Up the Creek

No trip home is complete for me without a trip "Up the Creek" to where my ancestors settled and many previous generations of my family (on both sides) settled and lived.  I'm proud of the fact that my ancestors were the first white settlers at the top of this lovely, fertile valley. The road up the Laidley Creek valley follows the creek to where the road ends as it reaches the mountains and that's where I think of as my spiritual home.

This is the one place where "You can't go home again" is not true.  Thanks, Taken for Granted for the quote.  The few changes that have taken place over the years have been small and not changed the essence of the place.

The area my grandfather nicknamed Cottonbush Avenue has been named Crosby Park by the Council after my grandmother's family.  Believe me, it is as much a park as it is an avenue, perhaps Grandad was not the only one with a sense of humour. 

My sister Clare and my late sister, Esme's husband, Bill wander along the bank of the creek at Crosby Park.

There never were swimming holes in this part of the creek but it was terrific for all ages to play in the water, where the youngest to the oldest could cool off on hot summer days.  Bill still comes camping here with his son and grandsons.

My great grandmother's home has had a facelift since I was last home and there is a tree where there didn't use to be one, and a new fence, too but to me it is the same.  

The roof and verandah of my paternal grandmother's house, where I spent the first five years of my life, was shrouded in some sort of wrapping.  Looks like it, too, is getting a facelift.

What never changes is the topography.  Once I see Mt Castle sitting at the top of the valley, I know I'm nearly home.

 

 

 

The gremlins

I read on a couple of other blogs that the requirement for word verification to leave a comment has been appearing on their blogs.  Turns out the gremlin has visited me, too.  Nice to know I haven't been left out I suppose.  I checked and word verification is definitely turned off but I tried what Tabor suggested and the comment goes through if you just ignore the verification thingy.  

I slipped my little Canon Powershot camera into my pocket yesterday, just in case I saw something I wanted to photograph but not really expecting to.  To my surprise I discovered there were a few shots on it so just had a look.  Not having a good memory is not all bad news.  It means that sometimes you get a nice surprise.  Now I've seen the photos I remember that when I was in Australia in August it started to rain as I stood at the entry to my grandparents old home when I went "up the creek" from Laidley, up the valley where both my parents grew up, where my grandparents lived for so many years, the place I think of as my spiritual home.   

 I spotted Uncle George's old shed through the trees.  Old sheds always appeal to me and I often wonder how old they are, what purpose they served.  I know the purpose of this one years ago, it was a comparatively cool haven on fiercely hot days when we were sorting freshly dug potatoes; I know that much.  That was back in the days when children were expected to pitch in and work alongside their relatives.  Potatoes, pumpkins or onions were stored there until the truck arrived to transport them to the markets.  I don't know how old it is but it's been there all my life anyway.

I moved around to get a broader view to include Uncle George's old house.  That rain I just mentioned was gone in minutes, of no use whatsoever to that parched earth.

As well as the nice surprises that are sometimes revealed there are other total surprises and mysteries.   I have absolutely no recollection of this and no idea what it can be.  Pretty though.

 

 

Two weeks to Christmas, one week till I head off to Taranaki.  I'm all prepared but keep thinking there's something I've forgotten, I can't possibly be so well organised.  90% of my gifts I've made myself - being retired is fantastic! 

up the creek

To finish this road trip I drove up through Laidley along the road that follows the creek to its source in the mountains behind Townson.  I posted photos of the homes of both sets of grandparents and my great-grandparents in this little valley a few weeks ago as soon as I returned home.  I have just a few more I'd like to share.

More of those irrigation pipes but this time against the familiar backdrop of the hillsides of the valley that leads to where my childhood memories lay. 

 

More modern irrigation methods:

The dry grassy paddocks contrasting with the fields that have been irrigated.

I love this place in all seasons, even when it is desperately dry.  The fertile flats, the backdrop of the mountains, the Little Liverpool Range (east) and the Mistake Mountains (west). And Mt Castle standing there like a fortress, a sure sign that I am nearing my destination. 

