Fifties nostalgia

After reading Bill Bryson’s book entitled “Thunderbolt Kid” about his boyhood experiences growing up in the USA, I was reminded of my own childhood experiences. I grew up in the picturesque small dairy farming town of Kyogle situated on the NSW side of the border with Queensland.
The back fence was all that separated our house from fields of grazing cattle and the river; an endless source of entertainment and excitement for me. I was scarcely ever indoors, coming in only to listen with bated breath to the daily radio broadcast of “The Search for the Golden Boomerang” and other popular radio serials broadcast then. Radio, books, comics, making sling shots, bows and arrows, climbing trees or exploring the river banks kept us actively interested. I can never recall feeling bored. In later life when I watched the same radio script on TV, I was sorely disappointed, actors and sets seemed surprisingly insipid and imprisoned on the tiny screen.

I loved the weekly visit to the movies. Afterwards we feasted on chips, smothered in salt and dripping with fat, wrapped up unceremoniously in old newspapers; pure mana from heaven.  When I returned home it was time to reenact the scenes, embellishing the story line to make it more exciting as I playing in the bush outside.

Supermarket shopping didn’t exist, so there was a constant stream of merchants and visitors to our house, the milkman at first light, filling your jug with fresh milk and cream, a baker carrying his basket under his arm of freshly baked bread exuding its enticing aroma, the postman’s shrill whistle, ice from an ice cart for your ice chest, an insurance man collecting the premiums and a salesperson selling encyclopedias.
Each week the faithful ‘Dunny man” had to carefully exchange your full dunny for an empty one which was an operation that required a combination of brute strength (as they were rather heavy when full) and skill to ensure you didn’t spill any of the contents out while lifting on to the truck. The contents were respectively referred to as “Night Soil”. The sign ‘Night Soil’ was emblazoned on the side of the old truck that excuded copious amounts of blue smoke as its engine groaned under the strain of its heavy load.   

My best pal conveniently lived next door; he was several years older and the wrestling champion of the local neighborhood. I soon leant that I was not going to be strangled and die when he engaged me in wrestling contests on our front lawn. There seemed no point in complaining since my parents seemed totally disinterested in my dire predicament. The wrestling experience turned out to be invaluable when I went off to school, when dealing with an older school bully. As he launched his attack on me on the way home; as he had promised, I thought I was a goner. To my surprise and that of the small crowd gathered around to watch (fights were usually premeditated to give everyone the chance to come along and watch) I managed to get a decent head lock on him and wrestled him to the ground with all my strength. To my astonishment and relief it was soon over; as he heeded the chant of the crowd. He’s got you!! , He’s got you!! Give-up, Give Up!!

Christmas time was always an exciting time. Receiving a bike for a Christmas present eclipsed all known joyous experiences in my life. My parents, sensing my excitement had laid a string throughout all of the rooms of the house and back down the stairs to be attached to the bike situated on the front lawn. Christmas morning at first light they invited me to follow the string and see what was on the end of it. Needing no encouragement I tore through the house and in a state of heightened excitement finally surveyed the wondrous sight, I immediately hopped on and cycled away. It didn’t matter a fig to me that it was a very old bike, where rust had been carelessly painted over with bubbly paint and made to look new with a false “Malvern Star” sticker on it. To me it was simply the best thing that could have ever happened and I was far too excited and happy to pay any close attention to such things.  It was only in later life when I recalled those images more carefully that I realized those bubbly painted surfaces were the result of paint failing to bond on rusted old surfaces. A few splashes of paint and a brand new shining bell was all that was needed to transform that rusty old bike into the gleaming new machine I had long dreamed about. Freedom is an elusive state but I never felt as carefree as riding that bicycle around in the country. Taking my lunch with me and cycling off to a destination of my choice, stopping for a drink for at a little shop I was totally ensconced in my own world of adventure.   

One must remember growing up in the fifties was a time when the country was fiercely loyal to the Queen under the guiding hand of Prime Minister Robert Menzies. During Queen Elizabeth’s Coronation we all made up scrap books as school projects. When she visited Australia no one really knew why we should all be excited, it was as if we were all swept along with this national bout of infectious enthusiasm and delight for the Queen. The cheers of the schoolchildren echoed everywhere as she was greeted with unanimous delight.
But tragedy was to strike us and the close knit Kyogle community in 1954. Our family house had been purchased on the basis it was flood free. As an added precaution it was built on high stilts. Even so, despite the cyclonic rain on that fateful day, it was thought our house would not be flooded. As the floodwaters entered our backyard I imagined myself as fisherman and unconcerned dangled my fishing line in the brown waters. However soon the rising waters were inching their way up our back steps so we evacuated to a neighbor’s on much higher ground. My father told us he was staying on to protect our furniture and effects.
That night I peered out over the murky waters to see my Father swimming around in the flooded house, placing objects onto higher vantage points in a futile attempt to avoid the ever rising floodwaters. The waters were rising at an alarming rate and it was with some relief, we watched in silence as my father finally wearily swam out through the bedroom window and with measured strokes struck out for the bank and safety at last. Fully clothed, cold, exhausted but determined he slowly hauled himself up onto the bank to join us on the veranda, in time to see our house disappear under the cruel raging waters of the Richmond River.
I can still recall that dreaded smell from the flood with its endless mud. There were pieces of corrugated iron from rooves around and it was soon turned to good use in makeshift canoes, folded over and sealed both ends with tar, to deliver milk and supplies. I remember search parties each morning looking for bodies and everyone helping one another. There was the drone of the old DC3 aircraft parachuting supplies to a stricken community cut off by floodwaters the likes of which had never been seen nor  have since.      

My parent’s sold their house at a tremendous financial loss and decided to leave Kyogle not long after.

The flood left my parents bankrupted so we moved to Ballina and stayed with my maternal grandparents to give my parents a chance to recover financially. We then moved to Wollongong for a short period until finally settling in Coffs Harbour.

My memories of Coffs in the fifties was of a town where you could leave the door of your home unlocked as there was virtually no crime helped no doubt by an alert police force that new everyone’s business. One of my fondest memories was of our pet dog called Rexie , a very intelligent foxie who was given the keys to the town. His daily routine, after breakfast, was to visit the Red Cross Snack Bar and then morning tea at my father’s work followed by lunch at home and then a final goodbye to the Red Cross workers in the afternoon. If there was any event on in town he was always around to check things out as an accepted observer.  He was always very careful crossing the street and would wait patiently for a lull in the traffic, or wait for the traffic lights once they were installed in the town. He even visited the golfers during the North Coast Open observing the professionals and crowds of people. I recall walking along the fairway when I overheard a conversation: ‘what’s that dog doing on the course’ only to hear the usual chorus of answers, ‘that’s Rexie, he turns up everywhere, always welcome and always well behaved!!  

Umm I thought – yes that’s exactly right!!

We were spoilt for choice at Coffs with beaches to the north and south of the town. I recall eating oysters of the rocks and on the odd occasions catching good sized bream with my mother cheering me on.