We lived in No1 and Mrs Bosique lived in No 2 . Clitheroe, as I mentioned in a previous post, had been a large family home which had been split into 8 flats. Our place was separated from Mrs Bosique's simply by boarding up two doors.
One of the doors was in a little alcove in the hallway which ran from my bedroom, past the bathroom to the eat in kitchen. When converting the original wreck of a flat into our home, my father and his builder friends had made the alcove with its hidden door into a deep cupboard and shelves covered by a curtain. The other door was in what became my bedroom. This door was also closed off with a large cupboard and shelves.
Mrs Bosique was a bottle blond who had a cigarette constantly stuck to her bottom lip, nicotine yellow fingers and a great fondness for beer. The neighbours assured us that there had been a Mr Bosique, but we never saw him and I have a vague feeling that he had died or run off before we moved there.
When my father and his two friends Herbert and Emil first moved in and started to fix the place up she had come out and asked where in the world he was from because she had noticed the accents. When my father told her Germany, she had screamed, rushed into her flat and locked the door. Finally she found out that my father's friends were Swiss and that his wife and child were expected to live there in a few months when the alterations were complete. This made my father somewhat less scary and so one day she tentatively asked what nationality his wife was. 'German' was the answer and she screamed anew and again rushed into her flat and locked the door.
Mrs Bosique believed some war propaganda she had heard, that all Germans were dreadful people and that they had a predilection for eating the livers of enemies! She was fond of her liver and was terrified that she was going to be murdered in the night. She probably had barricades up against our shared doorways.
When my mother and I arrived at Clitheroe and none of the other neighbours had been murdered for their livers, her attitude to us changed and she became very friendly. Nobody in the flats ever used her first name, so I have no idea what it was.
My mother and Mrs Bosique couldn't understand each other for a very long time. Of course my mother had a German accent and she had learnt very pukka English in India. Mrs Bosique spoke the broadest strine imaginable. Instead of saying 'I beg your pardon?' she said 'ay?' which rhymed with 'neigh'. One day my mother was trying to tell her that the baker had arrived. Both women must have been frustrated at their lack of communication when one of the other neighbours turned up to translate - "the bake is 'ere". All explained, she went off to collect her loaf.
Next to the flats was a tennis court which was part of the original property. In later years the land was sold and a house built there. One night there was a shrieking and squealing from the tennis court and when the neighbours turned up to investigate, there was Mrs Bosique, quite inebriated, in the nude, being chased around the net by one of her more regular boyfriends. Amused, everyone hastily retreated to their own flats.
Apparently there were fairly regular 'shenanigans' in No 2 and although I was only separated by a door, albeit buffered by a cupboard, I was a good sleeper and was never disturbed.
I thought Mrs Bosique was lovely and I would drag my little chair outside so I could climb up and have conversations with her through the window as she worked in the kitchen.
One day I was having one of these chats when Uncle Don, from No 7, grabbed me off my chair and shouted to Mrs Bosique and my mother to boil their kettles. It turns out I had placed my chair over a funnel web spider and
it was rearing up ready to strike. In super quick time the spider was dispatched. After that I was always terrified of spiders.
As part of her flat Mrs Bosique had a funny little room off the end of her verandah. It had proper brick walls so wasn't a traditional 'sleep-out'. Clitheroe was definitely a hodge podge of added on spaces. When the daughter of a friend of our's, Annedore, came to Australia to work in my father's business, she sublet the room from Mrs Bosique and lived there for ages until she married.
As there wasn't any plumbing in her room, Annedore shared Mrs Bosique's kitchen and bathroom. Mrs Bosique couldn't cope with the name Annedore so insisted on calling her Anne.
Mrs Bosique was sad when Annedore moved away. She had never had any children and very much enjoyed her company in the evenings when they would sit together over a beer or two, smoke cigarettes and discuss their day.
When we moved away from Clitheroe we lost touch with Mrs Bosique and were saddened when we heard that she had died. As far as we knew she didn't have any family or any real friends, so I guess the people in the flats were those she was closest to. She was a real character.
Wednesday 31 October 2012
Monday 29 October 2012
Swimsuits - part 2
I've been looking at what today's swimsuits are made of - elastene, lycra, spandex, nylon, polyester, microfibre, polyamide and cotton. I'm sure that there are multitudes of other fibres that I don't even know the names of. When I was little, in the 50s, the choice of swimsuit fabric was cotton or wool.
My parents used to take me to Balmoral beach. We had some friends with a car who drove us there and we would make a day of it in the shade of huge beautiful Moreton Bay fig trees.
Other families would also set up their picnics and enjoy the lovely surrounds. My family and friends had the most conservative massive cotton swimsuits but the Italian families weren't so shy. Whilst the mothers mostly hid under tent like structures their children ran about naked ( I was shocked) and the fathers who played soccer before plunging into the briny wore the equivalent of modern 'budgie smugglers'. Tiny little strips of, probably woollen fabric, that didn't always succeed in smuggling those budgies! My eyes were out on stalks!
Eventually, having had a good eyefull, we'd all go about having a wonderful day.
I had an assortment of swimmers over the years but the ones I remember most fondly were made of bright lipstick pink cotton, ruched with elastic at the top and with a big bouffy bit around the top of the legs. The pink faded fast, leaving only hidden nooks of bright pink to remind me of their former glory, the big bouffy bit would fill with air so that if I tried to dive my bum would be trapped at the surface of the water like a life buoy. After my swim the cossie (as we called it) would literally take hours to dry. I loved those swimmers nevertheless.
Our German friends and relatives would often send parcels and it was in one of those parcels I received another pair of swimmers ( I had grown out of the pink ones). This time the swimmers were blue and made of wool! When first put on they fitted quite snugly, however as soon as they got near water they would stretch impressively and become extremely heavy. They also had the ability to attract sand which added to the weight. I hated them but seeing we were so poor I had to wear them until I outgrew them. My mother even suggested I put them on wet so that they would fit a little longer. I probably wept and wailed at that suggestion.
At some stage I coveted Speedos. To my absolute delight I received a pair for my birthday. My mother didn't believe in buying things completely the right size - she figured I was growing so I needed something to grow into! Speedos were shaped and the pair I received made provision for a bit of boob. As I didn't have any boobs at the time I got the swimmers, I had to put up with two flappy bits of nylon fabric in the chest region. I was dreadfully embarrassed and remember that swimming season being artfully draped in towels.
As time went on and new fabrics such as nylon started being used in swimwear the drying time was considerably improved which made wearing them so much more comfortable. I had a variety of swimmers that I liked in the years that followed. One pair was navy blue at the bottom with blue and white stripes at the top. They also had a little belt. I thought them very stylish. Unfortunately they were of some type of knitted nylon that caught on absolutely everything so that the once smooth fabric ended up having threads poking out all over, especially around the seat.
As I became older, bolder AND had a bit of my own money I bought myself some bikinis. Those were the days of perky boobs and tight tummy and bottom, so I looked pretty good, if I do say so myself.
Since then everything on my poor old body has slipped downhill and swimmers have become functional and a chore to buy. I can, however, reminisce about the good times and I'll never forget my bright pink cotton favourites.
My parents used to take me to Balmoral beach. We had some friends with a car who drove us there and we would make a day of it in the shade of huge beautiful Moreton Bay fig trees.
Other families would also set up their picnics and enjoy the lovely surrounds. My family and friends had the most conservative massive cotton swimsuits but the Italian families weren't so shy. Whilst the mothers mostly hid under tent like structures their children ran about naked ( I was shocked) and the fathers who played soccer before plunging into the briny wore the equivalent of modern 'budgie smugglers'. Tiny little strips of, probably woollen fabric, that didn't always succeed in smuggling those budgies! My eyes were out on stalks!
Eventually, having had a good eyefull, we'd all go about having a wonderful day.
I had an assortment of swimmers over the years but the ones I remember most fondly were made of bright lipstick pink cotton, ruched with elastic at the top and with a big bouffy bit around the top of the legs. The pink faded fast, leaving only hidden nooks of bright pink to remind me of their former glory, the big bouffy bit would fill with air so that if I tried to dive my bum would be trapped at the surface of the water like a life buoy. After my swim the cossie (as we called it) would literally take hours to dry. I loved those swimmers nevertheless.
Our German friends and relatives would often send parcels and it was in one of those parcels I received another pair of swimmers ( I had grown out of the pink ones). This time the swimmers were blue and made of wool! When first put on they fitted quite snugly, however as soon as they got near water they would stretch impressively and become extremely heavy. They also had the ability to attract sand which added to the weight. I hated them but seeing we were so poor I had to wear them until I outgrew them. My mother even suggested I put them on wet so that they would fit a little longer. I probably wept and wailed at that suggestion.
At some stage I coveted Speedos. To my absolute delight I received a pair for my birthday. My mother didn't believe in buying things completely the right size - she figured I was growing so I needed something to grow into! Speedos were shaped and the pair I received made provision for a bit of boob. As I didn't have any boobs at the time I got the swimmers, I had to put up with two flappy bits of nylon fabric in the chest region. I was dreadfully embarrassed and remember that swimming season being artfully draped in towels.
As time went on and new fabrics such as nylon started being used in swimwear the drying time was considerably improved which made wearing them so much more comfortable. I had a variety of swimmers that I liked in the years that followed. One pair was navy blue at the bottom with blue and white stripes at the top. They also had a little belt. I thought them very stylish. Unfortunately they were of some type of knitted nylon that caught on absolutely everything so that the once smooth fabric ended up having threads poking out all over, especially around the seat.
As I became older, bolder AND had a bit of my own money I bought myself some bikinis. Those were the days of perky boobs and tight tummy and bottom, so I looked pretty good, if I do say so myself.
Since then everything on my poor old body has slipped downhill and swimmers have become functional and a chore to buy. I can, however, reminisce about the good times and I'll never forget my bright pink cotton favourites.
Sunday 28 October 2012
Swimsuits - part 1
As the weather warms up women's magazines helpfully include articles entitled 'swimwear for every shape'. This month's gorgeous Australian size 16 model in the Women's Weekly says: "Size and cut is key. A suit that is too small creates lumps and bumps; one that's too big makes things look droopy. Look for a suit that doesn't cut in anywhere and supports your curves."
Good advice indeed. However, an ill fitting swimsuit doesn't especially create lumps and bumps or make me look droopy. I do it all by myself! I bought myself some 'shapewear' at one stage. A garment a bit like swimmers with legs. The idea is that your lumps and bumps somehow get smoothed out so your 'silhouette' is improved.
