfriend in this way. Ted would never have to take his arm away from around my shoulders because I could change the gears for him. I couldn't wait. We travelled well into the night until he could drive no further, he suggested we stop and have a sleep.

'OH, Yes Please.' I thought, though wouldn't have dreamed of voicing my thoughts.

I was trembling with nervous sexual excitement. I was quite taken aback when Ted resisted any sexual overtures. Here we were alone in the middle of no-where in the pitch black of night in a car wide enough to lay comfortably across the seat. Ted was very much a gentleman... much to my disappointment. _I had no idea the predicament I had placed myself in._ I imagined we would enjoy intimate petting forever without anyone interrupting us, something I had never had an opportunity to do.

I later found out dad had given Ted a dressing down about treating his daughter with respect; I think Ted was as paranoid as me about getting pregnant especially as it was obvious I had no idea how to prevent pregnancy. I believed prevention was abstinence which I accepted and was prepared never to allow any sexual penetration. Ted explained to me about men and their sexual arousal having no conscience. I had no idea what he was talking about. I loved petting especially with Ted who was very good at petting I couldn't understand why he didn't take this opportunity for some heavy petting even though he explained he may not be able to control himself. _Many, many years later I understood what he was trying to explain to me, I really appreciated his respect for me, how innocent I was, so ripe and ready to be taken advantage of. Luckily Ted was a thorough gentleman and respected me or maybe was scared of dad._

I was turning 18. I was not in the good books with mum and dad. I asked about a party. Eighteen wasn't a milestone in those days, 21 was 'the coming of age' when kids became an adult and officially given `the key to the door' allowing them to vote and go into hotels and partake of alcohol. I knew none of the young ones I mixed with were keen to attend a party for me especially with no alcohol allowed. I knew a party that mum and dad approved would be so boring and I thought I would be made fun of.

I suggested "Instead of a party can I have a Glory Box?"

"I have already got your birthday present."

On opening it I was so disgusted to find a small leather-bound Methodist Hymn Book with music set to all the hymns. I threw it on the table saying "What sort of a present is this for an eighteen-year-old? I will never use it, and the music is far too small for me to read while playing the organ."

I left it on the table. I was so hurt and felt guilty about causing my parents to have such a low opinion of me. I was very unhappy. Eventually mum must have got the message, a few weeks later a shiny new modest Glory Box was delivered to our home. The local girls proudly bragged about their Glory Boxes, they sounded so grand with doors and drawers; mine was a white painted chest with a vinyl padded lift up lid.

`Oh well, I can't complain, at least I have a Glory Box, be it ever so modest.'

I had given up the idea of nursing, my sewing room allowed me a modicum of my own space. I did consider becoming a policewoman. Dad asked the local Methodist minister to talk to me about being a police woman, he dutifully approached me saying "You don't want to be a police woman, it makes you a very hard person and people don't like you." He wasn't very convincing but I never pursued the idea, besides dad increased my allowance, a carrot to get me to stay on the farm. I stayed. Mum and Dad tolerated my relationship with Ted though they never accepted it.

Ted and I never spent much time alone, mum and dad saw to that. I instigated for him to be a normal boyfriend and asked if he could have a meal with us. This was only achieved after he agreed to attend morning church with our family then come home for the midday meal which was eaten in embarrassing silence. Ted was a quiet guy never said much at any time I was tongue- tied and felt inadequate and mum and dad were obviously unhappy and made no attempt to hide their feelings. The whole procedure was embarrassingly uncomfortable; the soother for me was I was allowed to go for an afternoon drive with Ted after the meal. Ted was wary of my parents and quite happy to be a distant boyfriend avoiding being in their company. I couldn't blame him.

Attending church was the criteria of acceptance for dad, if Ted had been a regular church goer, dad would have been more accepting of him; for us both going to church was a real farce. Ted in all sincerity said to me "The people that go to church are way worse than me, they stand around chatting after church gossiping and running other people down I don't talk about people like that, it's wrong to gossip and run people down."

At the time I couldn't see his point.

On the occasional Sundays Ted agreed to attend church with us, I enjoyed the drives I was allowed with him after, we enjoyed this time together alone without any outside influence. I soon realised Ted was almost like a complete stranger; I hadn't had much opportunity to get to know him. I think I expected the earth to quiver... it didn't, he acted so very proper and mature, it was a huge disappointment for me, never mind I enjoyed the freedom of being away from mum and dad. I enjoyed driving around the district with Ted sometimes meeting up with other kids in cars at the popular meeting place on the flat stretch of road through salt swamps on the Pt. Sinclair road. There was always something happening there being the hub for the young folk with its stretch of road free of corrugates. I enjoyed watching as drivers tested their skills along this smooth stretch of road, and listened to many bragging stories that were told of 'records' made. These gatherings were always accompanied by long neck bottles of beer being passed around. I knew mum and dad would definitely not approve of me being in the vicinity of such behaviour, I didn't feel quite right about it either... for a while, but these Sunday outings became a ritual and I soon felt `with it' joining the Sunday frivolity with the local teenage kids.

Dad agreed for Ted to be included in the gang to shear our sheep, I was so excited, Ted would be sleeping on the farm, maybe I could sneak into his room sometime? I spent as much time as I was allowed in the shearing shed, but once again dad contrived to have me in the paddocks droving the sheep for most of the shearing hours. Shearing, always a busy time required all hands on deck, alert and working relentlessly. I was expected to help mum with the meals which I did, but I preferred to be in the shearing shed and was at every chance. I worked so hard I was too exhausted to sneak into Ted's room, though I knew I'd be in BIG trouble if caught. One morning while mum was milking, I did sneak in; he was quite taken aback and standoffish. "What is wrong? Don't you want me to hop into bed with you?" I asked.

"I want to shower first I don't like the natural smell of my body."

Ted was self-conscious about his aboriginal heritage. Once again he had saved me from making a fool of myself and the possibility of getting caught out by mum and the possibility of pregnancy.

A few months earlier I had finally pestered dad into letting me have a pet lamb. My argument was I was saving a lamb's life by raring it by hand after being abandoned by its mother. Dad's argument was a pet lamb is a nuisance in a mob of sheep it led the flock astray. Dad preferred to cut the lamb's throat, end of problem. I had saved this lamb from its fate, loved it and bottle fed it from a newborn. I called it Teddy, it lived in the house yard never out of my site it followed me everywhere. Dad insisted Teddy had to be shorn during this shearing session, the only way I agreed to let it out of my site was if Ted shore it I felt he would be gentle and caring with it.

Me with Teddy and Ginger the cat.

While I was otherwise occupied Teddy was taken away, when he wasn't returned I questioned dad.

"He had an accident we had to put him down."

I was devastated. How could such an accident happen? Ted was closed lip about what happened everyone seemed to be silent when I talked of Teddy, especially around the meal table as we were eating our usual mutton meal. There seemed to be an uncomfortable feeling in the air especially when I asked questions which no-one would answer.

Many years later I realised we were probably eating Teddy... thus the silences... and the reason dad wouldn't let me bury him in the yard and lay flowers on his grave.

This is a typical case of believing what you want to believe.

Shearing was completed without any other complications in fact the whole business was a bit of a flop compared to my expectations. Ted and I were kept apart, totally absorbed in our own individual chores which fully occupied our time.

Occasionally Ted drove out to our farm after tea, I loved these visits. I was allowed to entertain him in my sewing room. These visits gave us an opportunity to become more intimate, though I was always conscious of mum's presence in the house just a doorway away. Ted told me he had been engaged to a girl while working in Queensland, when the relationship ended he returned to Penong, he explained he had been very intimate with her, although I was envious of her I realised Ted was an experienced expert lover because of her, he turned me on something fierce, so different to the fumbling's of young inexperienced lads I had previously `gone out' with. Our petting became very heavy. I loved it, we petted, kissed, felt and smooched. I trusted him and knew I didn't have to stop petting and make a hasty escape before he vented his sexual frustrations by rape. Ted being an experienced lover soon had me in frenzied orgasmic turmoil. Wow! What a feeling! I loved making love with Ted who cleverly introduced me to orgasms in unmentionable ways and all without internal penetration and fear of getting pregnant. I loved the sensual climaxes. I think I may have given myself to him unreservedly if he had insisted, but he didn't, he respected me and my family. I was so in love!!!!

(Lust I now know).

To me it seemed the natural progression of our relationship was to become engaged. Marriage still hadn't been a consideration for me. I was heady about an engagement. I talked about it to Ted. I had looked at engagement rings in catalogues. I showed him the catalogue but first he had to ask dad for my hand, that was the proper thing to do, that's what they did in the movies. Poor Ted! I insisted he approach dad which he duly did with much trepidation. I questioned him as to what dad said.

"Your dad asked what prospects I had for the future and how was I going to support you?"

I was way too excited to worry about what may happen in the future, this was today I was relishing in today. I was relishing in 'getting engaged'. I had chosen a small but intricate modestly priced ring. We agreed to order it.

"I don't have the money to pay for it just now." Ted sheepishly admitted.

I never realised money could be an issue in life. _How innocent and ignorant was I?_

The engagement ring arrived in the post.

What's that?" asked mum.

"You'll soon find out."

The next Sunday Ted drove to beautiful Cactus Beach, a desolate remote beach off the road on the way to Pt Sinclair, treacherously weaving his way through the low scrubbed sand hills; he parked his Ford Customline overlooking the sea where he romantically proposed in the same manner as they did in the few movies I had seen. I was engaged. I was so happy. I couldn't wait to show everyone my ring. The response we received was less than enthusiastic, never mind I was deliriously happy.

I insisted mum publish (the accepted way to make an official announcement) a notice in the West Coast Sentinel, she omitted the usual words Mr. and Mrs. Freeman are **proud** to announce....... We received a few presents from people which I lovingly put in my Glory Box, but I was really taken aback when mum put a pair of Actil pure white cotton **single** bed sheets on the table.

"This is your engagement present."

" **Single** bed sheets?"

Mum certainly had a cruel way of making a statement.

These single bed sheets were never put on a bed they stayed neatly folded as new. The years I needed single bed sheets, plain white sheets were simply too old fashioned, I bought colourful patterned ones. Never mind forty-five years later I cut and joined them to fit an extra-large tabletop, they were finally used.... as tablecloths. Perfect. Thank you mum!

Ted meekly went along with my wishes, following me with my every whim. He even gave up alcohol for a few months, probably because of dad's lecture to him when he 'asked for my hand'. I think by now mum had completely given up on me; I had failed her as a daughter. I had tried to be the daughter she expected but failed dismally. I remember talking to Aunty May in Adelaide, telling her of my engagement and the restrictions I had to abide by, she said "That's easy fixed, tell mum and dad to send you on a cruise, they can afford it."

"They would never allow me to go on a cruise." I regretfully replied

I was right, but I spent some dreamy time in wonderland imagining what it would be like to go on a cruise without mum and dad. Such heady thoughts which I knew would never eventuate.

