Growing up in Australia was easy

What's amazing is how much has changed from my childhood days growing up in Australia. 

I was part of the post war baby boom population and large-scale immigration which not only changed our taste for food and wine, but underwrote the multicultural country we experience today. Most artists then needed to travel overseas to further their careers and although our first cultural icon, the Australian Broadcasting Commission had been established in 1932, it was not until 1956 that The Australian Opera was formed, followed by the National Institute of Dramatic Art in 1959 and in the Australian Ballet in 1961.

Apart from these institutions our cultural influence mostly came from abroad. The “Dream machines” culture of America gave us such icons as Roy Rogers captivating tales of the Wild West which dominated my childhood memories, along with the mighty British spitfires and daring adventures set in the English countryside or in caves used by smugglers on the Cornish Coast. What culture there was evident seemed to be more English than the English; perpetuated by the constant pilgrimages by our  Prime Minister Sir Robert Menzies to the “Mother Country’. He was our longest serving Prime Minister, serving between 1939-1941 and then from 1949-1966; retiring aged 70. However, under that veneer of a carefree democracy with egalitarian ambitions, in blissful ignorance, there remained deep seated  racial prejudice and abuses including those inflicted on First Nations people who were only  given the vote in 1962.

My early childhood memories were very happy ones. 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 at the shrill cry from my mother “The Search” , a call to come indoors to listen with bated breath to the daily radio broadcast of “The Search for the Golden Boomerang”. Radio, books, comics, making slingshots, playing in the dirt under the house, bows and arrows, climbing trees or exploring the river banks with family cats and dogs kept us actively interested so I can never recall ever feeling bored. In later life when I first watched the same radio scripts on TV, I was sorely disappointed. Actors and sets seemed surprisingly insipid and imprisoned on an impoverished tiny screen compared to the vivid imagery conveyed in my mind by those talented wordsmiths.

I loved the weekly visit to the movies.

Coming home afterwards we feasted on hot chips, smothered in salt and dripping with fat, wrapped up unceremoniously in old newspapers- no doubt frightfully unhealthy. Once home it was time to re-enact the scenes from the  story line whilst playing outside in the bush.
Supermarket shopping was non-existent 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 an occasional salesperson selling encyclopedias and so on. In those days most women stayed at home so there was the inevitable chat across the picket fence. One borrowed any cooking ingredients rather than go without  if you were caught short. It wasn’t unusual for strong bonds of friendships to grow up with one’s neighbours.    

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 while lifting onto the truck. The contents were respectively referred to as “Night Soil”.
My best pal conveniently lived next door and as he was several years older and the local wrestling champion my experience of friendly arm wrestling with him turned out to be invaluable when dealing with a much older school bully. 

He launched an attack on me on the way home; to my surprise, as the small crowd gathered around to watch,  I managed to get a decent head lock on him and wrestled him forcefully to the ground. To my astonishment 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 and receiving a Bike for a Christmas present eclipsed all known previous joyous experiences. My parents 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 to finally survey a wondrous bike. I immediately hopped on and cycled away. It didn’t matter to me that it was an old bike, painted and spruced up with a false “Malvern Star” sticker on it

In fact I don't recall even remembering at the time what my later life recollections revealed: slightly bubbly blue paint covering rusty spots on a lovingly restored old bike by the local bike shop. 

Freedom is an elusive state but I never felt as carefree as when riding that bicycle around in the country.

When Queen Elizabeth visited Australia no one really knew why we should all be so 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 the Queen was greeted with unanimous delight. We travelled a long distance by train with thousands of cheering country children to catch a glimpse and listen to her speeches. 

But this idyllic setting came to an abrupt ending  as 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 a fisherman and unconcerned dangled my fishing line in the brown waters below from the back veranda.

However soon the rising waters were inching their way up our back steps so we evacuated to a neighbor’s house on much higher ground. My father told us he was staying on to protect our furniture and effects.

Later on, we peered out over the murky waters as darkness descended upon us to make out 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 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 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 torn from roofs, turned to good use to fashion 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 been since.      

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

The flood left my parents bankrupt 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 were 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 knew 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 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!!  

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

My parents eventually saved enough to just scrape together enough for a deposit on a small house in a subdivision and soon became actively involved in the local community. I moved to Sydney, returning to celebrate every Christmas after marrying Anne and as a family after my father died in 1969, right up to the time of my mother’s death in 1993. Those days as newlyweds and with our growing family are another very happy story for another time.