Mount Mistake is a 1,698 ft / 518 m mountain peak near Gatton, Queensland - See more at: http://peakery.com/mount-mistake-australia-2/#sthash.mv2m3mmB.dpuf

Mount Mistake is a 1,698 ft / 518 m mountain peak near Gatton, Queensland - See more at: http://peakery.com/mount-mistake-australia-2/#sthash.mv2m3mmB.dpuf

Mount Mistake is a 1,698 ft / 518 m mountain peak near Gatton, Queensland - See more at: http://peakery.com/mount-mistake-australia-2/#sthash.mv2m3mmB.dpuf

Mount Mistake is a 1,698 ft / 518 m mountain peak near Gatton, Queensland, A - See more at: http://peakery.com/mount-mistake-australia-2/#sthash.mv2m3mmB.dpuf

Mount Mistake is a 1,698 ft / 518 m mountain peak near Gatton, Queensland, A - See more at: http://peakery.com/mount-mistake-australia-2/#sthash.mv2m3mmB.dpuf

Home from home

Never has home felt so good.  I always feel a bit conflicted when I return from a trip to my Australian home, sad at having said another goodbye to my mother, my brothers and sisters.  And glad, at the same time, to be back with my own family.  

Usually on my holidays home I go to the same places and don't venture too far from Brisbane.  This time, because I had a whole month, I had a great road trip to Central Queensland and a flight to the Central Coast of New South Wales.  More of those to come.  Today the images of the homes of my memory are foremost in my mind.  

I took a drive "up the creek" (the road that follows the Laidley Creek from Townson to Laidley) to where both my parents grew up and where I spent the first five years of my life, before my parents moved to Nudgee, what was then an outer suburb of Brisbane.  School holidays were spent back up the creek with my maternal grandparents. 

All my brothers and sisters could look at this photo and know exactly where I stopped.  As a child once we reached this spot the excitement of being "nearly there" would be starting to build.  I was on my return from further north but hadn't got used to the dry, dry countryside.  It was what I call break your heart dry.  I could imagine the farmers eyes turning to the sky and their prayers that those dark clouds would bring some rain.

We always looked for sightings of Mt Mistake, a sure sign we were getting closer.

 And here is the old Ward homestead, my paternal grandmother's house, my first home.  It is a typical Queenslander, high set, built from timber, deep verandas, corrugated iron roof, so perfectly suited to the sub-tropical climate of Queensland.  I was pleased to see it is a better state of repair than it was when I last photographed it a few years ago.

I stopped to take other photos and by the time I reached the road into my maternal grandparents' home it had begun to rain lightly.  Rain was predicted for the following weekend and I certainly hope it fell in abundance on these farms.

That is the house, there in the distance, set well back from the road.

Thanks to the zoom on my camera I could get a closer peek.  Whereas the Ward homestead looks very much as it always has, the pitch of the farmhouse roof is different here, the windows and doors are much fancier.  But the place still evokes so many emotions.  Some of the happiest, most carefree times of my life were spent in those mountains behind the house and in the creek that ran alongside.

On the other side of that creek sits my great grandmother's home.  The beautiful wrought iron work on the veranda railings has gone, the chimney is new and the kitchen out the back (which was basically a separate structure connected by a covered walkway) has gone but it doesn't look very different from when I was a child.

No holiday on the farm was complete without at least one Sunday afternoon visit to my great grandmother.  After lunch we would all be instructed to take a bath.  This involved Gran heating water on the wood stove and carrying it to the bathroom to take the chill off the cold water. We would all be decked out in our Sunday best.  Gran would don hat and gloves, and we'd set out carrying our shoes and socks which we would put on after crossing the creek.  Gran would put on her stockings and good shoes and we'd set off across her brother's paddock.  Can you imagine the state of our shoes and white socks (and Gran's stockings) by the time we reached the other side after traipsing through that rich soil?  Even if there was a crop growing, we'd still have dirty shoes.   A protocal developed for these visits including who would be the first to be greeted, how long we were expected to chat and catch up with ggran.  

Sorry, I've gone off on a tangent.

Beside the old house I swear that is the same old shed that was always there!  The stockyards were in that same place, too.