After I had wriggled and writhed myself into the garment I looked somehow like a well fed silkworm. Rather than a multitude of smallish lumps and bumps they had been amalgamated into several large undulating rolls. Also, the the excess, which didn't fit into the 'shapewear' was forced up and out. Ghastly! Not for me. Does anyone want a size large sausage-like tube with legs? It lives in my underwear drawer and will eventually works its way to a charity bin.
Getting back to swimmers......I have two pairs. Nice sensible numbers that haven't been near water in ages. My friends and I have swimwear discussions nearly every year at about this time. Oh the agony of the changeroom and overhead lights! We choose swimmers, try them on and then abandon them in despair deciding that the sensible old pair at home will do for this year at least until we have extensive liposuction and lose about 20kg.
Good advice indeed. However, an ill fitting swimsuit doesn't especially create lumps and bumps or make me look droopy. I do it all by myself! I bought myself some 'shapewear' at one stage. A garment a bit like swimmers with legs. The idea is that your lumps and bumps somehow get smoothed out so your 'silhouette' is improved.
After I had wriggled and writhed myself into the garment I looked somehow like a well fed silkworm. Rather than a multitude of smallish lumps and bumps they had been amalgamated into several large undulating rolls. Also, the the excess, which didn't fit into the 'shapewear' was forced up and out. Ghastly! Not for me. Does anyone want a size large sausage-like tube with legs? It lives in my underwear drawer and will eventually works its way to a charity bin.
Getting back to swimmers......I have two pairs. Nice sensible numbers that haven't been near water in ages. My friends and I have swimwear discussions nearly every year at about this time. Oh the agony of the changeroom and overhead lights! We choose swimmers, try them on and then abandon them in despair deciding that the sensible old pair at home will do for this year at least until we have extensive liposuction and lose about 20kg.
Friday 26 October 2012
My mother - Mutti
My mother (Mutti), Elfriede Gertrud, the third child of Elsa and Max Lucas, was born in the small town of Reichenbach in Germany on 27th October in 1916. Elsa was a housewife and her husband, Max had the important job of being the station master at a large train station.
Max had suffered with lung disease and died when Mutti was only 2 years old. He must have had TB as shortly after his death Mutti became very sick and it was discovered that she also had TB but that it was in her bones. My grandmother was kindly told by the doctors to take her very sick child home and allow her to die in peace. She refused to give up and took her little girl to a naturopath who prescribed various poultices, herbal concoctions as well as patience. My mother recovered. The only lasting effect was that the bones in her ankles and the middle finger of her left hand were enlarged.
My grandmother had a hard time bringing up three children but she took in a boarder to supplement her small widow's pension. She had a large garden where she grew vegetables and a vast variety of fruit trees and berries which were eaten fresh and the remainder bottled to be eaten during the cold months. Luckily she also had family on the land who could occasionally supply other staples such as meat.
Mutti said she had a happy childhood although things were always tight. She loved her mother very much and was the darling of her older brother and sister. She grew up and became very attractive - tall, slim and blonde.
After high school Mutti went to the equivalent of secretarial college and then got a job as a court stenographer. After her marriage to my father she had to leave work, as was the custom in those days, and moved to Werdau where my father was the foreman of the largest printing firm in Europe.
My parents married in May of 1939 and war was declared in the September of that year. Those first few happy months were 'bliss' according to my parents. Mutti got into the swing of being a 'Hausfrau' (housewife) in the lovely apartment supplied by the firm where my father worked. The years that followed however were very difficult.
My father considered Hitler an evil person and refused to join the Nazi party, which was a dangerous thing to do in those days. My mother told me that there would be knocking on doors in the middle of the night and people would disappear. She was always terrified that my father would be taken away. My father also refused to join the army. Luckily his job, printing maps for the airforce was considered essential war work, so he was spared. He joined a voluntary branch of the fire brigade so felt that he was at least helping people during those dark days.
During this time Mutti was struggling to get enough food on the table. There was the supply of some meagre rations which you had to queue up for for hours and there were those relatives on the land who were able to provide potatoes, so my parents survived.
After the war, my enterprising father set up a baking powder factory, assisted ably by my mother. Eventually, however, things got to be too difficult as they were in the communist controlled sector of Germany which became known as East Germany and that's when my father thought it would be good to set out on an adventure to India where he had been offered a position in a printing firm. My mother fully supported him and went along with his plans.
In fact Mutti always supported my father whatever his endeavours. The times in India, where I was born, were hard, then starting life in Australia away from all that was familiar in Germany was a challenge. My father eventually set up a business in Australia and my mother was there supporting him all the way. She did the books for the business and she cannily managed the family finances. We were about as poor as you could be. Every penny had to count. Nothing was ever wasted but as a child I didn't feel I missed out on anything.
My earliest memories of Mutti are of me sleepily cuddling on her lap as I woke properly from my afternoon naps. I remember sitting on the bench in the kitchen whilst she braided my hair singing German folk songs. Unbeknownst to us our neighbours also loved listening to her singing to me in the morning.
She taught me lots about housework, how to cook, how to judge when fruit and vegetables were ripe, how to set a table nicely, how to make a house into a welcoming home. Both she and my father had a real social conscience and they both taught me the joy of being able to give to others.
When I was little and adults asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always said I wanted to be a mother and a housewife, just like my Mutti. I couldn't think of anything more wonderful.
How times change! As I started to grow up and my friends became more and more important in my life, my attitudes altered. I started to resent the restrictions placed on my life. I hadn't been aware of how strictly I had been brought up. In later years the neighbours told me that they had felt sorry about how often I had been in trouble for minor misdemeanours. I always had to be respectful. I was not allowed to 'sully' the family name.
I was often in strife when I got home from school because I didn't feel like talking. My mother was always judgemental about my friends and their parents and I resented that. I got in trouble for swallowing or sneezing too loudly, or for laughing aloud when I read a funny book. These were not the best of times.
Of course things improved as I got older. I guess all mothers and daughters have periods of not getting
on.
I got married and moved away from Sydney to Canberra. I hadn't really been away from my parents for any length of time, so much to my new husband's frustration we had to return to visit my parents much more regularly than he was happy with. I rang my mother every week from phone boxes armed with masses of coins. I missed her dreadfully for quite some time until I got into the swing of Canberra.
Mutti was devoted to my father. He had had a very hard life with a cruel step mother. My mother poured all her love into him and he cherished her for it. Not long after I was married my father had his first stroke. From being the most definite head of the family, my mother took over and became his carer.
He lived for another 30 years, having a series of little strokes which progressively diminished him. Mutti made his life as pleasant as she could. Towards the end of her life she was constantly exhausted. She could never just go out for a day. She had to keep an eye on him and make sure she was there to provide his meals. She always had him looking immaculate, but showering and tidying up after him became a huge chore.
My parents had moved from the family home to a self care unit in the German retirement village which my father had founded, but my poor old father was becoming more and more difficult to look after, so he was moved into the hostel part of the facility. Still Mutti would check up on him several times a day. She would wash his clothes and take him special treats.
We hoped that having my father in the hostel would give her a bit of freedom but she couldn't relax. Very sadly, two days after her 87th birthday and just before she was going to come for a
holiday to Canberra I got a phone call to say that she too had had a stroke. My father had refused to get out of bed that day. He must have sensed that something was wrong. He said he wanted to see his wife and so she was found. My father was devastated when I broke the news to him.
A period in Manly hospital followed until she was able to move back to the retirement village - not into her lovely self care unit, but also into a hostel room. My father waited for her to 'come home' and died the following day.
Things didn't improve for poor Mutti. She was recovering reasonably well when she fell and broke her pelvis. Another stint in hospital. The retirement home management then informed us that she wasn't able to come back to the hostel as she had become a high care patient and so she had to move into a nursing home. It was a dreadful smelly old building. It seemed that I was always travelling between Canberra and Sydney trying to make her life as pleasant as I could as well as trying to be a wife and mother to my own family. It was an impossible task.
Mutti was constantly unhappy. She had lost her independence and the love of her life. She had nothing to live for. It was a tragedy.
One night about 8 months after my father had died I received a phone call in the middle of the night. Mutti had had a massive stroke and death was imminent. My husband and I rushed to the hospital in Sydney. I held her hand and told her that I was there for her. The nurse said it was impossible, but I'm sure she squeezed my hand for the very last time before slipping deeper into unconsciousness. The doctors expected her to die that day but she lasted another three. It wasn't surprising - she had gone through countless hardships in her life. She was tough!
After her death I felt bereft. She had always been there even though we had had our differences. She was the only person in the world who was interested in the minutiae of my life. Who could I ask about long gone relatives or bits of forgotten family history? It's all lost now. I wanted to tell her so many things in the period after her death. That it was snowing in Canberra, that mangoes were on special, boring, nothing stuff that only a mother would be interested in. It took ages to get used to the idea that she was no longer around.
My mother's request was that her ashes be mingled with the those of my father when they were to be scattered. I couldn't let my parents go for about 5 years. I brought the boxes with their ashes to the family home at the coast each Christmas and put them under the Christmas tree. They had always loved that time of year so much. Finally, one Christmas Day at sunset I felt the time was right and I opened the boxes allowing the ashes to mingle as I gently let them go over the cliff just outside our house. I visit my parents every time we come to the coast. I'm sure they would approve of their final resting place.
Last night my husband and I went out to dinner with some friends who have just become great grandparents. We drank a toast to the new little boy in their lives and then we drank a toast to the woman who had been one of the biggest influences in my life. May she rest in peace.
Max had suffered with lung disease and died when Mutti was only 2 years old. He must have had TB as shortly after his death Mutti became very sick and it was discovered that she also had TB but that it was in her bones. My grandmother was kindly told by the doctors to take her very sick child home and allow her to die in peace. She refused to give up and took her little girl to a naturopath who prescribed various poultices, herbal concoctions as well as patience. My mother recovered. The only lasting effect was that the bones in her ankles and the middle finger of her left hand were enlarged.
My grandmother had a hard time bringing up three children but she took in a boarder to supplement her small widow's pension. She had a large garden where she grew vegetables and a vast variety of fruit trees and berries which were eaten fresh and the remainder bottled to be eaten during the cold months. Luckily she also had family on the land who could occasionally supply other staples such as meat.
Mutti said she had a happy childhood although things were always tight. She loved her mother very much and was the darling of her older brother and sister. She grew up and became very attractive - tall, slim and blonde.