December 20th, 1958 terrible news that spread quickly, a twelve year old girl had been found murdered on the beach at Ceduna, the murderer was at large. Alerts were issued over the wireless and verbally, the bush telegraph at times like this was a blessing. This Xmas was a very somber one with the murder foremost in everyone's minds and the murderer still at large. Mum in a serious mood said "If a strange man approaches, I will keep him talking outside you must stay hidden inside and ring the police."

I remembered mum's instructions "If you have to use the gun don't shoot to kill, aim for the legs, that will maim him and he won't be able to run after you and you will have time to escape, and you won't be tried for murder, only manslaughter."

I kept the gun by my side until the murderer was tracked down by a local aborigine 'black tracker'. The murdered girl was Mary Hatton and the person charged with her murder was Rupert Max Stewart. We felt safe again with the murderer in jail. The penalty for murder was death by hanging; that is what this person deserved, good riddance; we don't need wicked people like this in our world. An eye for an eye was the rule back then, if you murdered someone you were executed.

We were not to know then that this murder would change the justice system ruling for murder.

A widowed church friend of mum's, Mrs. Oats was diagnosed with Hepatitis C. She was very sick and confined to bed, she needed someone to look after her in her home in Penong. Mum offered my services. I had an injection to prevent me from contracting the contagious Hep .C. I looked forward to being with Mrs. Oats because her home was near where Ted lived. In these days every-one called each other Mr. and Mrs. Mum and dad used this formal address even for people they knew well. Christian names were only used by relatives or very close friends. Children always used Mr. and Mrs. It was a term of respect and we all accepted that, especially us kids. I grew very close to Mrs. Oats; although she was a regular churchgoer she had an open mind about life. She talked to me as no-one else had ever done, she treated me as an equal, she talked of her emotional experiences. _Did older people have emotions? I didn't think so!_ She never knocked my relationship with Ted though she did ask a few well-chosen questions which caused me to seriously think about our engagement and relationship, she treated and talked to me as if I was a sensible adult, not as a naughty child. Apart from my namesake Eunice I had never had an adult conversation with any-one that didn't treat me as a child and naughty one at that. Mrs. Oats talked about _stuff_ which blew my immature mind; probably a lot she left unsaid had a huge impact on me as well. I thought about our conversations. I was away from mum and dad's domination which allowed me to think _stuff_ through clearly without their influence clouding my thoughts. _Stuff_ ... I remember we talked about: -

"There is a difference between love and lust you know."

"No, I didn't know."

I was sure I knew the difference; I was in love. But I wondered how you really know the difference? Mrs. Oats as sick as she was, was so patient with me, happy to chat at any time. We talked about mum and dad's status in the community. "When they are not here, who will take over the volunteer work they do?" I asked.

I was stunned when she said, "The community could be better off if they weren't here, your parents do so much in the area, but is it what the people want?"

WOW! What a revelation to me. I couldn't believe a friend of mum's would reveal such negative thoughts about my parents to me.

I discussed with Ted some of the conversations Mrs. Oats had with me, he agreed with everything she said. I was amased so many people had such negative opinions about my parents. During this time with Mrs. Oats I was able to spend quality time with Ted where there was no influence from my parents. I was able to assess my situation with a sane mind. Ted always the perfect gentleman, never ever took advantage of my innocence or vulnerability. I was aghast when he told me the local gossip "Everyone thinks I'm 'porking' you, they say I wouldn't be hanging around you if I wasn't getting a _bit._ "

The ramifications of these words had no impact on me, I had no understanding of a man's needs; I certainly knew my needs which Ted ably supplied, loving support and friendship.

A funny thing happened one night which restricted us from petting for the rest of my stay with Mrs. Oats. The toilet was a `long drop' (a deep hole in the ground) way down the back yard, so I used a china chamber pot kept under the bed during the night for 'jobs'. The pot was usually only used for 'little jobs', 'big jobs' were too smelly to leave under the bed. I suffered severe constipation and had to take strong bowel moving medication which suddenly sprang into action as I slept. I knew I wouldn't have time to find a torch and run to the long drop dunny way down the back yard, I would use the pot then empty it straight away to get rid of the smell. I grabbed the pot from under the bed quickly sat on it as my bowels uncontrollably emptied themselves of days of built up _shit._

I must have sat on the pot with more pressure than normal, the crack I had previously noticed in the pot decided to give way precisely as I sat. What a shock. What a mess. There I was backside on the floor lying in a great mound of shit surrounded by the broken chamber pot. OUCH! Something was hurting. There was blood appearing amongst the mess. I didn't know what to do. Mrs. Oats was bed ridden and couldn't help. I somehow got myself sorted out. I knew I had a sore bottom; I couldn't see why it was so sore and bleeding so much. I made my way into Mrs. Oat's room.

"Can you see why my bottom is hurting so much?"

She gasped in shocked dismay "You must go the hospital you have a large gash in your bottom, it will need stitching."

A piece of the china pot had imbedded itself in my bottom. How embarrassing. I went to the hospital; lay on the theatre table baring my bum for Sister Loane to inspect.

"This is going to need a few stitches, after I get it and you cleaned up a bit."

"YUK"! I still had shit all over me where I had sat in it amidst the broken pot.

"Can you deaden my bum while you put the stitches in?"

"NO, the needles to deaden it will hurt as much as the stitches, so I'll just stitch it."

I never EVER want to have stitches again without a local anaesthetic. I felt every movement of the needle going in one side, the thread being pulled through, the needle going in the other side pulled together and tied, the pain was unbearable. I screamed and complained all through the procedure.

"Please deaden it somehow."

"NO, don't be a sook, it won't take long."

I endured the agony of three more stitches, how I don't know. It was so traumatic and painful I was traumatised. I swore I would never use another china chamber pot... ever. Word spread quickly of my 'accident', it caused much amusement amongst the community, for me I was mortified and for the rest of my stay with Mrs. Oats I had a very sore bum, I found it very uncomfortable to sit, and impossible to enjoy petting with Ted. I think this whole experience jolted me back to reality. Mrs. Oat's acceptance of me as an adult gave me a whole different aspect to life. I enjoyed our open candid discussions especially her candid approach to life in general.

Spending time with Ted without reservations enabled me to think laterally about our future together. The painful experience with the chamber pot, to say nothing of the mess I had to clean up and the teasing taunts from those who dared mention it to me seemed to jolt me into awareness of the pitfalls in life. I was beginning to think for myself and realise there can be a different more fulfilling future for me than the lifestyle I was drifting into under my parent's strict regime.

Mrs. Oats was the first person to pay me a compliment. I was very shy and modest but one day she caught a glimpse of me running from the bathroom to the bedroom nearly nude.

"You have a lovely shaped body and well-shaped breasts".

I was embarrassed she had seen me in a state of undress so her compliment didn't register. I thought she was just being nice to cover my embarrassment. I knew I didn't have nice shaped boobs, nothing about _me_ was nice. She was diagnosed with liver cancer and transferred to the Royal Adelaide Hospital, never to come out. She was a wonderful brave lady I owed her so much, she broadened my mind and opened my eyes to a possible different future that I could never have imagined. I wasn't looking forward to going back to the farm.

A reprieve miraculously unfolded. Mrs. Oat's daughter Nita and her husband Colin needed home help for their shearing season. Ted was part of the gang of shearers. I was so excited I would still be able to spend time with him. I wondered if mum and dad would let me work on their farm because they weren't regular church goers, and their shearing gang included some guys that mum and dad didn't approve of. Wonder of wonders! I was allowed! I think they enjoyed a newfound freedom without me as much I enjoyed my freedom without them. _Out of site out of mind!_

Nita was as nice a person as her mother, I enjoyed working for her though it was hard continuous work, feeding the work gang five meals a day. There was no time to even talk to Ted until after tea at night, he was always tired at the end of the day having sheared over one hundred sheep (with a small comb in those days) he went to bed early as did all the shearers. As each day passed, just briefly meeting each night, the obvious was emerging. As we spent more time alone together without any influences from other people, the more we were able to focus on our real selves and realise we had very little in common, in fact nothing in common really. I was living a dream with no idea where it was heading.

Near the end of this shearing contract Ted took me to a quiet remote spot and solemnly said "We aren't really suited; it's not going to work. I have tried to lead the life you and your parents expect of me but I can't. I don't want to attend church and be hypocritical, pretending what I am not. I don't want to give up alcohol I enjoy drinking with the boys. I enjoy being one of the boys."

I absolutely understood. I had been fooling myself all along totally in denial of the reality of our situation and relationship; he continued "You want to go to Adelaide, why don't you? It will be impossible for us both to live in this small community trying to end a relationship."

I made my mind up right then. I was as sure as I could ever be about my future plans, aided and abetted by Ted.

I asked Nita if I could use her telephone.

I rang the Pioneer Bus line and booked a seat to Adelaide for the following Saturday, two days away.

I rang Glenys who had previously left home to live and work in Adelaide, she lived in a small flat in Molesworth St North Adelaide, I asked if I could stay with her until I found my own accommodation.

I rang my cousin Dorothy and asked if she could meet me at the bus station and take me to Glenys's flat. Everyone seemed happy enough to help me. I had it all arranged, just one more phone call.

"Hi mum! I'll be home tomorrow, shearing is finished. I won't be home long. I am catching the bus to Adelaide the day after; can you take me into Ceduna to the bus station please?"

Stunned silence! After a long pause "Yes! Why?"

"I am going to Adelaide to get a job; you can't talk me out of it. I have arranged it all."

I was very sure I had made the right decision. I never wavered from the plans I had set in place. I was in a state of dazed emotion, but I was determined to follow through with my plans to leave Penong.

Ted was very supportive; we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. I kept the engagement ring, I loved that ring, and anyway I had paid for it, so I felt I was entitled to it.

Ted's last words to me were "Don't let any man touch you."

Those words stayed registered in my brain. I wouldn't let anyone touch me. _I didn't let anyone touch me... not for a very long time._

The mood at home was very somber. No questions were asked. Mum and dad had accepted I was leaving. I knew the gossipers would have a field day with me suddenly leaving home and going to Adelaide. I knew they all expected me to be pregnant. No-one dared ask me outright. Mum and dad didn't even question my reasons for leaving. I secretly relished the power of the position I was in. I had a completely clear conscience of the life I had led in Penong having always adhered to my parent's expectations even though I was continually under scrutiny and suspicion, but I never wavered from my imbedded upbringing or embarrassed myself with any of my actions or antics.