My sentimental journey was completed by this sight below.  I heard my grandfather's voice saying, "The Crosby cattle are out in the creek again."  So comforting that some things never change.

To complete my visits to the homes of my memory I took a drive back to Nudgee, to the street where I grew up.

To my old Forrest Street home.  Yes, my parents raised twelve children in that home.

Floods

Every time there are devastating floods in Australia I think of the floods of my childhood.  This year it is Rockhampton and surrounding area’s turn; that’s an area the size of France and Germany combined!

I wrote the following in 2008 when floods hit Mackay, not far from where I lived at one time.  I think I posted it somewhere along the line but I often forget to add labels and can’t find it. 

Floods and bushfires are part of Australian bush life.  Bushfires were never a big issue in the area where my grandparents lived.  They happened but not to the extent that we have seen over the years in Victoria.  Sometimes during a storm (I must write about the storms one day, they had terrific storms!) there would be a lightning strike in the mountains and any fire that resulted would be watched carefully but nothing drastic ever happened as a result.  To us kids it was an interesting diversion to daily life.  If we knew about the use of the modern “cool” we would have said it was cool to watch the fires come up one side of the valley, run around the back of the house to watch it continue on its course and guess whether it would go back down the other side of the valley.  Grandad would sometimes mount his horse and ride off to see how far down the mountain it had come, whether he had lost any fences, but that was not a venture on which we were permitted to join him.

But floods were a different story.  They are a very real part of life in this valley.  The creek played a vital part in the welfare of the valley with its beautiful fertile cropping soil and highly producing creek flats.  I remember terrible floods when I was a girl and Grandad saying they were the worst Laidley had seen in his lifetime.  I think it was 1959.  I’ve found a reference to this flood in the Thornton-Townson Centenary Reunion (1881, 1981) booklet.  “At Mt Mistake (at the head of the creek) rain fell at 3 inches per hour for six hours and recorded 23 inches in 8 hours."

Grandad had a wonderful way of teaching us to respect the power of nature.  During those bad floods he took the four oldest of us down to the creek for an up close look (two on each side of him, Esme and Peter holding his hands and me and Dennis on the outside of them holding their hands).  The rest of the kids had to be satisfied looking at the little gully behind the house which had turned into something quite impressive.  We had grown used to the background roar from the creek during the previous two days but couldn't even hear Grandad when we got close to it.  The lovely clean, clear water of our creek had turned a murky, dirty brown and was rushing along at a frightening speed, carrying branches and trees and two cows, one dead, one still alive, and a snake.  

Grandad let go of our hands, one at a time, a little way into the creek so we could feel the force of the water.   Being the oldest I felt I had to go one step further than the others, still only knee deep, and it was terrifying although there was no way I would let on.

It was all so long ago but when I sit and think about it, it all comes flooding (no pun intended) back.  I think one of the advantages of growing older and not having my mind on so many other things, is I can allow myself the luxury of staring at a wall and allowing my mind to go back to visit my youth.  

This is where vehicles cross the creek to my grandparents former home, after recent rain.

There was a car on the other side so I guess the current occupants had parked then walked across the creek to a vehicle waiting on this side. 

Those floods happened during our seven-week Christmas holidays.  When it first started raining we rejoiced that there would be water in the creek for swimming.  The first thing we always did when we got to Grandma and Grandad's was check the creek for water holes.  That big flood changed the path of the creek forever; the swimming water holes were never as good afterwards.  Or maybe I was growing up and not taking as much pleasure from the activities of my earlier childhood.  The flood washed away the vehicle track we used to get from the road to the house; the creek was left much wider and therefore the water holes more shallow.  

The best water hole that summer was a fair way from the house, around the roots of a tree that had been washed away, leaving just the dead roots in the middle of the creek and the deep hole that had been gouged around it.   It wasn't a very big hole, the tree roots took up most of the space, there were no shallow edges and the water was very deep in close to the roots.  So, although it was great for the older kids, it was rather dangerous for the younger ones who couldn't swim.  The hole itself was in a lovely sunny spot with shady trees close by.  