After high school Mutti went to the equivalent of secretarial college and then got a job as a court stenographer. After her marriage to my father she had to leave work, as was the custom in those days, and moved to Werdau where my father was the foreman of the largest printing firm in Europe.
My parents married in May of 1939 and war was declared in the September of that year. Those first few happy months were 'bliss' according to my parents. Mutti got into the swing of being a 'Hausfrau' (housewife) in the lovely apartment supplied by the firm where my father worked. The years that followed however were very difficult.
My father considered Hitler an evil person and refused to join the Nazi party, which was a dangerous thing to do in those days. My mother told me that there would be knocking on doors in the middle of the night and people would disappear. She was always terrified that my father would be taken away. My father also refused to join the army. Luckily his job, printing maps for the airforce was considered essential war work, so he was spared. He joined a voluntary branch of the fire brigade so felt that he was at least helping people during those dark days.
During this time Mutti was struggling to get enough food on the table. There was the supply of some meagre rations which you had to queue up for for hours and there were those relatives on the land who were able to provide potatoes, so my parents survived.
After the war, my enterprising father set up a baking powder factory, assisted ably by my mother. Eventually, however, things got to be too difficult as they were in the communist controlled sector of Germany which became known as East Germany and that's when my father thought it would be good to set out on an adventure to India where he had been offered a position in a printing firm. My mother fully supported him and went along with his plans.
In fact Mutti always supported my father whatever his endeavours. The times in India, where I was born, were hard, then starting life in Australia away from all that was familiar in Germany was a challenge. My father eventually set up a business in Australia and my mother was there supporting him all the way. She did the books for the business and she cannily managed the family finances. We were about as poor as you could be. Every penny had to count. Nothing was ever wasted but as a child I didn't feel I missed out on anything.
My earliest memories of Mutti are of me sleepily cuddling on her lap as I woke properly from my afternoon naps. I remember sitting on the bench in the kitchen whilst she braided my hair singing German folk songs. Unbeknownst to us our neighbours also loved listening to her singing to me in the morning.
She taught me lots about housework, how to cook, how to judge when fruit and vegetables were ripe, how to set a table nicely, how to make a house into a welcoming home. Both she and my father had a real social conscience and they both taught me the joy of being able to give to others.
When I was little and adults asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always said I wanted to be a mother and a housewife, just like my Mutti. I couldn't think of anything more wonderful.
How times change! As I started to grow up and my friends became more and more important in my life, my attitudes altered. I started to resent the restrictions placed on my life. I hadn't been aware of how strictly I had been brought up. In later years the neighbours told me that they had felt sorry about how often I had been in trouble for minor misdemeanours. I always had to be respectful. I was not allowed to 'sully' the family name.
I was often in strife when I got home from school because I didn't feel like talking. My mother was always judgemental about my friends and their parents and I resented that. I got in trouble for swallowing or sneezing too loudly, or for laughing aloud when I read a funny book. These were not the best of times.
Of course things improved as I got older. I guess all mothers and daughters have periods of not getting
on.
I got married and moved away from Sydney to Canberra. I hadn't really been away from my parents for any length of time, so much to my new husband's frustration we had to return to visit my parents much more regularly than he was happy with. I rang my mother every week from phone boxes armed with masses of coins. I missed her dreadfully for quite some time until I got into the swing of Canberra.
Mutti was devoted to my father. He had had a very hard life with a cruel step mother. My mother poured all her love into him and he cherished her for it. Not long after I was married my father had his first stroke. From being the most definite head of the family, my mother took over and became his carer.
He lived for another 30 years, having a series of little strokes which progressively diminished him. Mutti made his life as pleasant as she could. Towards the end of her life she was constantly exhausted. She could never just go out for a day. She had to keep an eye on him and make sure she was there to provide his meals. She always had him looking immaculate, but showering and tidying up after him became a huge chore.
My parents had moved from the family home to a self care unit in the German retirement village which my father had founded, but my poor old father was becoming more and more difficult to look after, so he was moved into the hostel part of the facility. Still Mutti would check up on him several times a day. She would wash his clothes and take him special treats.
We hoped that having my father in the hostel would give her a bit of freedom but she couldn't relax. Very sadly, two days after her 87th birthday and just before she was going to come for a
holiday to Canberra I got a phone call to say that she too had had a stroke. My father had refused to get out of bed that day. He must have sensed that something was wrong. He said he wanted to see his wife and so she was found. My father was devastated when I broke the news to him.
A period in Manly hospital followed until she was able to move back to the retirement village - not into her lovely self care unit, but also into a hostel room. My father waited for her to 'come home' and died the following day.
Things didn't improve for poor Mutti. She was recovering reasonably well when she fell and broke her pelvis. Another stint in hospital. The retirement home management then informed us that she wasn't able to come back to the hostel as she had become a high care patient and so she had to move into a nursing home. It was a dreadful smelly old building. It seemed that I was always travelling between Canberra and Sydney trying to make her life as pleasant as I could as well as trying to be a wife and mother to my own family. It was an impossible task.
Mutti was constantly unhappy. She had lost her independence and the love of her life. She had nothing to live for. It was a tragedy.
One night about 8 months after my father had died I received a phone call in the middle of the night. Mutti had had a massive stroke and death was imminent. My husband and I rushed to the hospital in Sydney. I held her hand and told her that I was there for her. The nurse said it was impossible, but I'm sure she squeezed my hand for the very last time before slipping deeper into unconsciousness. The doctors expected her to die that day but she lasted another three. It wasn't surprising - she had gone through countless hardships in her life. She was tough!
After her death I felt bereft. She had always been there even though we had had our differences. She was the only person in the world who was interested in the minutiae of my life. Who could I ask about long gone relatives or bits of forgotten family history? It's all lost now. I wanted to tell her so many things in the period after her death. That it was snowing in Canberra, that mangoes were on special, boring, nothing stuff that only a mother would be interested in. It took ages to get used to the idea that she was no longer around.
My mother's request was that her ashes be mingled with the those of my father when they were to be scattered. I couldn't let my parents go for about 5 years. I brought the boxes with their ashes to the family home at the coast each Christmas and put them under the Christmas tree. They had always loved that time of year so much. Finally, one Christmas Day at sunset I felt the time was right and I opened the boxes allowing the ashes to mingle as I gently let them go over the cliff just outside our house. I visit my parents every time we come to the coast. I'm sure they would approve of their final resting place.
Last night my husband and I went out to dinner with some friends who have just become great grandparents. We drank a toast to the new little boy in their lives and then we drank a toast to the woman who had been one of the biggest influences in my life. May she rest in peace.
Wednesday 24 October 2012
Going to the dentist
When we arrived in Australia, Australian dentists were acknowledged world wide as the best in extracting teeth (or so my parents heard). In fact we knew several people who had had all their teeth extracted as either a 21st birthday present or as a wedding gift. Current thinking was that you would then no longer have the bother of toothache and fillings. Dentists were feared and to be avoided at all costs!
Dr Brose ( I'll write about him in another blog) who lived above our flat was also German and he recommended a German dentist to us who believed in preventative care. So it came to pass that we became the patients of Dr Schweizer.
My mother took me to see Dr Schweizer EVERY school holidays, that is, 4 times a year as we had 4 terms in those days.
Dr Schweizer's rooms were in the MLC building in Sydney's CBD. We travelled first by ferry and then by bus to get there. As his rooms were on about the 6th floor, I think, we would get into the lift which was a cage-like construction, and as it shuddered and creaked its way to the 6th floor my heart and stomach sank an equivalent amount. We'd go down a dingy corridor, following the peculiar aroma of disinfectant and oil of cloves until we'd come to the dark tiny waiting room stuffed with uncomfortable brown leather chairs and ancient reading material.
You'd hear the unnerving whine of the drill, sloshing noises, clangs and the rumble of Dr Schweizer's voice followed by the weak mumble from a trapped patient. My mother would always chat brightly trying to distract me from the torture chamber I was about to go in. It didn't work.
The patient would leave and then it would be my turn.
Dentists didn't wear surgical gloves or masks in those days. Dr Schweizer did always diligently wash his hands, right up to the elbows, but the backs of his hands and fingers were covered in thick dark hair and when the chair was reclined, I looked straight up into the forest like growth of bristly hair in his ample nostrils. I wasn't used to seeing such things. That, plus knowing what was about to occur made me feel extremely queasy.
First he'd peer into my mouth and prod around with that little hooked tool until he was ready to scrape off the built up calculus. Scrape, scrape, oops sorry, as he stabbed the gum by mistake whilst he was having an animated conversation with my mother. Rinse. Gosh that water is red! Oh well, let's continue. Next all the teeth were tapped and he would decide if I needed a filling or if the decay wasn't too bad he would say that he'd do it next holidays. Something to be looked forward to - not!
If, however, the time to have a filling had come I'd grip the arms of the chair as the dental drill whirred into action. Dr Schweizer didn't believe in giving injections for minor procedures such as fillings. In fact he even extracted one of my father's molars without anaesthetic as it was apparently going to be a 'quick easy job'. Dr Schweizer said you could tell how close to the nerve you were working by patient reaction if you didn't give injections. My sister-in- law had a similar dentist and she indicated how close to the nerve he was by biting his thumb so that HE screamed!
A metal saliva sucker-outer was hooked in the corner of your mouth. It was a powerful gadget that would suck and slurp your cheek or your tongue with great force if it got in the wrong position. Next the drill would be fired up. In those days the drills were much slower and not water cooled so the enlarging crater in your tooth would be rinsed out. The increasing sensitivity to the cold water was awful. Finally the drilled hole would be declared decay free and the amalgam, an alarming mixture of various metals, trace elements and about 50% mercury would be stomped into the clean cavity. I'd be presented with a mirror so I could admire my lovely 'silver' tooth.
My bribe for going to the dentist was to have lunch in town - but we had to wait, an eternity it seemed to me, for the filling to set properly.
Dr Schweizer had heard all about fluoride and insisted I have fluoride tablets while my second teeth were coming through. I loathed them but put them in my mouth while my mother was watching and then sneaked them out and pushed them into a crack in the wall. Had I sucked all the tablets I would have ended up with mottled, though strong teeth. One of the girls I went to school with had been more obedient, took her fluoride tablets and suffered the consequences.
You would think I had perfect teeth, but no. Nearly everyone of my generation has a mouth full of fillings. Adding fluoride to the water supply along with fluoride toothpaste, flossing and using soft toothbrushes has made a huge difference to dental health. Only one of my daughters has one tiny filling.