When girls suddenly left home without a farewell it was assumed they were pregnant and the girl left in disgrace, sometimes by themselves but usually in conjunction with their families help for a 'holiday'. There were special 'homes' in the capital cities for pregnant single girls to stay until their babies were born. The girls were expected to work in this home, cook and clean in return for full board. The girls were only accepted into these homes on the understanding they would give up their baby for adoption, they had no choice; it was the **rule of thumb.** When the baby was born it was immediately taken from the mother and legally adopted to waiting couples, the mother never saw her baby. The girls then returned to 'the outside' world. If the girl was brave enough to face the gossip she returned home after her `holiday' and continued her usual life hopefully avoiding a family scandal. Too often I witnessed unmarried pregnant girls spirited away by their family for a `long holiday'. Alternately if someone was willing to marry an unwed pregnant girl and the father was `acceptable' a small wedding was hastily arranged before the girl 'showed'. Baby Bumps were not proudly shown in those days, uncomfortable corsets were constantly used to hold in telltale signs of 'baby bumps'. Pregnancy out of wed lock was just not acceptable during this era it caused great shame not only to the pregnant girl but to her family. `Nice girls' made very sure they didn't become pregnant; I don't know how they managed it; it was never discussed. I made sure I didn't get pregnant.

After announcing my move to Adelaide I continued with my usual demure innocent conduct as if nothing untoward was happening, and light heartedly packed for my departure. I was absolutely positive about this move, my conscience was clear, I knew the gossip was rife and mum and dad devastated but still no-one asked me outright if I was pregnant.

A clear conscious is a powerful feeling.

I thought "if they don't trust me then that is their problem let them worry."

I would have told the truth had they asked, but no-one did. I was so grateful to Ted for giving me the nudge I needed to move to Adelaide, to dramatically change my future.

I felt sorry to be leaving Roger, a normal 16year old lad who had to work every day for and with dad, with dad thinking he was never going to become a successful farmer. I worried as to how Dad and Roger's relationship would develop. I promised Roger I would have a chat to dad and write regularly. Roger and I did correspond regularly, and I did chat to dad's seemingly deaf ears.

I packed my suitcase, along with my Diploma for Dressmaking and my bank books. One bank book I used to bank my earnings, the other bank book dad had opened for me many years earlier, during good seasons he deposited money in it, there was now five hundred pounds a substantial amount in 1959. I was determined I would only use this money if I absolutely had to. As ignorant to life as I was, I was obviously not completely stupid. I wanted to provide for myself even though I knew my relatives would support me. I knew I would always have family support, financial if not emotional support.

The time arrived for dad to take me to Ceduna to catch the bus, mum stayed home. I couldn't wait. I was so excited about the new life I was entering. It was hard saying goodbye to Roger. Mum openly cried, it made me feel so bad, I had never seen her cry except over family deaths. As we drove off she just said "Goodbye."

On the way to Ceduna I talked to dad about Roger, again trying to convince him to have patience with Roger.

"He is too slow he'll turn out to be a _'waster'."_

"Dad Roger isn't slow, you are too quick, you must have some patience with him. He'll be okay. Give him a chance."

As I boarded the bus dad in a serious tone assured me "There will always be a home for you at the farm."

I had never considered there wouldn't be.

He still didn't ask if I was in any trouble!

# Chapter 29

## The Big Move - City Life

At last! I was FREE. I was in a bus travelling to a new life. I loved Adelaide. I was excited at the prospect of living in such an exciting city with so many choices of shops, jobs and entertainment. A lovely chatty girl in her late twenties shared my double seat. I told her my story, she was excited for me and wished me all the best. She told me her rather sad story of heartbreak over her marriage breakdown. I felt so sorry for her, I had never known anyone whose marriage had broken down, it never happened in those days; well I never knew of any marriage breakdowns. Swan Lake the movie was showing on a big coloured screen in a picture theatre in Rundle St she said she couldn't afford to see it. I asked her to be my guest to see it tomorrow. She said she couldn't accept my offer; I eventually talked her into joining me because I didn't want to go alone. We saw the movie, we both enjoyed it immensely. I thought it was the most beautiful graceful thing I had ever seen. I was so pleased I shared this with my new friend it made her happy for a short while at least. We said "goodbye" and I never saw her again. It was strange for me to feel so close to someone then have them drop out of my life, all my friends were people I had known all my life and would continue to be friends for our entire lives.

My cousin Dorothy who with her husband managed their family general store at Semaphore, though a very busy lady with three young children, graciously agreed to meet me at the bus station. I stayed with their family a few days. I knew I couldn't stay with them indefinitely so asked if she would take me to Glenys's flat in North Adelaide. Glenys explained I could only stay a day or two with her, she shared with two other girls and there was no room for another.

I asked Aunty Ruby if I could stay with her, she was now a widow and lived in Grandpa Freeman's home in Toorak Gardens. Of course she said "Yes." She would never turn me away. I had no qualms about asking favours of people.

The day I settled into Aunties home I caught the bus into the city armed with my Diploma to apply for a job, but first I must go to the Royal Adelaide Hospital to visit Mrs. Oats who had been in the RAA since leaving Penong. It was so good to see her again and tell her of the new life I had planned for myself. I knew she would be delighted I had taken this step towards a new life. I tried to express to her how she had greatly influenced my decision. I wasn't particularly good at expressing feelings, I had never expressed feelings; feelings were to be kept to oneself. I regularly visited Mrs. Oats in RAH, as sick as she was, she mentored me until the day she died. Mrs. Oats was as near as I had ever got to loving a person. I hope she could feel my feelings towards her.

In hindsight I am sure she would have, she had so much insight.

The only workplace I was familiar with in Adelaide was Myer Emporium. I had been dealing with Myer through the post since 1953 when I opened an account with them. I boldly walked into the store and asked the first employee I saw "I want to work here, how do I get a job?"

She tentatively gave me directions to the Managers office on the top floor. I got in a lift operated by a well-dressed, well groomed, well-spoken beautiful lady who announced what each floor consisted of. I was the only one left in the lift when we reached the top floor, she curiously looked at me as she let me out stating "Head Offices." Wow, I had never been so high off the ground. I confidently made my way to the Managers office feeling quite heady with anticipation and being so high in the sky seeing only rooftops out the windows, a strange phenomenon for me.

A rather stern but seemingly efficient lady asked if I "had an appointment?"

"NO! I didn't know I needed to make an appointment." She asked for my details.

"I am Eunice Freeman from a farm near Penong. I have moved to Adelaide to get a job. I have a Diploma in Dressmaking, Dress designing, Tailoring, Children's wear and Lingerie. I have had an account with Myer since I was 13 years old. Myers is the only place in Adelaide I know, so I have decided to get a job here."

"Just a minute." she said. She disappeared for a seemingly long time.

Finally she returned and showed me into Mr. Tomms office who greeted me with a warm smile. I repeated what I had just told his secretary.

"We don't have any vacancies at the moment." He informed me.

I wasn't deterred, I proudly produced my Diploma, pushed it across the desk to him, all the while chatting about... what I can't remember; he finally got a word in...

"This Diploma is irrelevant to us here, we train our own dressmakers, but I could possibly find a position for you in our Bargain Basement, you can start on Monday with Staff Training for two weeks, if you pass that satisfactorily you can start work in the basement the following Monday."

"Oh! Thank you" I gushed "you won't be sorry."

I had a job. I was so excited even though it was in the unglamorous 'bargain basement'. I had imagined myself being immaculately groomed and dressed serving well-to-do-ladies in the posh upper floor departments. Oh well! Never mind, I had a job. I wrote to mum and dad telling them my exciting news.

Mum's reply "you will be working in the home for incurables."

This jibe didn't deter me, I knew mum thought working in a _bargain_ basement where the poor people shopped was the lowliest of jobs, I didn't care what she thought now. I was free.

Footnote: Many years later, like forty years, through mutual friends I befriended an elderly lonely lady, Lori, who needed her precious poodle Jenna and her timid cupboard cat looked after while she was hospitalised to have a hip replacement. We moved into Lori's house at St. Morris an Adelaide suburb with Miss Jenna who we grew to love, and Cupboard Cat who we never saw though it lived in the kitchen cupboard and ate all food we left out. We discovered after discussions that Lori was the stern lady/secretary I encountered at Mr. Tomms office on that day I applied for my first job. What a coincidence. I said to Lori "I don't know how ever I got the job. I was so green." "No!" she replied, "I don't know either." Lori and I become good friends and still keep in touch though we live three thousand kilometers apart.

I borrowed Aunty Ruby's sewing machine and made myself appropriate skirts and blouses adhering to Myer strict dress code. The following Monday feeling very sophisticated dressed in a black skirt white blouse and high heeled shoes I entered Myers through the 'workers entrance' to attend Staff Training along with other new employee hopefuls. I was surprised to find the instructor was not much older than me. I wondered how she knew so much. I revered her, listening and hanging onto every word she said. I had no idea there was so much to learn about simply serving in a shop. Learning how to treat customers was an eye opener for me. I had never had trouble communicating with people it was second nature for me having lived in remote areas and friends with everyone; however, I was surprised there was much to learn. I learned new non-intrusive polite communications skills. The main thrust of the whole training was "the customer is always right."

No endearing terms were allowed to be used to address customers, like darl, luv, dear etc.

All customers had to be approached whether they wanted help or not.

We had to pass a test to ensure 'the boss' we were employable and an asset to the company. I asked the instructor if I was likely to pass, she looked surprised at my question replying "Of course."

Young staff of today could well do with this training!

My first department was ladies' underwear. Working in the basement was hard work, we were continually busy with customers looking for bargains, and if there was a lull in customers we had to make ourselves look busy by folding the garments and tidying the tables. I loved to see the garments on the tables all neatly folded in their sizes; this also made it easy for us to efficiently find the size the customer required. Imagine my surprise when the BIG boss walked through our department and strewed all our neatly piled garments around saying "This is supposed to look like a busy bargain centre, no neat tables."

I was devastated; it would take so much longer to serve a customer because we had to search amongst the jumbled garments for the desired sizes. We made a pact with the department head, under the jumbled mess we had neat heaps of garments in their respective sizes allowing us to serve the customer quickly without a lengthy search.

I was always being reprimanded for my untidy writing, after much humiliation I showed my severed peter-pointer finger "I don't have control over the pen I can't hold the pencil very well."

It worked, the severe scoldings turned to sympathetic "Oh dear, I am so sorry."

I actually enjoyed the weekly regime; work hours were standard throughout the state consisting of forty hours per week 9am to 5.30pm Monday to Friday and 9.00am to 11.30am Saturday with an hour off for lunch weekdays. These were the designated hours of trading for all businesses, and no one was allowed to trade out of these hours without special dispensation. All employees were employed for those hours with the exceptions of 'part time employees' who worked less hours.

During my early days of working at Myers I made quite a few mistakes, I can't remember what they were, but I remember with great humility being reprimanded by the department head who was a lovely reasonable thinking lady. I felt so inadequate at my mistakes I suggested to her I was a failure and should leave. "Oh no!" she said "everyone makes these mistakes, you'll learn soon enough."