The next best hole was in the opposite direction and much closer to the house, in a wide section of the creek.  There was lots of shallow water along one bank and it got very gradually deeper until you were nearly to the other side.  But the other side was hard up against a steep hill, which we could not climb up.  That side was always in the shadow of the hill in the afternoon and the trees were thick on the shallow side, so that it always appeared gloomy.

After that big flood I had to learn about negotiation and trade offs.  Yes, we could go for a swim as long as we took the little ones along.  If I had not been behaving responsibly either that or the previous day (like the day Michael nearly drowned in the dangerous hole) I would not be entrusted with the kids at the “dangerous hole” and we would have to go to the "Dark Hole" as we used to call it.  Then, of course, Peter would vent his displeasure at me.  And when Peter was pissed off he could be a real handful.   He had a terrible temper and would go off like a firecracker.  Denis was always easy going, Esme and Tricia were not born water babies like Peter and didn't particularly care where we went.  Danny and Bernie were also water babes but were young enough to not care which water they went in as long as it was water.  

I think I started to learn techniques on “How to Handle Difficult People” after that flood.  The fact that I didn’t purposely drown Peter speaks for itself.  He turned into the Brother from Hell every time we had to go to the “Dark Hole”.  He had always been adventurous and competitive, always determined to keep up with, if not beat, we three older kids, and he hated the Dark Hole because it was so tame and safe and “babyish”.  When he got shitty he would make life miserable for Esme (one older) and Tricia (one younger).  He’d have them both in tears given half a chance and that would mean that I’d be in trouble when we got home and Esme went crying to Gran.  Thank heavens Dennis was such an easy going bugger, although at the time I wished he wasn’t such a dreamer and would share some of the responsibility I had as the oldest.  I was sure if someone said to him “You’re the oldest boy, it’s your responsibility” he would stop being a dreamer and be responsible, but I guess I was the dreamer thinking that. 

(With apologies to Dennis who apparently takes exception to my references to him as a dreamer.  But these are my memories, Den.  And there have been many times when I’ve wished I had your lovely nature!)

Snake dogs and Orphan Boy

A favourite activity when holidaying at Townson with our grandparents 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 (the seventh child), 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 for milking.  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.  We had to make sure we didn’t go near fences or gates at a gallop or he would be up and over it before we could slow him down, leaving us on the ground on the other side.   I also learned the hard way not to go too fast near corner posts because he got a special thrill out of cutting corners.   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 Esme nearly stepped on a snake.   We never hesitated to run after that. 

We knew the farm was in “snake country”.   Hearing conversations littered with Death Adders,  Taipans and Big Browns instilled respect for these potential killers.   And then there was the adults’ reactions to any sighting of a snake.   An early memory, I think it was before I started school, is sitting at the table eating lunch and hearing men shouting from across the other side of the creek where my Grandmother’s brother farmed.  Grandad leapt to his feet, went outside to put on his boots and headed to the shed to get his gun.  Gran explained Uncle Dave must have seen a snake.  I asked could I go with Grandad and she said alright but stay out of the way.  So off I raced, trying to keep up with Grandad who was running.  He used to always say Gran could “run like the wind”  when she was a girl but that day he was doing a pretty good job himself.  

When we reached the recently ploughed paddock along the banks of the creek, Grandad hoisted me up to sit on a fence post with the instruction, “Now don’t move!”

What excitement!  Men shouting, pointing, Grandad firing off shots, Uncle Dave and Uncle Archie wielding pitch forks.  I spotted it once and managed to stand up on the post to keep it in sight and pointed the men in its direction.  I was so excited, I don’t know how I kept my balance.  The whole episode probably only lasted a few minutes but to me it was a monumental occasion – I had been on a snake hunt!  And Grandad sure knew how to make a big deal of little kids.  I was lifted down off the post and joined in the post event discussion with the men.  They all made such a fuss of me.  Then Grandad put me on his shoulders and carried me in triumph back to the house saying things like, “We got him, Paulie.  You’re a good snake spotter.  Wouldn’t have got him without you”.   I was on top of the world – I always was when I was on Grandad shoulders.  