When my wisdom teeth proved to be impacted Dr Schweizer referred me to an oral surgeon. My mother took me to the appointment and the first two teeth were removed without any great drama. Within a short while the other two teeth tried to erupt. I rang the oral surgeon in agony and after begging him he agreed to squeeze me in between two patients to do the extractions. My mother couldn't come for some reason but I assured her I'd be fine. I was last time.
I was rushed into the surgery, plonked into the chair, given two injections on both sides of my jaw and the extractions began. I could still feel everything! The surgeon hurriedly put in a few more anaesthetic injections, yanked the teeth out before shoving me out the door and welcoming his next patient.
I felt fairly peculiar but caught the bus home. The person beside me on the bus kept glancing at me so I looked back and smiled in what I thought was a friendly manner. A look of horror crossed that person's face, they stood up and got off at the next stop. What was wrong? I got out my hand mirror and discovered to my shock that my teeth were covered with blood and there was blood running down to my jaw from the corner of my mouth. No wonder I got that reaction. Of course with all that anaesthetic I couldn't feel a thing and had no idea about what a fright I looked like.
To cut a long story short I got an infection in the socket. By the weekend I was crying with pain so my mother found Dr Schweizer's private number in the phone book and asked what we should do. He insisted on coming into his surgery to have a look. Heading into the dim dark building (everything was closed on weekends in those days) had never felt so welcoming! Dr Schweizer removed pieces of bone, cleaned the wound and stuffed the socket with gauze soaked in oil of cloves. The relief was almost immediate and I loved him, for it, hairy nostrils and all! I was so grateful. Dr Schweizer was furious with the surgeon, said he would never send another patient there and refused to take any payment. What a champion!
I kept visiting Dr Schweizer until I moved to Canberra. My parents were
his patients until he retired. His techniques were old fashioned but probably thanks to him I still have all my teeth (minus wisdom teeth). My father lost most of his teeth over the years but he still managed with what few he did have until his death at 92. My mother, probably due to her deficient diet during hard times between the wars, lost her teeth and wrestled with dentures for the last 20 years of her life.
Yesterday I went to the dentist, or should I say hygienist. I go twice a year. What a difference to all those years ago! The chair is really comfortable, your neck gets a support and you are asked of you'd like a cushion for the back of your knees. You wear glasses so the lights don't bother you eyes and to protect them from any liquid being splashed. The hygienist has surgical gloves, a mask and glasses also. You rinse your mouth with an antibacterial mix which protects both you and the hygienist from any sort of bacterial contamination. The procedure of calculus removal is pain free and not unpleasant and the final polishing, though a bit ticklish, makes your teeth feel terrific afterwards. All in all a procedure not to be feared. Thank you Kristie, you did a great job.
If a procedure such as a filling needs to be done, you don't have to put up with any discomfort. You are actively encouraged to have pain relief.The injections are a mile removed from those administered by huge metal syringes with needles that needed regular sharpening. I shall continue going to the dentist to the end of my days and be grateful for the service.
Dr Brose ( I'll write about him in another blog) who lived above our flat was also German and he recommended a German dentist to us who believed in preventative care. So it came to pass that we became the patients of Dr Schweizer.
My mother took me to see Dr Schweizer EVERY school holidays, that is, 4 times a year as we had 4 terms in those days.
Dr Schweizer's rooms were in the MLC building in Sydney's CBD. We travelled first by ferry and then by bus to get there. As his rooms were on about the 6th floor, I think, we would get into the lift which was a cage-like construction, and as it shuddered and creaked its way to the 6th floor my heart and stomach sank an equivalent amount. We'd go down a dingy corridor, following the peculiar aroma of disinfectant and oil of cloves until we'd come to the dark tiny waiting room stuffed with uncomfortable brown leather chairs and ancient reading material.
You'd hear the unnerving whine of the drill, sloshing noises, clangs and the rumble of Dr Schweizer's voice followed by the weak mumble from a trapped patient. My mother would always chat brightly trying to distract me from the torture chamber I was about to go in. It didn't work.
The patient would leave and then it would be my turn.
Dentists didn't wear surgical gloves or masks in those days. Dr Schweizer did always diligently wash his hands, right up to the elbows, but the backs of his hands and fingers were covered in thick dark hair and when the chair was reclined, I looked straight up into the forest like growth of bristly hair in his ample nostrils. I wasn't used to seeing such things. That, plus knowing what was about to occur made me feel extremely queasy.
First he'd peer into my mouth and prod around with that little hooked tool until he was ready to scrape off the built up calculus. Scrape, scrape, oops sorry, as he stabbed the gum by mistake whilst he was having an animated conversation with my mother. Rinse. Gosh that water is red! Oh well, let's continue. Next all the teeth were tapped and he would decide if I needed a filling or if the decay wasn't too bad he would say that he'd do it next holidays. Something to be looked forward to - not!
If, however, the time to have a filling had come I'd grip the arms of the chair as the dental drill whirred into action. Dr Schweizer didn't believe in giving injections for minor procedures such as fillings. In fact he even extracted one of my father's molars without anaesthetic as it was apparently going to be a 'quick easy job'. Dr Schweizer said you could tell how close to the nerve you were working by patient reaction if you didn't give injections. My sister-in- law had a similar dentist and she indicated how close to the nerve he was by biting his thumb so that HE screamed!
A metal saliva sucker-outer was hooked in the corner of your mouth. It was a powerful gadget that would suck and slurp your cheek or your tongue with great force if it got in the wrong position. Next the drill would be fired up. In those days the drills were much slower and not water cooled so the enlarging crater in your tooth would be rinsed out. The increasing sensitivity to the cold water was awful. Finally the drilled hole would be declared decay free and the amalgam, an alarming mixture of various metals, trace elements and about 50% mercury would be stomped into the clean cavity. I'd be presented with a mirror so I could admire my lovely 'silver' tooth.
My bribe for going to the dentist was to have lunch in town - but we had to wait, an eternity it seemed to me, for the filling to set properly.
Dr Schweizer had heard all about fluoride and insisted I have fluoride tablets while my second teeth were coming through. I loathed them but put them in my mouth while my mother was watching and then sneaked them out and pushed them into a crack in the wall. Had I sucked all the tablets I would have ended up with mottled, though strong teeth. One of the girls I went to school with had been more obedient, took her fluoride tablets and suffered the consequences.
You would think I had perfect teeth, but no. Nearly everyone of my generation has a mouth full of fillings. Adding fluoride to the water supply along with fluoride toothpaste, flossing and using soft toothbrushes has made a huge difference to dental health. Only one of my daughters has one tiny filling.
When my wisdom teeth proved to be impacted Dr Schweizer referred me to an oral surgeon. My mother took me to the appointment and the first two teeth were removed without any great drama. Within a short while the other two teeth tried to erupt. I rang the oral surgeon in agony and after begging him he agreed to squeeze me in between two patients to do the extractions. My mother couldn't come for some reason but I assured her I'd be fine. I was last time.
I was rushed into the surgery, plonked into the chair, given two injections on both sides of my jaw and the extractions began. I could still feel everything! The surgeon hurriedly put in a few more anaesthetic injections, yanked the teeth out before shoving me out the door and welcoming his next patient.
I felt fairly peculiar but caught the bus home. The person beside me on the bus kept glancing at me so I looked back and smiled in what I thought was a friendly manner. A look of horror crossed that person's face, they stood up and got off at the next stop. What was wrong? I got out my hand mirror and discovered to my shock that my teeth were covered with blood and there was blood running down to my jaw from the corner of my mouth. No wonder I got that reaction. Of course with all that anaesthetic I couldn't feel a thing and had no idea about what a fright I looked like.
To cut a long story short I got an infection in the socket. By the weekend I was crying with pain so my mother found Dr Schweizer's private number in the phone book and asked what we should do. He insisted on coming into his surgery to have a look. Heading into the dim dark building (everything was closed on weekends in those days) had never felt so welcoming! Dr Schweizer removed pieces of bone, cleaned the wound and stuffed the socket with gauze soaked in oil of cloves. The relief was almost immediate and I loved him, for it, hairy nostrils and all! I was so grateful. Dr Schweizer was furious with the surgeon, said he would never send another patient there and refused to take any payment. What a champion!
I kept visiting Dr Schweizer until I moved to Canberra. My parents were
his patients until he retired. His techniques were old fashioned but probably thanks to him I still have all my teeth (minus wisdom teeth). My father lost most of his teeth over the years but he still managed with what few he did have until his death at 92. My mother, probably due to her deficient diet during hard times between the wars, lost her teeth and wrestled with dentures for the last 20 years of her life.
Yesterday I went to the dentist, or should I say hygienist. I go twice a year. What a difference to all those years ago! The chair is really comfortable, your neck gets a support and you are asked of you'd like a cushion for the back of your knees. You wear glasses so the lights don't bother you eyes and to protect them from any liquid being splashed. The hygienist has surgical gloves, a mask and glasses also. You rinse your mouth with an antibacterial mix which protects both you and the hygienist from any sort of bacterial contamination. The procedure of calculus removal is pain free and not unpleasant and the final polishing, though a bit ticklish, makes your teeth feel terrific afterwards. All in all a procedure not to be feared. Thank you Kristie, you did a great job.
If a procedure such as a filling needs to be done, you don't have to put up with any discomfort. You are actively encouraged to have pain relief.The injections are a mile removed from those administered by huge metal syringes with needles that needed regular sharpening. I shall continue going to the dentist to the end of my days and be grateful for the service.
Sunday 21 October 2012
Doing the laundry
Where we lived at Clitheroe flats when I was little we had a communal laundry. My mother's allocated washing day was Monday and it was a hard day's work.
The laundry was a cold grey square room with a low ceiling. Immediately on the left when you came in was a large shelf, about waist height, which ran along that wall and that was where you could sort your washing. Opposite the shelf were two deep concrete tubs with a mangle clamped between them and in the corner was the copper. Cold water taps ran into both tubs and the copper. Right behind the door where you came in was the gas meter which was fed pennies to supply the gas to get the copper going.
On washing day my mother would fill the copper with cold water, add 'Persil' soap powder and put in the sorted whites, feed the gas meter and light the gas. She was a great believer in cotton, so the bed linen, tablecloths, undies, shirts, my father's lab coats, tea towels and bath towels all had a go in the copper. All collars and cuffs would be scrubbed first with a brush and Sunlight soap. When the water in the copper boiled she would stir the contents with a big stick. When everything looked clean, the first tub would be filled and the boiling contents lifted out of the copper with the big stick into the rinse water. The second tub would be filled and the contents of the first tub fed through the mangle to be rinsed again. Everything was always rinsed at least three times. And squeezed through the mangle every time as well.