Some departments were paid an extra commission for sales. I was by far the youngest in our department, some of the ladies were really nice, some were real bitches; two ladies were particularly good at selling and usually had the highest sales figures. It was an honour to be acknowledged as the top salesperson of the day. I could sell anything to anyone and became efficient and quick but wondered why I never achieved the highest figures. I watched the top sellers and realised they always guarded the tables with the most expensive items for sale, I had been pushed to the table with the cheaper items, knickers etc. although I had more sales the figures didn't show because I was selling smaller priced items. I learnt to hang around the night attire tables, the most expensive and hardest to sell. I found I could sell winter night wear to unwary customers even on hot summer days, and flimsy nighties in the middle of winter. I loved selling. I loved the interaction with people. I loved the challenge. Much to the dismay of the other experienced ladies I, the ignorant innocent country girl on many days topped the sales figures.

I was also good at maths, it amased me how slow most of the others were. At the end of the day the till takings were manually added up from the cash register roll, there were no calculators in those days. Many nights at closing time the Department Head and second in charge were pulling their hair out, trying to correctly add up the long list of figures on the roll from the till, hoping to get the same result twice and expecting it to match the money in the till. I asked if I could try, I breezed through rarely making a mistake, though it didn't always coincide with the till takings. I was never given any accolades; I didn't care I felt adequate in myself though still inferior to my seemingly sophisticated work mates. When there was a discrepancy in the difference between the total takings and the money in the till there was cause for concern. I knew I was honest and although I was certain I hadn't made wrong transactions during the day, I still worried.

I enjoyed going to work each day, I enjoyed the interaction I had with my work mates even though we weren't bosom buddies. I couldn't understand why as pay day approached, they complained they were "broke" and borrowing money "to get me by till pay day." I never run out of money before my next pay day, in fact I often had some left to bank. I noticed they bought what I thought were unnecessary things. I found if I packed my lunch and took a thermos of tea, I could save a lot of money. I wasn't extravagant with my clothes if I wanted new clothes I made them. Shoes, handbags and stockings were my main expenses, which I tried to buy when they were on sale plus 'house discount'.

I became fond of an English lady about my mum's age with a great sense of humour. I didn't know people of mum's era had a sense of humour, I thought this lady unique. I sought her company at every opportunity, daily we took our lunch outside and sat in the park on North Terrace. I treasured these lunch breaks; it was so much fun. I was delighted when she asked me to spend a weekend with her and her husband. We had the best time, with lots of laughter. I enjoyed her company so much.

Christmas time was approaching, much talk was happening in our department about the staff Xmas party. I listened to the excited plans wondering how I would fit in I was by far the youngest, the older more sophisticated 'bitch' ladies seemed to look on me with disdain. Our department Xmas party was to be at The Pier Hotel at Glenelg. I had never been in a hotel I believed a hotel was a house of sin and certainly no place for females. I expressed my concern to my English lady friend. "Oh rubbish!" she said "Ladies are only banned from the bars; we don't go to the bar we have dinner in a nice dining room. I'll look after you, you'll be OK. I will see to it." True to her word my friend did look after me, I really enjoyed myself. I didn't know older people could be such fun. Away from the workplace my workmates let their guard drop they were fun people including me in their conversations, I didn't feel left out one tiny bit maybe they were accepting me, my confidence was certainly growing though when it came time to order drinks I was confused, each put money in the centre of the table, a waiter came and took our drink orders. I had been totally brainwashed into believing your first drink of alcohol was your downfall. Dad really believed this and naturally I did too. I voiced my concerns to my friend.

"Don't worry, I'll order for you, I'll get one you will like."

The drink she ordered for me was delicious, I can't remember what it was or whether it was alcoholic, but she limited me to only two drinks that night.

This was the first time I had experienced an adult Xmas party, in fact the first time I attended any adult party with alcohol served. I didn't know how much fun these nights could be. I really enjoyed the whole experience. I felt very grown up and 'with it'. I was nineteen years old.

One day my English work friend took me aside, "I am too old to be your friend you should have young friends your own age."

I immediately disagreed with her, determined she would continue to be my friend. I overlooked the fact she was trying to avoid me. One day she didn't come to work, I wondered what was wrong with her, maybe she was ill? Someone later told me she had been sacked; she was caught taking stolen goods out the store. I could hardly believe it. I was very sad. I never saw her again.

I was transferred to the woman's dress department. The Department head was a strict lady, her hands were gnarled and deformed with arthritis which caused her a great deal of pain and obviously contributed to her stern attitude. Geraldine a girl about my age worked in this department she was a favourite of the Department head they obviously shared a bond spending time together away from work as well as working together. Geraldine treated me like the junior, ordering me around in no uncertain terms. I thought she was a hoity-toity little know-all who sucked up to the boss. I enjoyed working with and selling dresses and soon learned what styles looked good on different figures and by looking at the customer what sizes they needed. It was easy to sell frocks, if I got a customer to try on a frock I recommended I knew I had a sale. We had to appear busy at all times, and NEVER let a customer out of our department without being approached, when a customer said "I'm just looking thank you." I learned the art of being around without being intrusive. I sold many frocks to customers who were J-L-ers. (just lookers)

I had settled very comfortably into city life, I loved catching the bus and going to work each morning. I especially loved getting a substantial weekly pay cheque. The hardest thing I had to cope with was sore feet. We had to be on our feet looking busy all day wearing high healed fashion shoes. I wasn't used to wearing high heels for extended periods of time; my feet became blistered and very sore. Each night I bathed them in hot salt water. I was told they would 'toughen up'. They did, eventually.

Adelaide newspapers at this time were featuring many stories of the trial of Rupert Max Stewart who murdered the twelve-year-old girl at Ceduna. This was a controversial trial. Stewart was charged with murder, the penalty for murder was 'hanging 'til death'. I read all the newspaper reports with interest and horror. I remembered this horrific murder vividly. I remember the vulnerable feeling of being in isolation on the farm with a murderer at large and the lesson mum taught me at that time " _don't shoot to kill, aim for the legs, then you can't get charged for murder."_

The 'death sentence' was a contentious issue, everyone I worked with and spoke to were opposed to the 'death sentence'. I also had been opposed to the death sentence until this man murdered in cold blood an innocent child that lived in our community. This case continued for many months. It contributed to the death penalty being dropped in Australia. Rupert Max Stewart was not hung or executed, nor was anyone else ever executed in Australia. Rupert Max Stewart was sentenced to life in prison.

# Chapter 30

## Making New Friends

Living with Aunty Ruby at Toorak Gardens was luxury for me, she fussed over me, did all my washing and cooking. I slept in a small spare room. Aunty supplemented her income with boarders she always had two university male students in her two spare bedrooms whom she provided with full board. I enjoyed their company they were really nice young guys the likes of which I had never met. I had never met young people who weren't hardened' beer drinking county bumpkins' let alone young studious men who studied like these two lads did; I thought they must have been genius freaks. I was happy. I didn't realise the extra work load I had incurred on aunty I knew dad would look after the financial costs but I had no notion of the inconvenience I would have caused Aunty. I lived in ignorant bliss.

Aunty May came to see me, she told me I couldn't stay indefinitely with Aunty Ruby and offered to help me find somewhere suitable. She put an ad in the Advertiser and chose one of the replies as a 'suitable' place for me to live. She took me to visit this proposed home and check it out herself, on the Norwood Parade at Beulah Park (an acceptable address) in a lovely home owned by an elderly widowed lady (also acceptable). This lady was cautious about having a girl boarder she had only ever had male boarders "because they were less hassle". I'm sure she only agreed to take me as a boarder because of who aunty was; wife of Stan Freeman of Freeman Motors. I packed my few belongings and Aunty May drove me to my new abode. I was excited, the bus to work stopped at the front door, so very convenient.

This landlady was different from anyone I had ever met, she was slightly handicapped having suffered poliomyelitis when young causing her to wear leg calipers to help her stand and walk though slowly. She was such a negative person, everything and everyone was wrong. She provided meagre meals the likes of which I had never seen I was used to farm sized meals. Her dish washing method was the strangest procedure I have ever seen (even to this day), she didn't use dish washing detergent, I thought it my duty to help with the dishes, but I never washed them to her satisfaction. I tried my utmost to adhere to her strict regimes, but there was always something I did that didn't suit. I overlooked her negativity and got on with my daily routine. As strange as she was, I enjoyed living so near the city with a bus stop outside the door.

I decided to go to the Norwood Town Hall to the weekly Saturday dance. I caught the bus and travelled the few stops down The Parade, very safe and proper I thought. My landlady tried to discourage me and warned the last bus went by at 11.30pm and "if you miss it what will you do?"

"I won't miss it."

I felt a strong sense of independence deciding and actually going to the dance alone. I had a lovely evening, I felt like Cinderella. The dance style was similar to the dances we did in the country except the floor was so cramped there was not enough room to do proper steps, mostly all we could do was stand very close to each other and gyrate to the music because that was all there was room to do. Rock and Roll had become popular in Adelaide but there again the dance floor was always so packed it was impossible to dance as it should be danced, consequently I never mastered the Rock'n Roll style because I never had a free range opportunity to learn it.

A nice guy asked me for a dance. I briefly told him my situation, I had to catch the last bus home before the dance finished, he said he would be happy to take me home. I was on cloud nine. I could stay until after the last dance at midnight. He took me home via a short stop along the way where we talked, well I talked, told him my life story. There was only a little kissing, I was conscious of Ted's warning and determined 'not to let anyone touch me' and knowing me I probably told this nice young man. He dropped me off at my abode just past 1am, after promising to call into my workplace and take me to lunch sometime. I was so happy. I had enjoyed a night out on my own. I had enjoyed the dancing. I had met a lovely sensible non beer drinking guy. I stayed up well after midnight. I was FREE.

Next morning at breakfast, still on a high, soon to be brought back to earth by my strange landlady. She told me I couldn't stay; I must find some other place to live.

Why?" I asked.

"I am not used to girls, I'm not used to knickers and things hanging around, I'm not used to girls staying out all night, I usually only have male boarders. I prefer male boarders."

I was disappointed, I had only been here a month but liked living on The Parade at Norwood. Oh well I would find somewhere else to live with 'normal folks'. I felt I had let Aunty May down by being 'kicked out' of the 'suitable' accommodation she had gone to the trouble to find for me, especially after only a month. Well I wouldn't tell her until I was relocated somewhere else 'suitable'.

I put an ad in the Advertiser. I got a reply from two women living at Richmond west of the city. I wasn't familiar with the western side of Adelaide and found it wasn't at all like the east side. They gave me directions to find their home by bus. I set out to meet the women and check out the possibility of it becoming my new home. The bus stop was quite a walk from their home, much further than I had ever walked to a bus stop. The home was the same as all the houses in that area, a modest three-bedroom one bathroom prefab rented housing trust home. The two women seemed very friendly probably in their late thirties, a very sensible age, I thought mum and my aunties would approve.