Snakes are now protected in Australia and I agree that all native animals should be.  But our childhood wouldn’t have been near as much fun if they had been when we were kids.  Gran and Grandad were fierce in their efforts to keep snakes away from the house and us kids.  When one was spotted they would spring into action.   Gran did all the dangerous stuff, poking around with a stick or whatever implement was handy, shaking bushes, doing anything she could to lure the prey from its cover.  She had such quick reactions and sure needed them because often she had to leap out of the way of either the snake or Grandad’s bullets.  I remember once when Grandad shot a snake that was just inches from her feet.  How we laughed that Grandad had nearly shot Gran’s toes!  Grandad was our hero and a crack shot – we knew her toes had been safe!

One of my scariest experiences was as a teenager and illustrates to me the trust we had in our grandparents.  I was laying on a bed reading one hot afternoon and had drifted off to sleep.  I awoke to Gran’s whisper, “Paulie, don’t move!”  I opened my eyes and looked towards the door where Gran was standing, to see her pointing to my feet then making a stay still motion with her hands.  When I moved my eyes downward I saw a snake weaving it’s way in and out of the wrought iron work on the foot of the bed.  It disappeared from sight and I kept my eyes on Gran.  She stepped back to check that it wasn’t coming under the bed in her direction, then I saw her signal with her eyes towards the window and there it was going up the wall and out the window.  The minute it disappeared from our view, the shout went out and all hell broke loose.   Someone spotted it heading towards the gully at the back of the house.  That one got away. 

I was 14 before power was installed “up the creek”.   Early to bed, early to rise was the order of the day.  Gran’s kerosene lanterns were a novelty for us.  We loved to sit around in their soft light and listen to Grandad’s stories in the evenings.  He would entertain us with finger shadows on the wall.   The kitchen was always warmed in winter by Gran’s big old wood stove.  One of the boys’ jobs was to keep the stove supplied with wood and, as they got older, to chop enough to keep her supplied for a while after we had gone.  Gran seemed to be constantly baking, her cake tins were always full.  How she managed it in summer when it was hot enough outside and twice as hot in the kitchen I will never know.  

I don’t know when the telephone line was installed.  I know the service had only gone as far as my father’s family home when he was a young man as any telegrams that came for people further up the road during the war (WWII) would be left with his mother.  It was Dad’s duty to saddle up the horse regardless of time of day or night, and weather and deliver the telegrams.  What an awful duty for a man who had enlisted and been on his way north for jungle training and then to fight in New Guinea when he was told he had been demobbed and was to return to the farm as it was important to keep the troops fed and no farm could be left without anyone to farm it.  I wonder how many unwelcome telegrams he delivered, how his neighbours would have shuddered to see or hear him approaching and followed his progress if he went past, wondering which family was about to be shattered.   

When we were children Mrs Day ran the local telephone exchange and post office.  If Gran needed to make a call (Grandad would have nothing to do with “that damned contraption”) she would look at the clock and decide if it was a good time for Mrs Day to put through the call – would she be outside doing such or such or was she going to town today or was it dinner time.  She offered a wonderful community service.  If we rang from Brisbane and Mrs Day got no reply when she put through the call, we would leave a message with her and she would relay it on for us.  She passed on warnings about floods and bush fires and, in earlier days, would saddle the horse and take urgent messages to those without phones – and it was often her turn to do the horrible duty that had once been my father’s.

Floods

Thirsting for rain - the dry creek bed in the foreground

Floods and bushfires are part of Australian bush life. Bushfires were never a big issue in the area where my grandparents lived. They happened but not to the extent that we have seen over the years in Victoria. Sometimes during a storm (I must write about the storms one day, they had terrific storms!) there would be a lightning strike in the mountains and any fire that resulted would be watched carefully but nothing drastic ever happened as a result. To us kids it was an interesting diversion to daily life. If we knew about the use of the modern “cool” we would have said it was cool to watch the fires come up one side of the valley, run around the back of the house to watch it continue on its course and guess whether it would go back down the other side of the valley. Grandad would sometimes mount his horse and ride off to see how far down the mountain it had come, whether he had lost any fences, but that was not a venture in which we were permitted to join him.