When this process was completed the washing would be loaded into a heavy wicker laundry basket and dragged to the clothes line which was just outside our back door. It consisted of two wooden upright posts with a wooden arm at the top with 4 lines for the washing. The 'arm' could be raised and lowered.
When all the washing was hanging up my mother would clean the laundry. All surfaces wiped down and the wet floor mopped. The soapy water was emptied out of the copper into a heavy metal bucket and used to wash the floors in our flat.
My poor mother had bad arthritis in her shoulders and all the heavy lifting was agony, so quite early on we were the first people in the flats to buy a washing machine. Everyone came to admire the machine when it was delivered in its big box (I used the box as a cubby house for some time, so I must have been quite small).
It was a Lightburn twin tub washing machine. The side with the agitator heated the water and the other side had the spin drier. It spun when you closed the lid.
We kept the machine in the laundry covered in a white and blue cloth when not in use. It was looked after so well I believe my mother used it for at least twenty years.
The laundry didn't have any power other than gas. In fact it didn't even have electric lights so if anyone wanted to do washing at night they would have
to take candles! My father bought several extension cords, put cup hooks along the eaves of the roofs on the way to the laundry and on washing day we would plug the end into the power in our kitchen before hanging out the extension cords like garlands all the way to the laundry and to the machine.
As there was always a lot of water sloshing on the floor of the laundry there were slatted boards on the concrete so your feet wouldn't get too wet. As I reread what I have just written I guess the fact that my mother got an electric shock isn't too surprising. One day she put her hand into the water to check if it was heating properly and the water was live. She ended up with a big cut on her middle finger, it could have been so much worse. Johnny Boy, a psychiatric nurse who had a flat upstairs, heard her scream, rushed down and bandaged her hand up. Perhaps the electric cord had somehow ended up on the wet floor, I don't know, but I do know that the washing got done that day even though my mother was very shaken.
How times have changed. My laundry is inside the house. I have a lovely big top loader machine which does a great job. I always do an extra rinse though thanks to my mother's instructions. If you want a bright wash you have to get rid of all soap residue - her washing was always brighter than everyone else's even though they used
'laundry blue'. I also have a dryer which I don't use all the time but I do like to put the towels in so they are nice and fluffy. I then hang them outside so they get that lovely fresh smell.
Getting back to the old days......when the washing was dry my mother would iron absolutely everything. As there were no steam irons, everything, just having dried, was dampened down again before being ironed. I didn't mention the starching - collars, cuffs, my dresses, tablecloths and napkins and my father's lab coats were all starched which made the ironing of those articles even more challenging. My mother even made her own starch using potato starch that she had collected after making grated potato dishes.
As the years went by my mother had an easier time doing the laundry. When we moved into our own home the laundry had power AND electric lights. The Lightburn twin tub lived out its life very happily and was replaced by a front loader when it finally gave up the ghost. We had stainless steel laundry tubs and the Hill's hoist was just outside the laundry door. Laundry baskets were plastic, no longer that heavy wicker. My mother thought it was bliss. She still made her own starch for napkins and tablecloths but collars and cuffs no longer needed that treatment as fabrics had become much more 'easy care'.
I rarely think about the old days when I do my laundry and often moan about the baskets of ironing that look at me accusingly. At least I know what a huge job it used to be and should be grateful that things are so much easier these days.
The laundry was a cold grey square room with a low ceiling. Immediately on the left when you came in was a large shelf, about waist height, which ran along that wall and that was where you could sort your washing. Opposite the shelf were two deep concrete tubs with a mangle clamped between them and in the corner was the copper. Cold water taps ran into both tubs and the copper. Right behind the door where you came in was the gas meter which was fed pennies to supply the gas to get the copper going.
On washing day my mother would fill the copper with cold water, add 'Persil' soap powder and put in the sorted whites, feed the gas meter and light the gas. She was a great believer in cotton, so the bed linen, tablecloths, undies, shirts, my father's lab coats, tea towels and bath towels all had a go in the copper. All collars and cuffs would be scrubbed first with a brush and Sunlight soap. When the water in the copper boiled she would stir the contents with a big stick. When everything looked clean, the first tub would be filled and the boiling contents lifted out of the copper with the big stick into the rinse water. The second tub would be filled and the contents of the first tub fed through the mangle to be rinsed again. Everything was always rinsed at least three times. And squeezed through the mangle every time as well.
When this process was completed the washing would be loaded into a heavy wicker laundry basket and dragged to the clothes line which was just outside our back door. It consisted of two wooden upright posts with a wooden arm at the top with 4 lines for the washing. The 'arm' could be raised and lowered.
When all the washing was hanging up my mother would clean the laundry. All surfaces wiped down and the wet floor mopped. The soapy water was emptied out of the copper into a heavy metal bucket and used to wash the floors in our flat.
My poor mother had bad arthritis in her shoulders and all the heavy lifting was agony, so quite early on we were the first people in the flats to buy a washing machine. Everyone came to admire the machine when it was delivered in its big box (I used the box as a cubby house for some time, so I must have been quite small).
It was a Lightburn twin tub washing machine. The side with the agitator heated the water and the other side had the spin drier. It spun when you closed the lid.
We kept the machine in the laundry covered in a white and blue cloth when not in use. It was looked after so well I believe my mother used it for at least twenty years.
The laundry didn't have any power other than gas. In fact it didn't even have electric lights so if anyone wanted to do washing at night they would have
to take candles! My father bought several extension cords, put cup hooks along the eaves of the roofs on the way to the laundry and on washing day we would plug the end into the power in our kitchen before hanging out the extension cords like garlands all the way to the laundry and to the machine.
As there was always a lot of water sloshing on the floor of the laundry there were slatted boards on the concrete so your feet wouldn't get too wet. As I reread what I have just written I guess the fact that my mother got an electric shock isn't too surprising. One day she put her hand into the water to check if it was heating properly and the water was live. She ended up with a big cut on her middle finger, it could have been so much worse. Johnny Boy, a psychiatric nurse who had a flat upstairs, heard her scream, rushed down and bandaged her hand up. Perhaps the electric cord had somehow ended up on the wet floor, I don't know, but I do know that the washing got done that day even though my mother was very shaken.
How times have changed. My laundry is inside the house. I have a lovely big top loader machine which does a great job. I always do an extra rinse though thanks to my mother's instructions. If you want a bright wash you have to get rid of all soap residue - her washing was always brighter than everyone else's even though they used
'laundry blue'. I also have a dryer which I don't use all the time but I do like to put the towels in so they are nice and fluffy. I then hang them outside so they get that lovely fresh smell.
Getting back to the old days......when the washing was dry my mother would iron absolutely everything. As there were no steam irons, everything, just having dried, was dampened down again before being ironed. I didn't mention the starching - collars, cuffs, my dresses, tablecloths and napkins and my father's lab coats were all starched which made the ironing of those articles even more challenging. My mother even made her own starch using potato starch that she had collected after making grated potato dishes.
As the years went by my mother had an easier time doing the laundry. When we moved into our own home the laundry had power AND electric lights. The Lightburn twin tub lived out its life very happily and was replaced by a front loader when it finally gave up the ghost. We had stainless steel laundry tubs and the Hill's hoist was just outside the laundry door. Laundry baskets were plastic, no longer that heavy wicker. My mother thought it was bliss. She still made her own starch for napkins and tablecloths but collars and cuffs no longer needed that treatment as fabrics had become much more 'easy care'.
I rarely think about the old days when I do my laundry and often moan about the baskets of ironing that look at me accusingly. At least I know what a huge job it used to be and should be grateful that things are so much easier these days.
Saturday 20 October 2012
Voting
In 1966 my parents became Australian citizens. I came home from school that day to be told that now I was an Australian citizen too. I was under 16 (just) so I had automatically become Australian. What!! I hadn't been asked and I hadn't been at the ceremony. I felt peeved at the time because I had wanted to make my own decision.
Before I turned 18 I registered to vote and in 1969 I turned up with my parents at the Mosman town hall to vote in the federal election for the very first time.
"You must vote Liberal," my parents told me. "If you vote Labor you are voting for communism and we know all about communism, that's why we left East Germany".
As I walked into the polling booth for the first time I was filled with a delicious sense of freedom. I could make my own decision. Nobody was in the booth telling me what to do. I had always been an obedient child and had always done what my parents told me, but now it was truly my time. I voted. I can't for the life of me remember who I voted for but I do know it wasn't Liberal!
Since then I have voted many times and now, being very interested in politics, hope that my decisions have been more considered than all those years ago.
In 1988 my husband and I wanted to travel to Europe so I applied for a passport at the post office. My application was denied as I wasn't an Australian citizen. How was that possible? I had a search made of my parents' original documents. It turns out my father wasn't too good at filling out forms. He had been told that any children under the age of 16 would automatically be made citizens, however he had neglected to actually record my name in the appropriate section. Because I had been born in India of German parents who may or may not have registered my birth with the German consulate I was now considered stateless, an alien. Everyone apart from me thought this hilarious.
My husband was able to call in a favour and my citizenship application was pushed to the front of the queue. I had to go and fill out some forms and much to my shock discovered I had to pass a citizenship test as well. Because I had been slipped to the front of the queue nobody had thought to give me the booklet to study and when I was asked the rights and obligations of an Australian citizen my mind went numb. Luckily the public servant who was conducting the interview saw my despair, bless him, so asked if I agreed with the following statements such as being entitled to a passport and being allowed back into the country after a
trip away, and being obliged to obey the laws of the country etc.
The citizenship ceremony I attended was held at the National Library with the federal Minister Roz Kelly presiding. Our girls enjoyed themselves very much particularly because they were allowed to have the day off school. I was given my citizenship certificate, and a wattle seedling and cried with such emotion when we sang the National Anthem that several new Australians sitting around me looked at
me with astonishment. Afterwards we went home and had a lovely party with friends and neighbours. So I did get to choose my nationality and have treasured being an Australian ever since.
How come I was able to vote for 20 years as an 'alien'? I wonder why my original registration hadn't been questioned. All my votes were invalid. Perhaps they should all be discounted - perhaps history would be changed!
Today was the ACT election and as I walked into the booth to vote I reflected on the fact that I was making my own decision. How fabulous to be free to be able to do so in this wonderful democracy.
Before I turned 18 I registered to vote and in 1969 I turned up with my parents at the Mosman town hall to vote in the federal election for the very first time.
"You must vote Liberal," my parents told me. "If you vote Labor you are voting for communism and we know all about communism, that's why we left East Germany".
