Getting there

When going to my grandparents’ farm for the school holidays, the adventure started the minute we left home. There was no car in the family until after I was married. If we were poor we didn’t know it, we were well fed and always had decent clothes to wear. OK, the clothes may have been hand-me-downs but we always had something new that Mum had sewed for us. The miles she must have clocked up treadling that old Singer sewing machine. She must have thought she was made when she had a small motor attached to it! And when she wasn’t sewing, she was knitting. My friends families had more than we did but I can’t remember ever being jealous of them. Anyway, there was no car, and for the most part there was no need for one. We lived about a mile from our school and the church. When we needed to go further afield we took the train.

Oh, how well I remember those dreaded trips into the city to visit the dental clinic where our dental hygiene was taken care of by supervised dental students. It must have been our low family income that made us eligible for free treatment at this clinic. And I think they were meant to be final year students but, even at a young and innocent age, I wondered what sort of real dentists some of them would make. I remember a Mr Booth who drilled out the wrong tooth, the supervisor pointed out the mistake, he filled it and then, can you believe it, he drilled out the same tooth again! There I was pinned in this chair, trying to wave my arms around, being told to ‘sit still’, trying to make myself understood by emitting guttural sounds, being told to ‘be quiet”, trying to transmit messages through the top of his head as he bent to his task. Finally the supervisor decided to do some supervising, once again pointed out to the young man his mistake, then announced there was no more time for more treatment today, I would have to come back next week. I was glad today’s nightmare was over, and I had another week to prepare myself for the next session.

There must have been 20 dental chairs in one big room and every time I entered that room after that I’d know it was going to be a pretty good day if the dreaded young Mr Booth didn’t come in my direction. I was terrified of him! My sister, Esme, had some real dental problems and got to see a ‘proper’ dentist, I’m sure I did a fair bit of complaining about that.

But, as is my way, I digress. Come school holiday time we would set out for Laidley on the train. First up was the ride into the city, but to get to Laidley we went past the familiar Central Station to Roma Street Station and this station seemed much bigger and more confusing. Poor Mum, with all those suitcases and all those kids in tow, had to get us all from one platform to another. There would have been 5 of us when she started making those journeys. And things only got worse over time as the family grew. I think I was about 12 when I was deemed responsible enough to make the journey with a few of the younger ones the day after the holidays started.

From Roma Street we would board the train to Ipswich. This train always seemed crowded which, of course, meant we had to be well behaved. At Ipswich we would change trains once again and board the Toowoomba train - fewer passengers and fewer restrictions. And, of course, our excitement would be building. Now we were really on our way, count the tunnels, wait for Grandchester Station, one more long tunnel (the longest), just a bit further, round a big sweeping bend and we would be there. The grass that grew beside the railway line around that sweeping corner was always greener and better than any we had seen along the way. And we could judge by its green-ness or lack of it whether there had been recent rain, whether there was likely to be water (and swimming holes) in the creek.

Next we would be pulling into Laidley station, heads out the windows to see who would be first to see who was there to meet us. Sometimes Grandma and Grandad in Grandad’s utility truck (yay, a trip up the creek in the back of the truck sitting on suitcases, hair flying, yelling to each other to be heard), sometimes an uncle or aunt. How times have changed.

When I reached that age of responsibility when I was trusted to venture forth without an adult, we would occasionally be told before leaving home that no one would be meeting us at the station we were to take the mail car ‘up the creek’ to Mrs Day’s place which was the end of the line for mail delivery, the post office and telephone exchange. So we would lug our bags around to the Post Office, where we were always expected, and be told how long we would have to wait before the mail car left. All the mail men over the years knew who we were and were always friendly. The mail and parcels would be loaded and we would clamber in and, until the van emptied as we made our way along the road, it was a bit of a tight squeeze sometimes.

The road heading 'up the creek'

We might have lived in the city but we were country kids at heart and knew the best way to open a conversation and to get any local talking was to enquire about the weather. And if we could throw in, “Oh look, Mr .. is irrigating his pumpkins!” we thought we’d get double points. We’d find and hand to the driver the mail and parcels for all his customers. I remember once he said, “Fetch those eggs there for Mrs ... Careful! That’s the second time this week she’s wanted eggs and last time one was broken. Don’t want you kids to get the blame.”

Checking out farms along the way

As we went further along the road, the farms would become more and more familiar and into the area where most of the farms belonged to relatives, some distant, some close. We'd pass by my paternal grandparents old family home and inspect it for changes.