But floods were a different story. They were a very real part of life in this valley. The creek played a vital part in the welfare of the valley with its beautiful fertile cropping soil and highly producing creek flats. I remember terrible floods when I was a girl and Grandad saying they were the worst he had seen in his lifetime. Both he and Grandma had grown up along the banks of the creek.

Grandad had a wonderful way of teaching us to respect the power of nature. During those bad floods he took the four oldest of us down to the creek for an up close look (two on each side of him, Esme and Peter holding his hands and me and Dennis on the outside of them holding their hands). The rest of the kids had to be satisfied looking at the little gully behind the house which had turned into something quite impressive. We had grown used to the background roar from the creek during the previous two days but couldn't even hear Grandad when we got close to it. The lovely clean, clear water of our creek had turned a murky, dirty brown and was rushing along at a frightening speed, carrying branches and trees and two cows, one dead, one still alive, and a snake.

Grandad let go of our hands, one at a time, a little way into the creek so we could feel the force of the water. Being the oldest I felt I had to go one step further than the others, still only knee deep, and it was terrifying although there was no way I would let on.

It was all so long ago but when I sit and think about it, it all comes flooding (no pun intended) back. I think one of the advantages of growing older and not having my mind on so many other things, is I can allow myself the luxury of staring at a wall and allowing my mind to go back to visit my youth.

Those floods happened during our seven-week Christmas holidays. When it first started raining we rejoiced that there would be water in the creek for swimming. The first thing we always did when we got to Grandma and Grandad's was check the creek for water holes. That big flood changed the path of the creek forever; the swimming water holes were never as good afterwards. Or maybe I was growing up and not taking as much pleasure from the activities of my earlier childhood.

The flood washed away the vehicle track we used to get from the road to the house; the creek was left much wider and therefore the water holes more shallow.

The best water hole was a fair way from the house, around the roots of a tree that had been washed away, leaving just the dead roots in the middle of the creek and the deep hole that had been gouged around it.

It wasn't a very big hole, the tree roots took up most of the space, there were no shallow edges and the water was very deep in close to the roots. So, although it was great for the older kids, it was rather dangerous for the younger ones who couldn't swim. The hole itself was in a lovely sunny spot with shady trees close by.

The next best hole was in the opposite direction and much closer to the house, in a wide section of the creek. There was lots of shallow water along one bank and it got very gradually deeper until you were nearly to the other side. But the other side was hard up against a steep hill, which we could not climb up. That side was always in the shadow of the hill in the afternoon and the trees were thick on the shallow side, so that it always appeared gloomy.

After that big flood I had to learn about negotiation and trade offs. Yes, we could go for a swim as long as we took the little ones along. If I had not been behaving responsibly either that or the previous day (like the day Michael nearly drowned in the dangerous hole) I would not be entrusted with the kids at the “dangerous hole” and we would have to go to the "Dark Hole" as we used to call it. Then, of course, Peter would vent his displeasure at me. And when Peter was pissed off he could be a real handful. He had a terrible temper and would go off like a firecracker. Denis was always easy going, Esme and Tricia were not born water babies like Peter and didn't particularly care where we went. Danny and Bernie were also water babes but were young enough to not care which water they went in as long as it was water.

I think I started to learn techniques on “How to Handle Difficult People” after that flood. The fact that I didn’t purposely drown Peter speaks for itself. He turned into the Brother from Hell every time we had to go to the “Dark Hole”. He had always been adventurous and competitive, always determined to keep up with, if not beat, we three older kids, and he hated the Dark Hole because it was so tame and safe and “babyish”. When he got shitty he would make life miserable for Esme (one older) and Tricia (one younger). He’d have them both in tears given half a chance and that would mean that I’d be in trouble when we got home and Esme went crying to Gran. Thank heavens Dennis was such an easy going bugger, although at the time I wished he wasn’t such a dreamer and would share some of the responsibility I had as the oldest. I was sure if someone said to him “You’re the oldest boy, it’s your responsibility” he would stop being a dreamer and be responsible, but I guess I was the dreamer thinking that.

So it seemed to me that big flood altered our lives.

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.