As I walked into the polling booth for the first time I was filled with a delicious sense of freedom. I could make my own decision. Nobody was in the booth telling me what to do. I had always been an obedient child and had always done what my parents told me, but now it was truly my time. I voted. I can't for the life of me remember who I voted for but I do know it wasn't Liberal!
Since then I have voted many times and now, being very interested in politics, hope that my decisions have been more considered than all those years ago.
In 1988 my husband and I wanted to travel to Europe so I applied for a passport at the post office. My application was denied as I wasn't an Australian citizen. How was that possible? I had a search made of my parents' original documents. It turns out my father wasn't too good at filling out forms. He had been told that any children under the age of 16 would automatically be made citizens, however he had neglected to actually record my name in the appropriate section. Because I had been born in India of German parents who may or may not have registered my birth with the German consulate I was now considered stateless, an alien. Everyone apart from me thought this hilarious.
My husband was able to call in a favour and my citizenship application was pushed to the front of the queue. I had to go and fill out some forms and much to my shock discovered I had to pass a citizenship test as well. Because I had been slipped to the front of the queue nobody had thought to give me the booklet to study and when I was asked the rights and obligations of an Australian citizen my mind went numb. Luckily the public servant who was conducting the interview saw my despair, bless him, so asked if I agreed with the following statements such as being entitled to a passport and being allowed back into the country after a
trip away, and being obliged to obey the laws of the country etc.
The citizenship ceremony I attended was held at the National Library with the federal Minister Roz Kelly presiding. Our girls enjoyed themselves very much particularly because they were allowed to have the day off school. I was given my citizenship certificate, and a wattle seedling and cried with such emotion when we sang the National Anthem that several new Australians sitting around me looked at
me with astonishment. Afterwards we went home and had a lovely party with friends and neighbours. So I did get to choose my nationality and have treasured being an Australian ever since.
How come I was able to vote for 20 years as an 'alien'? I wonder why my original registration hadn't been questioned. All my votes were invalid. Perhaps they should all be discounted - perhaps history would be changed!
Today was the ACT election and as I walked into the booth to vote I reflected on the fact that I was making my own decision. How fabulous to be free to be able to do so in this wonderful democracy.
Thursday 18 October 2012
Photos
On Saturday night at the 'Rock your Frock' fundraiser my daughter and I had our photo taken by a photographer from the local Canberra free newspaper 'City News'. It appeared in today's edition. All I can say is "erk!". My husband said that he thought it was a lovely picture and what was I talking about.
It made me think about perception of self. I look much better inside my head than on the outside! One day I was was in a department store, wondered if I knew the cranky old woman coming towards me when I realised it was me approaching a mirror! What a shock! If I'm going to put on some lipstick and have to look in a mirror I'm prepared and the 'inside my head' person is there. Photos don't do that - they tell the truth ( unless you are airbrushed into submission if you are a model or movie star). It is a shock when you see yourself as the world sees you when you are older.
At Clitheroe a former actress who's heyday was in the 1930s lived on the floor directly above our flat. She had been absolutely glamorous. The flat was full of photos of her along with a plaster of Paris cast of her beautiful hands which was displayed on the baby grand piano.
At some occasion all the residents of the flats had been together and a group photo was taken. When this lady looked at the photo she refused to believe that she was in the picture. "That's NOT me" she exclaimed and refused to look at it again. I now know where she was coming from!
Is this vanity? I guess it is. My mother always used to tell me I was plain so I wouldn't become vain and get a swollen head. I believed her but when I now look at photos taken years ago I realise I was quite attractive and am a bit sad that I couldn't appreciate it at the time. I wish I looked like that now- wouldn't that be great.
I shouldn't grumble. At least everything works, sort of, and if I manage to survive another 20 years and look at today's photo then, I'll probably think I looked fabulous.
It made me think about perception of self. I look much better inside my head than on the outside! One day I was was in a department store, wondered if I knew the cranky old woman coming towards me when I realised it was me approaching a mirror! What a shock! If I'm going to put on some lipstick and have to look in a mirror I'm prepared and the 'inside my head' person is there. Photos don't do that - they tell the truth ( unless you are airbrushed into submission if you are a model or movie star). It is a shock when you see yourself as the world sees you when you are older.
At Clitheroe a former actress who's heyday was in the 1930s lived on the floor directly above our flat. She had been absolutely glamorous. The flat was full of photos of her along with a plaster of Paris cast of her beautiful hands which was displayed on the baby grand piano.
At some occasion all the residents of the flats had been together and a group photo was taken. When this lady looked at the photo she refused to believe that she was in the picture. "That's NOT me" she exclaimed and refused to look at it again. I now know where she was coming from!
Is this vanity? I guess it is. My mother always used to tell me I was plain so I wouldn't become vain and get a swollen head. I believed her but when I now look at photos taken years ago I realise I was quite attractive and am a bit sad that I couldn't appreciate it at the time. I wish I looked like that now- wouldn't that be great.
I shouldn't grumble. At least everything works, sort of, and if I manage to survive another 20 years and look at today's photo then, I'll probably think I looked fabulous.
Monday 15 October 2012
Shopping then and now
Writing this blog has been a good exercise for the old brain. I have been remembering things that I haven't thought about in years, which is actually good fun. I had a lovely childhood so remembering all these details is a great pleasure.
Today I went shopping at the Tuggeranong Hyperdome where I used my senior's card at the chemist ( so I must be old!) but I also visited Woolworths which was where I started thinking about shopping in the 50's. I'll be writing about various retail outlets we used to visit in future blogs, but today I'll be talking about the 'local' shops at which my mother made most of her purchases.
Half way between Mosman Wharf and Mosman Junction on Avenue Road was a small group of shops. There was a petrol station, a newsagent, a butcher, a grocer and a greengrocer.
We didn't have a car until I was about 10 so the service station meant little to me in the early days.
I didn't have much to do with the newsagency either when I was really little (my father used to buy the Daily Telegraph on his way home from work and I always read the comics) but when I was at primary school I was allowed to buy myself a magazine. It was called 'Judy' and was a special order kept behind the counter and eagerly awaited by me every week.
Next was the butcher, Mr Bolton. His shop was all white tiles with a red sawdust covered floor in which I would draw patterns while he prepared my mother's order. He had a bit of a display in white enamel trays in his window, but most cuts would be prepared while you waited. He would lug great chunks of beef or lamb out of his coolroom and chop up whatever you required and then lug the rest of the chunk back into the coolroom. He was very slim and refined looking and his whites were always spotless - my mother was always impressed.
Mr McClure's grocery shop came next. We didn't have to buy too much there because he delivered the groceries every week. My mother would ring up and order and within a few hours there it would be on the bench in the kitchen. There wasn't much of a choice, butter was Allowrie butter, flour came in a brown paper bag, eggs came in a carton and were all colours and sizes. There were a few brands of tea but we always had 'Lanchoo' ( does that still exist?). Toilet paper wasn't anything like the bottom pampering softness that is available now, but it did the job, all be it with a lot less comfort.
Mr McClure's shop was long and dark with shelves up to the high ceiling and had a large wooden counter behind which the customers would stand. He had a couple of assistants who would shimmy up ladders to get down items that were on the higher shelves. I found his shop fascinating and particularly coveted a miniature display of Coca Cola bottles in their wooden crate that he had in the window.
The Italian greengrocer we all called Mr Morrissey had the next shop. I'm sure that wasn't his real name but in those days people couldn't cope with any sort of foreign names, so near enough was good enough. Mrs Morrissey also worked in the shop when she wasn't looking after her huge brood of children. She was a very large lady and he was very small - they reminded me of Jack Sprat and his wife.
My mother never liked being served by Mrs Morrissey because we would always end up getting a bruised piece of fruit or a squishy tomato in the order. Customers were not allowed to handle the produce in those days, it would be weighed and then wrapped in newspaper or put in paper bags by the proprietors.
Mr Morrissey introduced us to avocados. "How do you prepare them?" my mother asked and was told you use them as a spread on toast, so that's what we did for years. Many years later we had avocado seafood for the first time - what a revelation and how exotic, we thought. Fancy being able to do that with an avocado!
Purchases safely tucked in baskets or string bags my mother and I would walk home which was downhill from the shops. We knew the shopkeepers by name and they knew ours'. Going to the shops was always a pleasurable and social experience.
Today I went shopping at the Tuggeranong Hyperdome where I used my senior's card at the chemist ( so I must be old!) but I also visited Woolworths which was where I started thinking about shopping in the 50's. I'll be writing about various retail outlets we used to visit in future blogs, but today I'll be talking about the 'local' shops at which my mother made most of her purchases.
Half way between Mosman Wharf and Mosman Junction on Avenue Road was a small group of shops. There was a petrol station, a newsagent, a butcher, a grocer and a greengrocer.
We didn't have a car until I was about 10 so the service station meant little to me in the early days.
I didn't have much to do with the newsagency either when I was really little (my father used to buy the Daily Telegraph on his way home from work and I always read the comics) but when I was at primary school I was allowed to buy myself a magazine. It was called 'Judy' and was a special order kept behind the counter and eagerly awaited by me every week.
Next was the butcher, Mr Bolton. His shop was all white tiles with a red sawdust covered floor in which I would draw patterns while he prepared my mother's order. He had a bit of a display in white enamel trays in his window, but most cuts would be prepared while you waited. He would lug great chunks of beef or lamb out of his coolroom and chop up whatever you required and then lug the rest of the chunk back into the coolroom. He was very slim and refined looking and his whites were always spotless - my mother was always impressed.
Mr McClure's grocery shop came next. We didn't have to buy too much there because he delivered the groceries every week. My mother would ring up and order and within a few hours there it would be on the bench in the kitchen. There wasn't much of a choice, butter was Allowrie butter, flour came in a brown paper bag, eggs came in a carton and were all colours and sizes. There were a few brands of tea but we always had 'Lanchoo' ( does that still exist?). Toilet paper wasn't anything like the bottom pampering softness that is available now, but it did the job, all be it with a lot less comfort.
Mr McClure's shop was long and dark with shelves up to the high ceiling and had a large wooden counter behind which the customers would stand. He had a couple of assistants who would shimmy up ladders to get down items that were on the higher shelves. I found his shop fascinating and particularly coveted a miniature display of Coca Cola bottles in their wooden crate that he had in the window.