The women, Jan and Joan (I'll call them) showed me a comfortable private furnished bedroom which would be mine, they would provide linen and do my washing along with theirs. I had to provide all my own meals. I was allocated a shelf in the fridge and some cupboard space. The biggest enticement for me was a television set, the first television set I had seen in a private home. Channel 7 was the first television station to open in Australia in 1956 and the only one in Adelaide at that time. Televisions sets were expensive and out of the price range of most people, even my wealthy relatives hadn't bought a TV. I was excited. This new wonder piece of equipment only showed a black and white picture usually so snowy and blurred it was impossible to watch... but we did.

I figured I could live here though I knew it would be strange for me living in this suburb on the west side of Adelaide in such a modest home and such a long walk from the bus stop, but I thought "beggars can't be choosers."

I moved in and learnt another life lesson. Jan and Joan were vastly different to anyone I had ever met. Their personalities, lifestyle and living standards were a huge eye opener for me. They owned quite a few Pomeranian dogs; they called these dogs their children, talked to and treated them as their children. They fed the dogs better than they fed themselves, I had never seen such a fuss made over dogs especially as they all lived in the house and slept in the bedroom with Jan and Joan. Oh well it didn't worry me, I had my own room, and they mostly ignored me, it suited me just fine. Cooking was a challenge, I was at a loss without a wood stove continually hot, I couldn't put a casserole in the oven or a stew or soup on the stove top and forget about it. It was strange turning on a switch to have instant heat and cooking for a limited specific time. I soon adjusted and relished in the convenience of such a modern appliance. I enjoyed watching TV it was exciting to sit down after tea and watch channel 7 hoping it was a clear enough picture to see. I never turned on the TV myself I only watched it while Jan and Joan were watching. I felt privileged to have access to a TV. No-one at work had a TV set, I felt special relating to my workmates what I had seen on TV the night before.

I was amased at the tantrums Jan and Joan regularly turned on, thankfully never involving me, in fact it was almost as if I wasn't there. I was baffled by the cause of the tantrums, seemingly over nothing, but usually their 'children' (dogs) wore the brunt of their ire. I felt so sorry for the dogs, most of the time they were treated as spoiled kids, then for no apparent reason the poor confused dogs were totally ignored and reprimanded for what? I didn't know, and I'm sure the dogs didn't either. Occasionally if either Jan or Joan talked to me for any length of time the other acted strange almost as if she was jealous, I soon learnt to avoid talking at length to either of them alone. I was happy being ignored. I had my own space, I was FREE.

They argued often, I was not accustomed to arguments, I had never experienced people arguing, especially their type of fickle arguments. I was certain it was nothing to do with me I was on the outside looking in I don't think they even considered I was observing. They each threatened not to sleep with the other "if you don't behave yourself."

The childish bickering went on and on ,threatening each other with `leaving'.

Strange I thought, oh well, I didn't care, I wasn't involved, I had my own space; I retreated to it. I was FREE.

Although Jan and Joan both worked, they were always short of money. I think they thought my rent would solve their financial problems, but they were continually bickering at each other about money. I couldn't believe they could be so short of money; they were both earning adult wages and both worked for the Australian Army, they had to be earning heaps more than me. I was a junior on junior wages, able to bank money after paying the rent and living expenses, mind you I lived quite frugally, I only bought what I thought was absolutely necessary. I wanted to get a little nest egg of savings for financial security.

I bussed to work each day, I had to allow more time to catch the bus, the bus stop was a long walk from home and I now lived much further out of the city. Although I was lonely, I was happy to have the freedom of choosing any lifestyle I wanted. Funny, now I had the opportunity to get up to whatever high jinks that took my fancy I never had any inclination to 'go wild' in fact I found myself being ultra conservative and responsible, besides I had no-one to be `wild' with. I only knew a few people in Adelaide, mostly family friends as well as my relatives. On weekends I bussed to visit these friends and relatives, this was the sum total of my social life. I had no social interaction with other young people except an occasional lunch during my work lunch hour with the guy I met at the Norwood dance. Strange, as lonely as I was I was happy to be independent and FREE.

A lovely elderly English couple who lived opposite Jan and Joan's invited me to their home one night I was excited I was getting to know someone new. It was a lovely evening and I relished in their generous hospitality, they treated me like adult royalty, I felt special. They served me a delicious drink, I loved it; I asked what it was, they explained and showed me how they elaborately made it and with what ingredients. I had never heard of Advocaat and Cherry Brandy. I asked if it was alcoholic and was staggered when they said "Yes! But only a little bit of alcohol." I thought because it was so delicious it couldn't be sinful to drink it. I felt so sophisticated and grown up. I enjoyed chatting with this couple, they seemed interested in my background and asked me lots of personal questions I was happy to truthfully chat on about. The questions progressed to my living in their neighbourhood, especially how I got on living with Jan and Joan who it seemed had no friends and certainly never associated with the neighbours. I innocently answered all their questions truthfully, I had nothing to hide I was happy chatting to them, especially about the weird antics of Jan and Joan which they listened intently to, agreeing with me when I conveyed my confused thoughts on the everyday habits of my landladies. It was agreed by us all it wasn't a normal way to live, these ladies were indeed different.

When I got home Jan and Joan were waiting for me. I thought that strange, what did they want? They ushered me into the lounge then told me they didn't want me associating with the neighbours. I couldn't believe it; I didn't think it was any of their business, I decided to defy their wishes but only visit when they weren't home. This limited my visiting time because Jan and Joan seldom went out. One day the opportunity arose, I was alone, so I visited my new friends across the road. I told them what Jan and Joan said, they looked at each other with a knowing look which I didn't understand. They questioned whether I was happy living with these two women, I assured them I was because I had my own space and privacy and lived independent of them, besides I was FREE.

I now wonder if these neighbours were concerned for my welfare or simply `sticky beaks'?

I had been living with Jan and Joan at Richmond for a few months, their carry-ons seemed to me to be akin to married couples who weren't compatible but they never involved me so I carried on my life regardless, but I wondered about their relationship? Sleeping in the same room, arguing furiously before they went to bed, waking up next morning all lovey-dovey with each other? Strange goings on! I worked with an older lady who was friendly with a man in the army who Jan and Joan knew, one day I worked up the courage to tentatively ask her about them, not sure how to brooch the subject I asked "Do two ladies carry on like men poofters?"

"Yes! And called lesbians, the two ladies you live with are lesbians and well known in the army."

I had never heard the word lesbian, I had no idea these relationships existed. What a shock for me especially as lesbianism was illegal as was men being `poofters. I had suspected something was amiss by their actions but continued living independently with them, now I understood them better I was more aware of their different way of life. I never mentioned to them I was aware of their secret nor did I mention the goings on in our abode to anyone else.

As much as I relished my newfound independence living in Adelaide, I missed the country camaraderie and friendships. In Penong everyone knew each other; in Adelaide I found I was lonely in the crowds. I knew no one. I never had friends my own age except Glenys, she lived a long way from me and had a boyfriend, so we didn't see a lot of each other. I found myself looking to food for comfort. I ate anything that I could lay my hands on. Visiting Aunty Ruby was the highlight of my social life, she was happy feeding everyone, the more you ate of her food the happier she was... I made her very happy, often.

I liked working because it was the only positive direction I had. During my lonely times I reflected on my life back in Penong, I realised I had achieved a certain standing and respect in the community, apart from being Cliff and Ivy Freeman's daughter I had gained respect in my own right by contributing to the community with dressmaking, teaching music, playing the organ and piano, playing sports etc. In Adelaide I was an unknown, contributing nothing to anyone or anything. I lacked confidence and felt inadequate and shy. Never mind I was FREE.

As I ate my way through loneliness, I gained weight. I had no idea of nutrition or what type of food I should be eating. I had only ever eaten home cooked food mostly produce off our farm. I enjoyed buying and trying different foods. I soon realised my eating habits were costing me more than I could afford each week. I looked for cheaper foods. I loved sweet biscuits, even though I bought the cheapest biscuits available and ate a whole packet at a time it was still costing me a fortune. One day I discovered 'broken biscuits'. These were a mixture of all varieties of biscuits that had broken during transport and handling, they sold at a bargain price in a `bargain' section of Myers at one and sixpence a pound, (equivalent to 15 cents a half kilo). This was a financial coo for me I had been paying twice as much for half as many. Not only were these biscuits cheap there was more variety even though they were in bits 'n pieces, it didn't worry me... I ridiculously indulged. I was conscious of the weight I was gaining it worried me, but not enough to stop me eating. Skirts and frocks were the only acceptable clothing for females to wear, the fatter I got, the funnier I thought I looked, because my skinny legs didn't get any fatter. The skirt covering such a robust torso made my legs look even skinnier emerging from the folds of the flared skirts of that era.

The amount of food I ate not only caused me to quickly gain weight, it also caused acute constipation, and I felt lethargic and bloated though I regularly took cascara tablets to clean out my system. I felt fat and miserable I must try and stop the food cravings. My menstruation periods were spasmodic which also added to my unhealthy lifestyle. There were a lot of suggestions given to me about curbing my appetite, one was a prescribed tablet. I went to see Dr Freda Gibson, the flying doctor who retired from her post at Ceduna and now consulting in Adelaide. I felt so comfortable with her I dared to ask about my weight gain. In my ignorance I wondered if I could possibly be pregnant, I remembered Mrs. Oats telling me it was possible to get pregnant without penetration.

"Sometimes the semen found its way into the vagina and fertilises an egg."

I wondered if this could possibly have happened to me.

I didn't think so but if it was possible......... ??

Doctor asked me "Is it possible you are pregnant?"

That's what I want you to tell me.

"I don't think so I haven't had sexual intercourse, I haven't been with a boy for a few months."

"Okay. Hop up on the bed I'll examine you."

I held my breath during the examination... no mention of pregnancy.

There: I knew I couldn't be pregnant.

The diagnosis of my weight gain... my Thyroid Glands were out of sync as a result of my sudden change of lifestyle causing weight gain, health, and body changes. Doctor gave me a script of treatment to be taken indefinitely to settle my Thyroid. She also gave me on request a script to curb food cravings. I took these pills regularly. I _think_ they stopped my food cravings I wanted them to, so I imagined they did. I still ate too much too often and the wrong food.

Someone suggested I take up smoking, "smoking curbed eating fetishes."

I had never tried smoking since I sneaked a cigarette with friends at Primary school and had a puff or two feeling very guilty about being so deceitful. I could do as I pleased now, I was free, but funny I never had any wish to smoke... BUT... if it prevented me eating so much... let's do it!

It took me quite a while to get into smoking, I didn't like it but I persevered, while I was smoking I wasn't eating besides it was very sophisticated and grown up to smoke. I was feeling 'grown up' and smoking proved it? Everybody smoked in those days. Jan and Joan both smoked, though quite often they ran out of cigarettes and smoked mine "Just until pay day..."