The Ward old family home

The driver would tell us any recent gossip about any other them and we wouldn’t be able to wait to get to the farm to tell Grandad – he did so love a bit of gossip.

Finally we’d be where we’d been longing to be since leaving home in Nudgee - Townson. Nearly there! If there was no-one there to meet us (the mail-man would joke that he’d made good time with helpers on board) Mrs Day would ring Gran and sooner or later we’d hear a car coming to collect us. Then just a quick whizz up the road and there would be the creek crossing, from where we could see across the cultivated paddocks to the farm house nestled in under the hills.

Over the creek crossing we would go, sharp eyes peering left and right for any sign of water, giving our driver an ear bashing, constantly asking about swimming holes. Up the farm track alongside the creek, we’d have necks craning for a better look, turn left, a little rise and there it would be – the farmhouse and the warmest of welcomes!

Holidays in the 50s

This is an old photo (from the 70s when photos never retained their true colours) taken from the mountains at the back of my maternal grandparents' farm, looking down the valley - or, as the locals say, "down the creek".

When we arrived on holidays at the farm, Grandad would always fill us in on where wallabies and dingoes had been sighted, and how many snakes had been seen lately. If a snake had been killed recently it would be hanging over the fence for us to look at and to learn to identify the different sorts (and to remind us of their danger). The house was only about six steps high and they had a huge birdcage under it, right beside the front steps. Gran would trap parrots down along the creek before we arrived so we always had some to look at and learn about.

Holidays were spent running wild around the hills and along the creek. We always had an ‘expedition’ into the mountains in search of wallabies and once we even managed to get up close to them. One special memory is a holiday when I was about 17 and the only one staying at the farm. Grandad said the wallabies had been coming down to drink in the evening in the Top Paddock, the one closest to the mountains. So, he and I set out on foot shortly after lunchtime with just a drink of water each.

We found a good spot under some bushes and settled down on our bellies to wait. It seemed a long afternoon. It was hot and got uncomfortable and we only spoke occasionally in whispers. But we were rewarded. Just as I was giving up hope, Grandad poked me in the ribs and pointed. And sure enough, what looked like three families of wallabies were approaching. They came up to the water hole slowly, warily, and I was sure my breathing would frighten them away. But they drank, then played for a while before hopping away. It was such a special moment and extra special to be sharing it with my Grandad. It wasn’t until I was 50 and living in North Queensland that I got to see wallabies in their natural environment like that again.

There was usually a parrot trapping expedition as well but these only made us wonder at Gran’s skill. We used the same equipment she used but without the same results; we lacked the timing. We’d have a box with the lid missing. This would be turned upside down and propped up with a little stick attacked to a length of string. Seeds the birds liked (Gran always knew which seeds to use) would be placed under the box and the idea was when a bird went under the box to eat the seeds, we would pull the string and trap it. To start with we weren’t very good at sitting quietly under a bush, and on the rare occasions when we did and a bird approached we would either pull the string too soon, or, in our excitement, make a noise that frightened it away.

The creek

The creek and gully had to be explored every holiday in search of water holes, swimming holes and goannas. I remember one big old goanna inhabited the same place for years. It was exciting on the first day of the holidays to climb a little hill and come down it on the other side on our bellies to see if we could spot him laying in the sun. We only had that one chance because he was a wary old devil and would disappear after our first day on the scene. I guess we were a noisy bunch!

A favourite activity was sliding down the hill on the other side of the gully from the house on cardboard or flour sacks. Cardboard was best but wasn’t always available. At the bottom of the hill was a barbed wire fence and the thrill was not baling off before the fence but to go under it at full speed. We knew that if we weren’t laying flat, we would be cut to pieces. That game was forbidden for a while after Bernie, who was always so fearless in his attempts to keep up with the older kids, lifted his head at the wrong time and was nearly scalped. He was only about four and there was blood everywhere! He was a tough little bugger, didn’t cry or carry on, and was all for keeping it a secret, but there was no way we could with all that blood on his clothes.

Grandad had a horse called Orphan Boy which had been around for as long as I could remember. When we were old enough we were allowed to ride him to bring in the cows. It seems he had been ridden by at least one generation of kids before us because he knew all the tricks on getting rid of his rider. It would be a battle of wits, keeping him away from overhanging branches or logs on the ground, as he loved to jump or wipe his rider off on a low hanging branch. I also had to make sure I didn’t approach fences or gates at a gallop or he would be up and over it before I could slow him down, leaving me on the ground on the other side. I also learned the hard way not to go too fast near corner posts. I spent days with my leg in bandages before I learnt that one.