The Italian greengrocer we all called Mr Morrissey had the next shop. I'm sure that wasn't his real name but in those days people couldn't cope with any sort of foreign names, so near enough was good enough. Mrs Morrissey also worked in the shop when she wasn't looking after her huge brood of children. She was a very large lady and he was very small - they reminded me of Jack Sprat and his wife.
My mother never liked being served by Mrs Morrissey because we would always end up getting a bruised piece of fruit or a squishy tomato in the order. Customers were not allowed to handle the produce in those days, it would be weighed and then wrapped in newspaper or put in paper bags by the proprietors.
Mr Morrissey introduced us to avocados. "How do you prepare them?" my mother asked and was told you use them as a spread on toast, so that's what we did for years. Many years later we had avocado seafood for the first time - what a revelation and how exotic, we thought. Fancy being able to do that with an avocado!
Purchases safely tucked in baskets or string bags my mother and I would walk home which was downhill from the shops. We knew the shopkeepers by name and they knew ours'. Going to the shops was always a pleasurable and social experience.
Saturday 13 October 2012
Fundraising
Last night I attended a fabulous fundraising function at the German Harmonie Club in aid of ovarian cancer research. It was a dance party called 'Rock Your Frock' as October is now known as 'Frocktober' in aid of this good cause, and the fundraisers wear frocks and are sponsored for doing so. Most fundraisers also have some sort of function to boost the funds they raise.
Everyone coming to the dance party last night was encouraged to wear a frock and there were some wonderful outfits - beads, sparkles, glamour personified. And the blokes! Stunning is all I can say. Dapper with waistcoats and ties to match their partner's colour scheme, suits, hats, nifty dance shoes, but my favourites were the men in frocks. I loved the chap with a beard who wore a wig and had bright red lippy to go with his frock. Someone else wore a tutu but the crowd favourite was a bloke in a tight orange number with a black satin corset, high heels, long black gloves and a long blond wig.
As I was enjoying the atmosphere last night I reflected on the many years I have been associated with fundraising. My father met another German man, Mr Blume, in the printing firm where he first worked in Australia. The Blumes invited him over for the occasional meal whilst my mother and I were back in Germany. They became good friends and Tante (aunty) Blume became a great support to my mother when she arrived here. My parents then met more German people and started going to the German Lutheran church in Sydney.
A lot of German migrants arrived in Australia with little more than the clothes on their backs so the Australian German Welfare Society was formed to give support to those people. My mother became active within that group and there was considerable fundraising, mainly, if I remember correctly, through dances and cake stalls and the biggie of the year, the Christmas bazaar. Over the years my mother must have baked hundreds and hundreds of cakes. As soon as I was old enough I used to help sell the goodies.
We also had raffles at these various functions and I would be in my dirndl (national costume) selling tombola tickets.
As the years passed I was involved in other fundraising ventures, still many to do with the German community whilst I was living in Sydney, but when I came to Canberra and was teaching here my fundraising usually involved raising money for the school I was at. Like my mother I have turned my hand to cooking. I have made lots of cakes but my speciality has mainly been in the sweets line. I have made countless toffees and make a pretty mean Italian nougat.
There have also been other occasions for fundraising such as 'Jump Rope for Heart' and collecting money for various other charities that I have been associated with at the time.
The function last night was organised and run by my elder daughter. My younger daughter and I did our bit by sitting on the door collecting entrance fees and selling raffle tickets. I had the pleasure of counting the takings this morning!
Fundraising continues in our family. I am extremely proud of my girls for their willingness to help others.
Well done for last night. It is a truly worthy cause and was a great fun-filled evening.
Everyone coming to the dance party last night was encouraged to wear a frock and there were some wonderful outfits - beads, sparkles, glamour personified. And the blokes! Stunning is all I can say. Dapper with waistcoats and ties to match their partner's colour scheme, suits, hats, nifty dance shoes, but my favourites were the men in frocks. I loved the chap with a beard who wore a wig and had bright red lippy to go with his frock. Someone else wore a tutu but the crowd favourite was a bloke in a tight orange number with a black satin corset, high heels, long black gloves and a long blond wig.
As I was enjoying the atmosphere last night I reflected on the many years I have been associated with fundraising. My father met another German man, Mr Blume, in the printing firm where he first worked in Australia. The Blumes invited him over for the occasional meal whilst my mother and I were back in Germany. They became good friends and Tante (aunty) Blume became a great support to my mother when she arrived here. My parents then met more German people and started going to the German Lutheran church in Sydney.
A lot of German migrants arrived in Australia with little more than the clothes on their backs so the Australian German Welfare Society was formed to give support to those people. My mother became active within that group and there was considerable fundraising, mainly, if I remember correctly, through dances and cake stalls and the biggie of the year, the Christmas bazaar. Over the years my mother must have baked hundreds and hundreds of cakes. As soon as I was old enough I used to help sell the goodies.
We also had raffles at these various functions and I would be in my dirndl (national costume) selling tombola tickets.
As the years passed I was involved in other fundraising ventures, still many to do with the German community whilst I was living in Sydney, but when I came to Canberra and was teaching here my fundraising usually involved raising money for the school I was at. Like my mother I have turned my hand to cooking. I have made lots of cakes but my speciality has mainly been in the sweets line. I have made countless toffees and make a pretty mean Italian nougat.
There have also been other occasions for fundraising such as 'Jump Rope for Heart' and collecting money for various other charities that I have been associated with at the time.
The function last night was organised and run by my elder daughter. My younger daughter and I did our bit by sitting on the door collecting entrance fees and selling raffle tickets. I had the pleasure of counting the takings this morning!
Fundraising continues in our family. I am extremely proud of my girls for their willingness to help others.
Well done for last night. It is a truly worthy cause and was a great fun-filled evening.
Wednesday 10 October 2012
Birthdays
Yesterday was our elder daughter's 33rd birthday. We love birthdays in our family and have always treated them as a special day. Our family birthday traditions started when I was little.
My parents always made a fuss of me on my birthday. Very ceremoniously I'd be taken into the lounge room where the 'Geburtstag Mann' (birthday man, equivalent of Father Christmas I guess) had been. There, on the sideboard, wrapped nicely would be my presents. As we were poor as church mice when I was little there wasn't too much to open, but I was nearly always pleased with my gifts. Though it is hard to get too enthusiastic about 'Cottontails' (sensible underwear) or a white cardigan even if it was the best quality. I particularly loved books and they often featured. If they were German, sent by our relatives, my parents would read them to me at bedtime and I loved that.
I've mentioned the wonderful neighbours we had at the flats and they always spoiled me rotten. One year Uncle Don made me a little dressing table. I kept it because I loved it so much until I towered over it with the top coming to my knees. They gave me colouring in books and pencils and sets of watercolour paints. Mrs H would usually sew me a dress or a flash apron and she always picked a beautiful bunch of flowers which made me feel very grown up. I adore getting flowers to this day.
As my birthday is in December it was always the school holidays and Uncle Jack (another of our neighbours) would drive my mother and me into the city early so we could listen to the David Jones choir sing Christmas carols. We would wander about and have lunch somewhere, which was always a huge treat, before coming home where my mother would cook a birthday dinner of my choice. I think I usually chose 'Rolladen' (finely sliced meat rolled around a filling of onion and streaky bacon) which was cooked in a delicious creamy sauce, dumplings and red cabbage. Dessert would be a slice of Frankfurter Kranz (a butter cake filled and covered with butter cream and then covered in toasted flaked almonds) which was our traditional family birthday cake.
We have kept some of those traditions going and added others. My husband's family had what we believe to be the original Sacher Torte recipe - a chocolate cake including ingredients such as 7 egg whites and a whole large block of the finest Lindt dark chocolate. It is baked on the day before the birthday and eaten on the morning of the birthday with lashings of whipped cream.
The birthday person is led into the dining room where the presents are arranged on the sideboard. We then all sit around while they are opened. My husband is a very skilful poet and he writes his girls a poem for our birthdays a super special feature which we appreciate and treasure enormously.
The birthday dinner, always the choice of the birthday person, now often consists of roasted duck, dumplings and red cabbage with lots of home made gravy. Dessert varies. Last night we had coeur a la creme ( a heart shaped creamy confection a bit like cheesecake) with raspberry coulis. Yum!
These days I love to go out to a restaurant for my birthday. No thinking about what I want until I'm happily seated and presented with a menu.
We had a lovely evening yesterday. I hope our birthday girl enjoyed herself on her special day.
My parents always made a fuss of me on my birthday. Very ceremoniously I'd be taken into the lounge room where the 'Geburtstag Mann' (birthday man, equivalent of Father Christmas I guess) had been. There, on the sideboard, wrapped nicely would be my presents. As we were poor as church mice when I was little there wasn't too much to open, but I was nearly always pleased with my gifts. Though it is hard to get too enthusiastic about 'Cottontails' (sensible underwear) or a white cardigan even if it was the best quality. I particularly loved books and they often featured. If they were German, sent by our relatives, my parents would read them to me at bedtime and I loved that.
I've mentioned the wonderful neighbours we had at the flats and they always spoiled me rotten. One year Uncle Don made me a little dressing table. I kept it because I loved it so much until I towered over it with the top coming to my knees. They gave me colouring in books and pencils and sets of watercolour paints. Mrs H would usually sew me a dress or a flash apron and she always picked a beautiful bunch of flowers which made me feel very grown up. I adore getting flowers to this day.
As my birthday is in December it was always the school holidays and Uncle Jack (another of our neighbours) would drive my mother and me into the city early so we could listen to the David Jones choir sing Christmas carols. We would wander about and have lunch somewhere, which was always a huge treat, before coming home where my mother would cook a birthday dinner of my choice. I think I usually chose 'Rolladen' (finely sliced meat rolled around a filling of onion and streaky bacon) which was cooked in a delicious creamy sauce, dumplings and red cabbage. Dessert would be a slice of Frankfurter Kranz (a butter cake filled and covered with butter cream and then covered in toasted flaked almonds) which was our traditional family birthday cake.
We have kept some of those traditions going and added others. My husband's family had what we believe to be the original Sacher Torte recipe - a chocolate cake including ingredients such as 7 egg whites and a whole large block of the finest Lindt dark chocolate. It is baked on the day before the birthday and eaten on the morning of the birthday with lashings of whipped cream.
The birthday person is led into the dining room where the presents are arranged on the sideboard. We then all sit around while they are opened. My husband is a very skilful poet and he writes his girls a poem for our birthdays a super special feature which we appreciate and treasure enormously.
The birthday dinner, always the choice of the birthday person, now often consists of roasted duck, dumplings and red cabbage with lots of home made gravy. Dessert varies. Last night we had coeur a la creme ( a heart shaped creamy confection a bit like cheesecake) with raspberry coulis. Yum!