During my first few months in Adelaide everyone from Penong who happened to be in Adelaide visited me at work in Myers. It was so obvious they came to visit me to 'assess' my situation. As they greeted me with "Hallo, how are you, have you settled into city life?" their eyes dropped to my waistline. I knew they were baffled because of my excess weight and wondered if I was pregnant. No-one ever mentioned 'pregnancy' or asked me, and I didn't volunteer. "Let them wonder!" I thought. I could just imagine the speculation and gossip about me that would have been rife around Penong during this period of my life. I had been regularly writing to mum and dad twice a week and receiving mail from mum as often. Nothing was ever mentioned about pregnancy or weight.

Five months after I left home mum came to Adelaide. I know she would have calculated if I was pregnant it would be obvious by this time, she would see for herself, after all she was a self-professed " _Private Detective"._ I will never forget the look of her when she appeared at the Myer department I worked in. She looked like a pale woebegone sad old lady dressed in a new faun hat and overcoat which did nothing for her pale complexion devoid of any makeup. I actually felt sorry for her, though didn't show it. I acted my usual happy bright self. By the end of her stay in Adelaide she had brightened up a bit, she must have decided for herself I wasn't pregnant.

I made a pact then and there if ever I had children there would NOT be any communication barriers between us.

I looked forward to letters from mum every Tuesday and Friday. I posted my letters home on Wednesdays and Sundays every single week, this coincided with the twice weekly road mail deliveries to the farm. If letters didn't arrive to each of us on the expected days we knew something was wrong. Sometimes the 'postie' delivered my mail before I left for work, always a little bonus to me. One morning 'postie' handed me my letter as I was leaving for work. I settled in the bus reading it as the bus rattled its way along; I went cold, hot, I felt sick... mum wrote:

" _Dad and Roger were out fencing; dad was using the new electric post hole borer boring holes into the standing posts for the wire to be threaded through. Roger was standing the opposite side of the post holding it firm when the electric borer suddenly went right through the post boring into Roger's trousers right through the fly area into his private parts. Roger passed out." (I nearly did too as I was reading) "Dad got him onto the back of the truck where he could lay down and drove as carefully and quickly as he could over the corrugated bush tracks straight to Penong hospital. He is still in hospital but okay."_

Penong hospital is about 13miles away from where the accident happened, the Austin tray top truck definitely not ambulance standards would have been a horrific painful trip. I staggered to work feeling my brother's pain and worried about him. Fortunately, he fully recovered his injuries caused no lasting ill effects.

I later heard Roger had "broken the law". I didn't hear it from mum she never mentioned it in her letters. Roger had been caught drinking alcohol within two hundred yards of the Penong hall at a Saturday night dance. It was strictly illegal for hotels to remain open after 6pm Mondays to Saturdays the only days hotels were allowed to trade, it was also strictly illegal for any alcohol to be consumed within two hundred yards of a community hall. These laws were rigidly overseen by dad and he made sure the local policeman implemented them. The lads usually gathered in their cars well away from the hall to drink their beers, obviously this night Roger wasn't far enough away. I can imagine the gossip amongst the locals, dad being such an advocate against alcohol. I wondered how mum and dad coped with the shame this demeanour caused for them. I would never have dared break the law as Roger had.

I was overjoyed when Joy a friend from Ceduna was marrying Bob a miner from Broken Hill. Joy met Bob when she was went to live with her Aunty in Broken Hill. I was so happy for her and delighted when she asked me to be her bridesmaid, they were marrying in Adelaide and paying for the wedding themselves so it would be a small wedding followed by a meal in the public dining room of the Grosvenor Hotel. They weren't sure if her parents would even attend from Ceduna. I couldn't fathom her parents' stance, Joy was marrying a lovely guy who had bought a new home to move into and Joy wasn't pregnant (the usual reason parents went antsy).

Joy was wearing a borrowed traditional wedding gown and told me to make my gown to what-ever style I wanted; stressing I make one I could wear after. Joy was even more practical than me. I chose the very latest style a short (knee length) full skirted pale pink taffeta llame which looked even shorter alongside Joy's long trained gown. Joy never said anything but the `oldies' didn't think such a short gown was appropriate. I stood my ground and proudly wore this short ballerina gown, the latest trend.

What a lovely wedding it was, no pomp, speeches, or glory just a simple meal engulfed with so much love and happiness. I enjoyed the camaraderie of their friends, especially the groomsman who had a girlfriend at home. I felt almost normal again celebrating this happy occasion with my childhood country friend who dared to leave home a few months before me. I was so happy for her. I wondered if I'd ever be lucky enough to find a man who'd want to marry me. I didn't expect so, but I sure did hope so. _Joy and Bob enjoyed a prosperous happy marriage living in Broken Hill until Bob passed in 2017._

Joy; and me wearing the very `latest fashion' frock I made

Work was my main interaction with people. I loved the frock department, though Geraldine assumed a superior role she was the only younger person I associated with; it took a few weeks before she realised I wasn't a simple junior to be ordered around as her lackey, we eventually became friends. Shock horror she was a devout Roman Catholic. I had never had a friend who was Roman Catholic, my parents had forbidden it. I was led to believe all RC's were bad people. I questioned her at length about her faith; the more I learned the more I respected her and wondered about mum and dad's moral standards and criticisms of other religious denominations. I didn't believe Geraldine was a bad person, in fact quite the opposite. She told me what RC's thought of Methodists... "Methylated spirits we call them." I thought that quite apt.

We became quite good friends. I spent weekends with her family in their modest half duplex trust home. Gerry didn't seem to have any friends her own age it suited us both to be friends. She was very close to her parents sharing a closeness I had never experienced with my parents. I felt privileged to be accepted into her family.

Gerry at work was now doing the stock I had taken her place on the floor of the frock department I loved selling frocks. I loved the interaction with the customers and became apt at knowing which frock from our stock fitted and suited the customer best. I was confident in selling and never sold anything to a person they might later regret or that I didn't believe was right for them. I had gained respect from my peers however I got to a stage where I felt 'sold out'. I wanted a spell from selling; I wanted to be away from customers.

I asked the boss if I could do stock work. She said I could give it a go. The work involved marking off and documenting all incoming goods and managing their storage and displays. I loved doing this for a change, BUT try as hard as I could my writing let me down, the boss a freak for perfection said "I can't read your writing the books must be very clear and neat."

She sympathised with my missing finger but gently explained "You can't continue doing the bookwork because the bookwork has to be neat and precise."

Okay. I wasn't really phased I would just get on with whatever was to be my lot.

Not long after my stint at 'bookwork' I was moved to 'Special Tables'. I was disappointed I would miss working with Gerry even though special tables were nearby. I had settled in the dress department and was happy plodding along in the same routine each day. I had secretly devised a time management scheme which allowed me to sneak some free time for shopping or doing personal things. I used the changing rooms as a welcome escape from the floor. I used toilet breaks to my advantage quickly doing any necessary shopping to and from the toilet even writing letters to mum while on the toilet. I never used the toilet in my lunch or tea breaks they were specifically my personal time mainly for relaxing out in the gardens of North Terrace. I found relaxing in the fresh air all through my lunch break rejuvenated me; I returned to work full of enthusiasm and vim.

'Special Tables' were the 'bargain' tables in the basement. This was the lowliest department in the store. Our merchandise was of a lesser quality than what was sold upstairs or heavily reduced stock which couldn't be sold in the upper floor departments. These 'Special Tables" were placed forming a square, the inner part of the square was only about 6ft across (2mts) where the staff worked. The merchandise on these tables was expected to move _quickly._ It did. We were always very busy which I was happy about I enjoyed being fully occupied besides time seemed to pass quicker when I was busy.

The staff consisted of two much older ladies Mrs. Daley and Mrs. Noblett, Ron and me. Mrs. Daley was the older of the two, she looked a bit like mum, was as efficient as mum, that's where the likeness finished. I had only met one other lady of mum's age who had a sense of humour, now Mrs. Daley who also had a sense of humour, a wicked one, she was so much fun. Nobby as she was affectionately called was a bit more refined but still had a good sense of humour. Our boss Mr. Laws (Ron) was a good-looking guy, younger than Mrs. Daley and Nobby but a bit older than me. It seemed to me Mrs. Daley would be a more suitable boss, but she seemed happy working under Ron's authority. I often thought Ron was guided by Mrs. Daley, she was professional and efficient in all aspects; she certainly seemed more level-headed in stress situations than Ron. We worked tirelessly. We all worked well together. We enjoyed our work and were always busy, our stock sold quickly. We loved Ron he was an excellent boss, though skittish at times but Mrs. Daley was able to calm him in what I thought was a strange way, she ridiculed him though jokingly as if talking to a child, he listened and gracefully accepted what she said. I had no notion that people of mum's era could think let alone say words such as Mrs. Daley said to Ron.

As time passed, I had my eyes wide opened; Ron occasionally talked about his private life, sometimes it involved a 'friend' other times he was sad because the friendship had ended. Mrs. Daley and Nobby had no inhibitions in saying anything to Ron, during these discussions in no uncertain terms Mrs. Daley told him "Get that friend out of your life he is no good for you, you are better off without him, he is just using you up."

I realised the 'friend' was a man. Ron was as they were called then a poofter. I think he was relieved he could talk freely in front of us, especially to Mrs. Daley about issues in his life which were socially unacceptable and illegal. I watched and listened to these unusual open conversations which took place in the centre of our 'Special Tables' during rare quiet times. I came to understand a bit about 'poofters' and really liked Ron as we all did, to me he was like a girlfriend in a man's body, a handsome proud man he was too.

It was so much fun working with these three people; I had never experienced such camaraderie, especially amongst older people. Ron was quick witted and funny. One day a lady customer asked me "Where can I get felt?" I didn't know which department the felt belonged in, I asked Ron, he whispered "Tell her to come behind the counter, I'll feel her."

I could not contain myself from laughing I ducked down behind the counter so the customer couldn't see me until I had gathered my wits then politely told her "Try in the materials department on the first floor."

After she left I collapsed into uncontrollable laughter again. I had never in my life heard anything so funny or rude.

Mrs. Daley and Nobby continually teased Ron about his femininity, telling him they were sure he didn't have male genitals. Although I was aghast at the thought, and them actually saying it to him I was beginning to accept and enjoy the joking and insinuations, especially as Ron seemed to revel in the banter. Sometimes when we had cartons of stock stored in the centre of our tables the limited space inside our tables became even smaller. Mrs. Daley and Nobby would squeeze past the front of Ron stopping with their bum pressed to his groin and say "No! I'm sure there is nothing there."

"There is. I'll prove it to you one day."

I was horrified. Sure enough Ron proudly brings in a photo of himself in very brief bathers sporting a large pointed bulge he insisted was all his.

"Don't believe you; you have shoved a piece of hose in your bathers." the ladies taunted him.