I was glad when Grandad considered me a good enough rider to move on to another horse and for the younger kids to learn how to ride on Orphan Boy. Whenever we went ‘exploring’ or on an ‘expedition’ we were always accompanied by one of Grandad’s blue heeler dogs. He always had one that was a ‘snake dog’ and this one would be our companion whenever we left the house. The dog always trotted on ahead and we kept an eye on him to see if he was showing interest in anything or ‘pointing’ to something. If the dog stopped and stared at something in the grass or amongst the trees we would turn around and race back to the house. We only ever doubted the dog once and went looking to see what it was interested in and Dennis nearly stepped on a snake. We never hesitated to run after that.

Me, left and my sister, Esme aged around 7 and 5 I think.
And, yes, I think I still have that grin!

Aussie childhood

My sister, Tricia's painting of original farm house

There are so many things in my life that I am grateful for, starting with where I grew up and the wonderful family into which I was born. I like to tell people my parents were so impressed with me, the oldest, that they decided they’d like a dozen of me. But the truth is my dad comes from good Irish Catholic stock and the change that swept through the world with the introduction of birth control was not felt in our household.

An early (and constant) influence in our lives were our grandparents. Dad’s mother was a quiet, demure, gentle little lady who I don’t remember as saying much but who often smiled gently. I’m sure she was made of sterner stuff than was evident to us in her old age. After all, she gave birth to 14 children and raised 12 of them when times were tough indeed. My dad was one of the youngest with a younger brother and 2 younger sisters. There is just one sister, Aunty Maisie left alive now and many lingering and fond memories of some of the others. Their lives were a testimony to their faith; they practised Christianity in its purest form.

Dad’s mother was roughly the same age as my maternal great grandmother who lived a creek and a paddock away from Grandma and Grandad Osborne. Whereas Grandma Ward was genteel and always seemed to be sitting in her easy chair when we visited, Great-granny Crosby was always on the go. Grandma Ward lived in retirement in a stately old home in Sandgate a
seaside suburb of Brisbane (only 4 train stations and a bus ride from where we lived) with her oldest spinster daughter, Aunty Dolly, who appeared to be “in charge”. The house was spotless, no clutter, no marks on the gleaming polished wood floors.

During the holidays we stayed with Grandma and Grandad Osborne but during school term we visited Grandma Ward regularly on Sundays. Mum would see that we were scrubbed and dressed in our best Sunday clothes, clean white socks and polished shoes, hair tidy, and Dad would take us to visit. These were not fun Sunday outings; in the presence of Dad and his family we were always conscious of the need to behave. No hanging out train windows getting soot on ourselves from the old steam train and mucking up our hair. No raised voices except Dad’s keeping us in line.

Reaching the Sandgate railway station was a relief as it was easier staying clean on the bus and therefore stay out of disgrace with Dad – and Aunty Dolly. Somehow we developed a ritual for when we arrived at Grandma Ward’s. Firstly we would take our shoes off at the door and line them up neatly by size, then traipse into the lounge room. I would sit on one end of a long lounge chair with the youngest brother or sister beside me, Dennis the next oldest of us would sit on the other end with the next youngest beside him and the other younger ones would be between us. And it would be up to the older ones to keep the younger under control. If any of the littlies misbehaved it always seemed to be MY fault, as Dad would say, “Pauline!” in his sternest voice. No wonder my younger brothers and sisters thought I was bossy for years!

But there were no rituals when we went up to the farm to Mum’s family. There was no sitting on ceremony, although we were regularly scrubbed and dressed up on Sundays to visit my Great-grandmother. We loved these visits because we liked to see Gran dressed up in her Sunday best. She looked so elegant and beautiful when she did her hair in her “fancy” style with deep waves on the sides of her hair and her bun secured with a pretty comb more loosely than on other days. I would wait with interest to see what broach she was going to wear and if she would put on a necklace. Her outfit wouldn’t be complete till we had crossed the creek when the stockings and gloves were put on, no matter how hot the day. Then, armed with towels, our shoes and socks in our hands, we would race down to the creek. The crossing place was shallow with lots of stepping stones, so our feet didn’t get dirty, just wet. On the other side, we’d add our shoes and socks and set off through Great Uncle Dave’s (Grandma’s brother who farmed the home farm) paddock. Crops were grown in the rich soil of this paddock so our shoes would have a layer of dirt (mud if it was being irrigated) and our socks far from their original white.