These days I love to go out to a restaurant for my birthday. No thinking about what I want until I'm happily seated and presented with a menu.
We had a lovely evening yesterday. I hope our birthday girl enjoyed herself on her special day.
Saturday 6 October 2012
First home in Australia
My parents were German and lived in what became East Germany under Russian rule after the war. They couldn't stand the repressive regime so decided to escape with a suitcase each, leaving all their other goods and chattels behind. My father was a highly qualified photo lithographer who applied for and got a position in a large printing firm in Calcutta India. I was born there. My mother, however couldn't cope with the heat and humidity and became quite ill so they had to leave for a cooler climate. They decided rather than returning to Germany they would continue their adventure and move to Australia.
My father applied for a job in a printing firm in Mascot Sydney. He was accepted but was told his family wasn't allowed to come to Australia until he had suitable accommodation for them. My mother and I returned to Germany and stayed with friends in West Germany while my father started looking for a place for us to live. He shared a room with a tram driver on Cleveland St Redfern, bought himself a third hand bicycle, rode to work every day and explored Sydney on weekends. Finding accommodation in the early 1950s was very difficult. He knew what he didn't like so kept expanding his search from the inner city area where he was sharing that miserable small room.
Finally he chanced upon a flat in Mosman. Originally the building had been a large family home but had been converted into 8 flats. The lady who had lived in No1 had had a fire so there was a hole burnt through the floor which had been covered with bits of metal. That didn't keep the rats out though! Also she had painted everything black, walls, floor and ceiling. My father loved the area though, bush all around, a park close by and Mosman Bay and the ferry to the city within walking distance. He took the flat and with the help of two Swiss chaps, one a builder and the other a painter, who he had met on the voyage to Australia, converted the derelict space into a comfortable family home. He was then able to send for my mother and me.
We lived in that flat until I was 14. In future blogs I'll write about my life there as it was a super happy time. Very few of the neighbours had children so all became surrogate aunties, uncles and grandparents which was wonderful seeing all our relatives were still in Germany.
I was the only 'foreign' student at Mosman Infants and Primary school. As part of English classes we used to practise writing letters. You would have to indent the address at the top of the 'letter' and I would always get into trouble because because I didn't have a standard address. Because I was 'foreign' it was assumed I just didn't understand and the teachers would encourage me to ask my more knowledgeable Australian neighbours about numbers and street names. In those days the postie (who came twice a day by foot announcing his presence by blowing a whistle) knew exactly who we were and where we lived. No1 Clitheroe Flats, Reid Park Mosman Bay was our address. Apparently none of the teachers I had approved. After we moved into our own home in 1965 a little road was created to the flats and houses beyond and named Harnett Avenue. Had that been done sooner it would have made my life at school easier.
I haven't been back to Reid Park for years. I believe the flats were done up and sold for huge sums as apartments. I wonder if the residents are as happy and as much a family as we were all those years ago - somehow I doubt it.
My father applied for a job in a printing firm in Mascot Sydney. He was accepted but was told his family wasn't allowed to come to Australia until he had suitable accommodation for them. My mother and I returned to Germany and stayed with friends in West Germany while my father started looking for a place for us to live. He shared a room with a tram driver on Cleveland St Redfern, bought himself a third hand bicycle, rode to work every day and explored Sydney on weekends. Finding accommodation in the early 1950s was very difficult. He knew what he didn't like so kept expanding his search from the inner city area where he was sharing that miserable small room.
Finally he chanced upon a flat in Mosman. Originally the building had been a large family home but had been converted into 8 flats. The lady who had lived in No1 had had a fire so there was a hole burnt through the floor which had been covered with bits of metal. That didn't keep the rats out though! Also she had painted everything black, walls, floor and ceiling. My father loved the area though, bush all around, a park close by and Mosman Bay and the ferry to the city within walking distance. He took the flat and with the help of two Swiss chaps, one a builder and the other a painter, who he had met on the voyage to Australia, converted the derelict space into a comfortable family home. He was then able to send for my mother and me.
We lived in that flat until I was 14. In future blogs I'll write about my life there as it was a super happy time. Very few of the neighbours had children so all became surrogate aunties, uncles and grandparents which was wonderful seeing all our relatives were still in Germany.
I was the only 'foreign' student at Mosman Infants and Primary school. As part of English classes we used to practise writing letters. You would have to indent the address at the top of the 'letter' and I would always get into trouble because because I didn't have a standard address. Because I was 'foreign' it was assumed I just didn't understand and the teachers would encourage me to ask my more knowledgeable Australian neighbours about numbers and street names. In those days the postie (who came twice a day by foot announcing his presence by blowing a whistle) knew exactly who we were and where we lived. No1 Clitheroe Flats, Reid Park Mosman Bay was our address. Apparently none of the teachers I had approved. After we moved into our own home in 1965 a little road was created to the flats and houses beyond and named Harnett Avenue. Had that been done sooner it would have made my life at school easier.
I haven't been back to Reid Park for years. I believe the flats were done up and sold for huge sums as apartments. I wonder if the residents are as happy and as much a family as we were all those years ago - somehow I doubt it.
Thursday 4 October 2012
Sleep
I have nearly always been a good sleeper. I used to sleep a ridiculous amount when I was younger. I'd get up late, have a sleep after lunch and then be in bed quite early. When we were dating, my now husband would ring up and a lot of the time my mother would have to tell him I was sleeping. I'd have a sleep after uni, or when I got home from teaching.
I was never one of those young people who would be out all hours partying and then raring to go after a bit of shut eye. It was annoying but I felt dreadful if I missed out on my zzzzs. I learnt my limits and mainly stuck to them because I would get sick if I got too tired.
There is a lovely German expression 'moseln'. The river Mosel meanders its way lazily down through the German countryside. Lying in bed comfortably drifting in and out of the relaxed state of sleep my parents called moseln. It is a delicious sensation.
I have never been good with sleep deprivation. Broken nights with a new baby were horrific. Luckily both girls were big babies and they learnt to sleep through the night quite early because my husband and I worked out what they now call 'controlled' crying. We put them snugly in a room quite a long way from our bedroom and they really had to want us before we would hear them. A bit of a whinge did not disturb us so we weren't tempted to leap out of bed to check what was up.
When I was going through the worst part of menopause I slept terribly. Doona on, doona off, dripping with sweat, then freezing cold, desperately tired but unable to sleep. It was a misery. Thank goodness those days are over - it did take a few years though.
Luckily I don't need as much sleep anymore although I still love my nana nap after lunch. These days it may only be 10 minutes but it makes me feel great. If I sleep for an hour or so I know that I'm not well and it is my body's way of healing me, so I just accept it.
I don't sleep as long at night anymore either and I'm looking forward to daylight saving starting because I'm waking up way too early! It is amazing how much you can achieve when you get up early.
Getting lots done starting nice and early is great but you can't beat lying in a comfortable warm bed doing a bit of 'moseln'.
I was never one of those young people who would be out all hours partying and then raring to go after a bit of shut eye. It was annoying but I felt dreadful if I missed out on my zzzzs. I learnt my limits and mainly stuck to them because I would get sick if I got too tired.
There is a lovely German expression 'moseln'. The river Mosel meanders its way lazily down through the German countryside. Lying in bed comfortably drifting in and out of the relaxed state of sleep my parents called moseln. It is a delicious sensation.
I have never been good with sleep deprivation. Broken nights with a new baby were horrific. Luckily both girls were big babies and they learnt to sleep through the night quite early because my husband and I worked out what they now call 'controlled' crying. We put them snugly in a room quite a long way from our bedroom and they really had to want us before we would hear them. A bit of a whinge did not disturb us so we weren't tempted to leap out of bed to check what was up.
When I was going through the worst part of menopause I slept terribly. Doona on, doona off, dripping with sweat, then freezing cold, desperately tired but unable to sleep. It was a misery. Thank goodness those days are over - it did take a few years though.
Luckily I don't need as much sleep anymore although I still love my nana nap after lunch. These days it may only be 10 minutes but it makes me feel great. If I sleep for an hour or so I know that I'm not well and it is my body's way of healing me, so I just accept it.
I don't sleep as long at night anymore either and I'm looking forward to daylight saving starting because I'm waking up way too early! It is amazing how much you can achieve when you get up early.
Getting lots done starting nice and early is great but you can't beat lying in a comfortable warm bed doing a bit of 'moseln'.
Wednesday 3 October 2012
Hands
My daughter J just gave me a wonderful manicure - just like you would get at a salon. Such a luxury sitting there being pampered. I loved it.
My mother had beautiful hands, long elegant fingers and oval shaped nails. My father had broad hands and stumpy fingers with ridged nails. Unfortunately his hand genes won out when I came along. I always wished my hands were nicer.
When the weather is cold my hands go an unappealing red. When I go for a walk they puff up because my lymphatic system is a bit dodgy. Now that I'm getting older I have age spots decorating the backs of my hands, arthritis which is making the joints painful and swell up. Amazingly, although my hands certainly wouldn't be chosen for hand modelling ( except for the 'before' shots) I am less concerned about how they look than ever. That is one of the positive things about getting older, you are more able to accept who you are and how you look, although it doesn't mean you are happy about it!
I am delighted that my two girls have beautiful hands. Their father and three of their 4 grandparents had lovely hands. Their partners have lovely hands as well so if there are ever any grandchildren chances are that their hands will also be lovely.
As long as they still work I'll be grateful for my hands. And with my fabulous manicure they look about as good as they ever do.
My mother had beautiful hands, long elegant fingers and oval shaped nails. My father had broad hands and stumpy fingers with ridged nails. Unfortunately his hand genes won out when I came along. I always wished my hands were nicer.
When the weather is cold my hands go an unappealing red. When I go for a walk they puff up because my lymphatic system is a bit dodgy. Now that I'm getting older I have age spots decorating the backs of my hands, arthritis which is making the joints painful and swell up. Amazingly, although my hands certainly wouldn't be chosen for hand modelling ( except for the 'before' shots) I am less concerned about how they look than ever. That is one of the positive things about getting older, you are more able to accept who you are and how you look, although it doesn't mean you are happy about it!
I am delighted that my two girls have beautiful hands. Their father and three of their 4 grandparents had lovely hands. Their partners have lovely hands as well so if there are ever any grandchildren chances are that their hands will also be lovely.
As long as they still work I'll be grateful for my hands. And with my fabulous manicure they look about as good as they ever do.
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