Poor Ron was upset because he wasn't believed. I was embarrassed never having heard interaction of this kind ever before, however I soon overcome my embarrassment as this bantering became a natural occurrence with Ron accepting the brunt of their insinuations all in good fun. We all became good friends, though only at work. We didn't mix socially outside of work functions.

Sales were hectic times. Advertised items were fought over and bought in shopping frenzies. We had extra staff for the sales and surely needed them we were so busy and excelled ourselves more than normal. No effort was too much for our great understanding boss, I would have walked over hot coals for him. He always thanked us for our hard work. He got many accolades for the successful sales figures we produced. It was such a pleasure for me to be part of the 'Special Tables' I didn't mind how much effort I put in, I felt rewarded by being in the company of such fun people.

Glenys brother Bill had also moved to Adelaide, he had a good job working for a well-known camera company progressing to become the manager, he preferred to work at achieving career goals rather than hooning with the local lads competing in drinking competitions and driving fast cars. We didn't date as such but accompanied each other to many functions. We were good mates and knew each other very well, probably too well we understood each other's needs; it was good to have a mate like Bill in Adelaide though we didn't see a lot of each other. At a party we attended together Bill suggested I show some magic. I did, it was received with the same awe and admiration as it was at the concert at Charra. I was deemed a hero. I knew I wasn't, but it made me feel good. I was asked to show my magic at the few parties I was invited to. Everyone always applauded with gusto, although I felt proud, I also felt a fraud. Magic is illusions, not magic as my admirers seemed to think.

I craved more young company. I missed the comfortable companionship of the local young people I had grown up with. I craved a loving boyfriend. Funny thing I wasn't very heartbroken about my broken engagement, though I reveled in telling anyone who would listen about "my engagement" it seemed to give me a bit of status that I had _been engaged._

Lunches with the guy I met at the Norwood dance were spasmodic at a nice restaurant in Hindley Street not far from Myers. I think he may have felt responsible for me having to leave my abode on Norwood Parade because he took me home late. I enjoyed these rare special lunches, and his company but he never asked me out on a date, I wondered why?

I didn't really miss Ted; I missed not having someone as a close confidante. In such a busy city with so much hustle and bustle and so many people around it seemed strange to me that I was lonely. I watched the interaction of couples and groups with such longing, wishing I had friends in Adelaide I could enjoy similar interactions with. Never mind I was FREE.

I had been warned by my Adelaide relatives never to talk to strangers. This seemed strange to me because all my life in the country I had been friendly and talkative to absolutely everyone. I wondered how could I meet people if I can't talk to strangers? I soon realised most city people didn't want to talk anyway, if a male approached me I was immediately suspicious of him and his intentions and brushed him off. If anyone paid me a compliment I felt they were condescending and feeling sorry for me. If the compliments were about my looks I was certain they were condescending because I knew it wasn't true I was such a plain girl even though I tried to dress and groom myself as best I could I believed I was inadequate and ugly.

I was warned so often "Never get in a car with a strange man or men."

I thought it most unlikely I would ever be invited anywhere by a man let alone into a car with him.

I was wrong, walking along a busy street in Adelaide CBD I noticed a car cruising up alongside of me. I quickly glanced to see if I knew the person. I didn't, I didn't like the look of the man; the car continued cruising adjacent to me.

"Would you like a lift?" the suspicious looking male driver invitingly asked.

"No thanks!"

I was shocked and shaken and hastily continued walking, hoping he wouldn't follow me. Fortunately he didn't. Now I knew what the warnings of my relatives were about.

I travelled everywhere by bus. During the week I was busy with work, on weekends I visited relatives and family friends who I had known through mum and dad. Quite often when I was walking alone around the city, cars cruised up behind me. I was wise to their game now, when they pulled up on the curb I always kept walking trying to ignore them as they slowly drove the car alongside me, I continued walking, quickly. Sometimes they'd drive off sometimes they'd call out "Would you like a lift?"

"NO THANKYOU."

This became a common occurrence, as lonely or as far from my destination as I was, I was never tempted to accept a ' _lift_ '.

I didn't like going out at night because it was a long walk to and from my accommodation and the bus stop. I didn't like waiting in the dark at bus stops, not only because of the stranger danger, but also because I was never sure a bus would come along. I loved dancing so much that occasionally I dared to venture out alone which meant changing buses in the city. I had to be very sure to leave early enough not to miss the last bus home from the city which was about 11.15pm.

I enjoyed these evenings out even though I wasn't asked for many dances. We girls all sat around the dance floor hoping to be asked to dance whilst watching the boys gathered one end of the hall checking out us girls. I also looked the boys over liking the look of this one and that one desperately hoping they would ask me to dance, they never did and they were always first to be asked at the sole `ladies choice' dance. It was etiquette for girls to wait for the boy to make the first approach, I felt this was unfair, why couldn't a girl approach the boy she was attracted to? I wasn't good looking, as hard as I tried to make myself look appealing, I still felt insignificant and unattractive. The good looking girls were always asked up for dances first, I hoped after the first rush of choices was over maybe someone would notice me and ask me to dance. I couldn't work out why some very dowdy looking girls seemed so popular.

"Why are those plain looking girls so popular? I am as good looking as they are and can dance better?" I asked myself.

_It was at least thirty years before I realised the answer to this question... I didn't have a reputation._ I _was a `good girl'._

Looking back to photo's I collected over these times it looked as though I was a popular girl. I had quite a few nice photographs taken with different guys. I wasn't popular at all in fact every time a candid camera man took a photo of me and a guy, I bought it. Looking at these photos made me feel as if I had a lot of friends.

One night I was walking home from the bus stop along our long dimly lit street when I felt someone following me, I was a long way from home and the street was deserted. I realised I was surely being followed. I was scared and knew I had to get myself out of this predicament. I quickened my pace (funny my tired feet seemed to stop hurting in the high heels I had been dancing in all night) while looking at the homes in the street to see which looked approachable if I needed help. I walked as fast as I could without running, I didn't want to have to create a chase I knew I couldn't win besides I didn't want him to think I was scared. Quick glimpses over my shoulder convinced me I had made the right decision he seemed to be lagging further behind me. By the time I reached home he had disappeared. I was safe. Someone had been watching over me. This experienced scared me. I didn't want to take the chance of walking alone in the dark again. I was so lonely.

Once again, I had a reprieve. Ted appeared at the Special Tables at work. I was speechless and very happy to see him. He had been share-farming between shearing contracts and finished harvesting after an exceptionally good year. We saw quite a bit of each other. He drove me everywhere in his ute. We cuddled and petted every chance we got; a favourite spot on hot nights was Glenelg beach; there were no air conditioners in homes in those days, during heatwaves people flocked to the beaches for relief from the heat. There were only a few shops and houses along Adelaide beaches, secluded spots could easily be found allowing plenty of privacy. We enjoyed many evenings on a rug on the beach away from other couples obviously doing the same as us. We also had lots of cuddles and heavy petting in his ute parked in isolated places.

Cars were the most popular place where couples had enough privacy to get intimate, there was no chance a guy could ever come into my bedroom it simply wasn't acceptable, to me, to my parents, to Jan and Joan, or to society. Cars were the general mode of 'togetherness', even so a lone parked car spotted at night was always investigated by the police. The first time I experienced police intrusion I was terrified. A bright spotlight was shone on us at close range through the driver's window; two policemen looked us over under the strong beam of light and asked what we were doing?

"Just talking" Ted told them.

I was terrified. Ted assured me they were just checking the car wasn't stolen and that I wasn't underage.

Some-one was looking over me, had they arrived ten minutes earlier there would have been much embarrassment.

One night Ted took me 'parking' to Mt. Lofty a popular spot in the Adelaide Hills overlooking the city with not a house in site, the isolation and city lights attributed to this romantic setting. There were always a few cars parked discreetly distanced from each other. Ted drove a way down the grassy hill away from the other cars for privacy and an uninterrupted view of the lights of Adelaide. We enjoyed very heavy petting; it was so good to be with Ted again he was such a caring lover and turned me on something fierce. We fell asleep, waking about 11pm. I thought it was time I should be home. I had a mindset I shouldn't be out after midnight.

Ted started the car and tried to drive up the hill. Heavy dew had made the grass wet and slippery. The big seemingly clumsy ford ute wheels wouldn't grip on the wet grass, the wheels spun uselessly, the more he tried the deeper the wheels spun into the damp grassy soil. There was not a thing we could do. I was tired, it was late for me. I was worried what Jan and Joan would think when I didn't arrive home. Nice girls didn't get themselves into predicaments like this. The other cars had all left, we were alone. No pay phones in this isolated spot; ( _and mobile phones weren't even a dream then_ ) there was nothing we could do; we finally fell asleep. I had a very troubled sleep worrying about what Jan and Joan would say, but ever so grateful my parents were unaware of our situation.

We woke at daybreak. The wind was blowing. Ted thought the wind may have dried the grass of its dew. He was right, the grass was completely dried out, he gingerly started the engine, low and behold the ute performed as it should we were able to safely drive up the grassy hill to the bitumen road and home.

I was dreading walking in and facing Jan and Joan, what would I say to them? How could I possibly explain? They seemed totally unconcerned at the hour of my arrival home. I tried to explain. They weren't even interested, I gave up. Why had I been so worried about them? I thought WOW. I **AM** FREE.

I was free, free to do anything I wished. Funny! Now I had the opportunity to do absolutely anything I had no desire to, anyway I had no-one to get up to mischief with, no-one to lead me astray, though I don't think I would have been easily led into wrong doings, my upbringing had firmly implanted strict morals and the Ten Commandments in my brain.

I yearned to meet and have nice compatible friends. I even thought I might go to church, now that I wasn't forced to go to church every week, I figured it might not be so bad, and I might meet some young people. The problem was there wasn't a Methodist church within walking distance from where I lived and there was no regular bus service on Sundays back then.

I enjoyed Ted's company I liked the idea of having a boyfriend more than it specifically being Ted. As innocent and ignorant as I was, I know my body responded to the multiple orgasms we shared. Ted was a master at lovemaking, a very good friend with whom I enjoyed heavy petting with no fear of getting pregnant, but I wanted more compatible friends; now I was able to think laterally without any influence from my parents or a community I was ready to start a new life with new friends. I didn't have to answer to anyone. I was FREE.

I attribute my ongoing healthy sex life to Ted's understanding, titillation, gentleness and consideration.

When Ted's holiday was over and he returned to Penong I realised I had gained a bit more confidence in myself. I missed his company, though as a friend not a fiancé. I felt I wanted to go out to places where I may meet other young people, but I didn't really want to walk alone at night, and taxis were too costly for me. Girls never owned a car in those days. I don't know why, maybe it was because the wages were much less than guys. I knew a car was out of the question, so I looked at motor scooters.