How we loved my Gran’s childhood home. Before it was moved to its current site it had been Laidley’s first hospital. A grand staircase led up to a wide verandah around three sides that had beautiful white wrought iron work. From the top of the steps you could go straight into a long hallway with rooms off either side. Living rooms on one side, bed rooms off the other. The far end of the corridor lead out to a walkway which was covered in corrugated iron, and had a hand rail but no sides. This lead to another verandah in front of the kitchen, which was one huge room, it’s length being the width of the house. A monstrous wood stove was down one end with a worktable, cupboards, etc and dining table and chairs down the other. Either table would easily
sit 12 people, but we rarely sat in there, as it was cooler out on the verandah. We would be given a cool drink of cordial and a piece of cake while Gran and her mother had a cup of tea. Then we would proceed to the other part of the house and sit on the side verandah facing the creek.

The move from one verandah to the other was the signal that the formal part of the day was over. Off would come the shoes and socks and we’d take off, usually to the creek to check out the Top Crossing – a concrete causeway. The only time an adult would reprimand us was if we chased Great-granny’s chooks. Occasionally we would run up the back of the house and visit Gran’s brother Dave and his family, but Aunty Laura wasn’t the best cook in the world and being expected to eat her offerings was a bit off-putting. We were raised to think we must eat food that was offered to us, so unless we were still hungry after eating Great-granny’s offering, we regarded Aunty Laura’s food as a bit of a trial.

These Sunday visits took about two hours I guess because we would always set out after lunch and sometimes we would leave our togs at the crossing on the way over and have a swim there on the way home.

We all loved Grandma and Grandad Osborne in a special way. They had the gift of making each of us feel special and never compared any of us to each other or to other cousins, whereas I always felt that we never quite measured up to Grandma Ward’s expectations. After Grandma Osborne died Esme, Tricia and I held a wake for her at the Irish Club in Mt Isa. We laughed till we cried, then laughed some more. All our memories of her were so positive! But the highlight of the night was when Esme announced that she had been Gran’s favourite! I couldn’t believe that she could possibly think that, as I knew that I had been her favourite but Tricia had the same belief. What a gift!

Grandad loved to tell us stories. Our Ward family tree tells us Ward means the Bard, the story-teller but I think the joy of spinning a yarn comes from Mum’s parents. Grandad’s best stories were about Tommy Day, an old bachelor who lived not far down the road who Grandad lead us to believe was “not all there” and Uncle Cecil who lived right at the end of the road and had been in Mum’s class at school. Tommy spoke with a high pitched, slow voice and Grandad could imitate him perfectly. Mind you, I think Tommy got his own back at least once. One day Tommy
came across a couple of men trapping parrots in Grandad’s Dam Paddock, the entry to which was opposite Day’s house. Tommy told them he wasn’t going to make trouble for them but to watch out for the old guy up the creek – “He’s as mad as a cut snake”. The trappers later went further up the creek where they came across Grandad and told him the story, asking where the mad old guy lived. Grandad thought it was a huge joke and told us they had been referring to Uncle Cecil.

He used “Uncle Cecil” to keep us from getting lost when we ventured into the mountains at the end of the road. He would tell us to follow the creek with a warning “Stay away from the road or you’ll go past Uncle Cecil’s house and he will come out and chase you.” We fell for his instructions hook, line and sinker, believing that if we went off the track we were to follow once we got to the next creek crossing (past the end of the road) we would be straying too close to Uncle Cecil’s property and goodness knows what would happen to us. Mum told me much later that Cecil, had indeed, been a bully and Grandad was right to warn us about him. He used to ride a horse to school and would charge it straight at any youngsters who were walking.

We spent all our school holidays up on the farm at Townson. The road from Laidley followed the creek up the valley towards its source in the mountains and everything was either ‘up the creek’ or ‘down the creek’. Only Grandma’s mother and brother and Uncle Cecil lived further up the creek. From there you started climbing up into the mountains. The mountain range formed a U at the back of the house with mountains running back down either side.

The farm as it is today

Time now to sit and reminisce and come up with more memories of my wonderful childhood.