The cheapest new scooter was a small Honda step through costing ninety-nine pounds; it would allow me some independence and mobility. I had saved some money, also I still had all the money dad had banked for me before I left home. I could easily afford to buy myself a vehicle, but... I started scheming. I knew by now my parents would have 'heard' I had been seeing Ted. I knew they would not have been happy about it; this could work to my advantage. My next letter home I wrote about my needing a vehicle allowing me to go places without relying on others and without being restricted by the spasmodic bus service available, especially on Sundays prohibiting me from going to church. _(I knew this would hit the G spot)._ I stressed how dangerous it was walking the streets of Adelaide alone, especially from the bus stop to my home where I had already had one scare. I told them about the Honda scooter I thought would be suitable for me, costing ninety-nine pounds. I also happened to _briefly_ mention Ted was only too willing to take me anywhere I wanted to go _(another G spot)._ I told them I preferred to be independent rather than rely on boys to drive me.

Sure enough in the return mail came a cheque for one hundred pounds. This was a lot of money, a comparison... my wages were about nine pounds per week.

Relating the story to my workmates, they couldn't believe it. I could hardly believe it myself though I was fairly sure mum and dad would respond to my letter with a cheque. I felt important with the cheque in my purse, my workmates were stunned. I asked Ron for an afternoon off work to buy a scooter. Time off was gracefully granted.

I walked the one block from work to Freeman Motors to ask my cousin Jim Freeman (now the manager) where I could buy a Honda scooter.

"I have a cheque of one hundred pounds to pay for it."

"A Honda scooter is not suitable for you, let me ring a mate."

I listened to him wheeling and dealing on the phone.

Finally, he turned to me and said "OK. I have found a good second hand Lambretta scooter, this is a top of the range scooter with a fitted windshield a leather lap cover and a helmet. It is much safer to ride, this is the one you must get, forget about the Honda. I have got them down to one hundred and twenty-five pounds including the extra accessories. Can you afford the extra twenty-five pounds?"

Of course I could!

We had only ever bought new vehicles, never anything second-hand. I questioned the quality of 'second-hand'. Jim assured me is was as new and was the one I should purchase, he talked to me with such authority and conviction I dare not question his reasoning. I told him I had twenty-five pounds in the bank; and thanked him for his trouble. He took the cheque and told me to go and draw the extra money out of the bank, and be back in two hours, the scooter would be waiting for me. Sure enough, a shiny as new Lambretta was waiting for me out the front of Freeman Motors in Grenfell Street. After the paper-work had been completed Jim said "Goodbye, you can drive it home now."

"bbbut I haven't rrridden it, and I have never dddriven in any tttraffic let alone the cccity."

I was terrified of city traffic, so different to driving on the farm or in my country town.

"Hop on it and drive around the back of the shop and do a few laps around the yard." he instructed.

I did, it was easy to ride, much easier than the Bantam motorbike I had been riding for many years on the farm. Though I felt confident riding the scooter I was terrified of driving home through the city to Richmond which by now was peak hour. All shops and businesses were closing creating traffic chaos.

"You can do it, goodbye." Jim said and inside he went.

I was a lump of jelly; but had no choice but to take off. I knew the prime road rule was 'give way to the right'. Grenfell Street was very busy, bumper to bumper traffic. I was petrified. I cautiously rode along as near the curb as was possible, I thought if I kept on the left side of other vehicles and proceeded when they did always keeping abreast with them I would be okay they would protect me from all traffic on my right whilst guiding me to my right of way. This worked. I got home safely, though I was an absolute wreck and worried about riding to work the next day.

I thought ' I got home okay so surely I can get safely to work tomorrow'.

The first week of driving the scooter was terrible, just the thought of riding it sent spasms of fear, dread and uncertainty through me. When I actually got on the scooter it wasn't so bad, I felt in control, the thought of riding it was more stressful than actually doing it.

I soon became very competent. I proudly and confidently drove down the centre of the streets as fast as the speed limit allowed and sometimes faster, passing all slower vehicles. Lambretta was by far a much superior scooter than the smaller less powerful humble Honda I thought was all I could afford. It was comfortable to ride in all weather, even in the rain. The windshield protected me from rain wind and cold, the leather lap cover kept me dry in the wet. I appreciated Jim's help in choosing me this scooter and making me ride it home that first afternoon. I also realised and appreciated how efficiently Jim maneuvered a really good deal. It was quite rare for a female to own any vehicle; I didn't see any other females driving vehicles; that was strictly a male domain.

I proudly bragged "My cousin organised this scooter for me."

A lesson I learned- _It's not what you know but who you know._

I was mobile. I was independent. I was gaining confidence. Jan and Joan seemed a bit offhand with me, but I didn't care, they mostly ignored my existence in their house, it suited me just fine. I didn't have to answer to them. I was out most weekends. I even rode into Maughan Church in Franklin Street some Sundays. The evening service was broadcast on the wireless which mum and dad usually listened to. I think I felt a little nearer home at these services. I knew mum and dad would be happy with me going to church, it was the least I could do in return for their generous cheque besides, I might meet some other young folk.

I found Maughan Church to be very commercialised with a large congregation, so large I was totally unnoticed and ignored. I became disillusioned with large Adelaide churches though I did enjoy the pipe organ music and choir singing. I longingly looked at the choir dreaming that I was singing in it too.

`It would never happen, I'm not good enough'.

I was now able to get to dances on Saturday nights and stay till the finish. I rode to Norwood, Glenelg and Burnside Town Halls where dances were held. These dances were very popular and excellent venues for young people to meet the opposite sex. Riding my scooter had its drawbacks; I had to wear a helmet which flattened my hair. Heavily teased hair was becoming the 'in' style, my hair was anything but teased and bouffant after wearing the helmet, as much as I tried to tease it up in the 'ladies' before going into the dance I felt conscious of my still flattened dreary hairstyle, nevertheless I sat along with all the other girls trying to look as if I 'fitted in', hoping I would be asked to dance. As much as I wanted to be on the dance floor, I was fussy who I accepted a dance with.

Italians were immigrating to Australia during this era; many young Italian guys also attended these dances obviously for the same reason as me, looking to meet new friends. Italian boys couldn't speak English very well and were short in statue, much shorter than me. I watched these short guys with leery looks on their faces proudly dancing with girls who dared accept a dance with them, their eyes were the same level as the girl's boobs. I didn't like the idea of dancing with these guys who couldn't speak English and were much shorter than me. I didn't like faces level with my breasts, and I was wary of the odd expectant looks on their faces. I was often asked by the Italians to dance, as much as I wanted to dance I always refused, consequently I sat out most dances. It was an unsaid rule amongst 'nice girls' _we don't mix with I'ties._

I was concerned if a boy I liked wanted to take me home I wouldn't be able to accept because I had my scooter to consider. No worries! This never happened, I never met anyone I considered could be a friend, the boys I hoped would ask me to dance never did, they always asked the pretty girls while I enviously watched on as they happily danced around the dance floor obviously enjoying each other's company.

"If only!"

_Me on my Lambretta_ _in my street at Goodwood_

# Chapter 28

## Bill

The Fifties was at an end. It was New Year's Eve 1959 a Saturday. There was a special New Year Dance at Burnside Town Hall. This hall was quite near Aunty Ruby's home at Toorak Gardens. The following day the first day of 1960 my relatives were having a family picnic at Belair National Park which I was looking forward to. I asked Aunty if I could ride my scooter to her place, attend the dance and sleep over ready for the picnic next day.

"Of course, come early and have tea before you go."

I loved having meals at Aunty Ruby's, I didn't feel bad when I overate at her place; she loved to feed me. After tea I excitedly dressed for the dance. My cousin Dorothy (auntie's daughter) and her family were visiting and offered to drive me to the dance. I readily accepted because I would be able to do my hair without having to put on a helmet which would flatten it.

I planned to wear a rather startling bright heliotrope pink satin frock with fitted waist and bell ballerina length skirt. I hadn't worn this frock in Adelaide it was rather a special frock I made to wear to a friend's wedding when still living on the farm. My hair and makeup done I stepped into the frock, the feel of it was so luxurious... OOPS...

"I can't do up the zip".

The zip was in the centre back seam. I couldn't reach it. I called to Dorothy to help. I had forgotten the weight I had put on. Dorothy tried without success; she called aunty who also couldn't get the zip past my waistline. I suggested her borders have a try their fingers may be nimbler. Still no luck; that zip was impossible to get past my expanded waistline.

"No way will we get that zip done up; you'll have to wear something else."

"I can't wear anything else I don't have anything else here."

"You'll have to wear the frock you wore here."

"I can't wear that old thing. I have to wear this one."

I was intent on wearing this bright heliotrope pink frock. I knew I just had to wear it.

I took it off and looked at the seams... if I undid the seams a little maybe the zip would go up, then it could be sewn up again once I got it on. Dorothy looked unconvinced. I unpicked enough seam to do the zip up and pestered Dorothy until she sewed it back together, which she did amidst much complaining.

Finally I was ready to go to the dance securely sewn into my frock. I felt good, the most excited and content I had felt since arriving in Adelaide. I was sure I would enjoy myself this night. I was expecting to have a good time. I had a feeling. As Dorothy drove me to the dance I realised I hadn't given a thought about getting back to aunties after the dance, though in the back of my mind I knew a taxi fare would be affordable for such a short distance.

I arrived at the dance a little late, most unusual for me, I was usually one of the first to arrive, getting into my dress had taken much longer than anticipated. Almost as soon as I sat down a tall handsome Aussie guy walked over and asked me for a dance.

"Yes! Thank you."

He could even dance. Although he danced with other girls during the night, he saved the dance before interval for me, and asked me out for coffee during the interval break. This was the first time I had ever been asked to have coffee with a guy, I was on cloud nine. We talked over coffee. His name was Bill Hoad he lived at Torrensville, not far from where I lived at Richmond.

"How co-incidental" I thought.

"Why did you choose to ask me for a dance?" I dared to ask.

"It was the colour of your frock that attracted me."

I just knew I had to wear that frock!

We danced the night away.

Midnight arrived... the lights went out...

Bill kissed me... how romantic it was... how special did I feel?

Very!!!!

This moment depicted... the end of the fifties and the beginning of the sixties.

# Afterword

Do hope you enjoyed my first book 'Eunice'... if so follow my journey through to 1990 in 'Emergence of Eunice' which takes me to 50 years of age.

'Emergence of Eunice' is not for the faint hearted. I have bared my soul and been brutally honest. I apologise to those who find it offensive; but I felt compelled to record the role of women in the 20th Century. I have written exactly as it was for me... and I suspect many women can assimilate.

'Eunice Emerged' my third book continues directly from 'Emergence of Eunice' and takes a totally different turn, my kids call it my 'second life'.

The 21st Century brought so many changes to the world. I battled to keep abreast the new world of technology, but then the younger ones assured me it was also the same for them.

I concluded 'Eunice Emerged' as an Octogenarian in 2020.

Remember... "always have your glass half full"

and...

"Do unto others as you would have do unto you."

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