My very favourites at Clitheroe flats were Mrs Hummerston and Uncle Jack. I have no idea why I didn't say Aunty Phyl, but that's the way it was. Years later Mrs Hummerston asked if I would like to call her Phyl but I just couldn't. I couldn't have loved her more, whatever I called her.
One of my earliest memories are of Mrs Hummerston lifting me up to look out the window of their closed in verandah. They were up on the first floor and I guess it was the furthest I had ever seen and in my mind (I couldn't have been more than about 2 1/2) I could see the whole world. It is such a vivid memory, the lawn, the gardens, the trees, the bush and glimpses of Reid Park, and everything green and lush. Had she had the strength I would have stayed looking out for absolutely ages, but I was a solid little thing and Mrs Hummerston was tiny.
I would toddle up to their flat and call out, "I'm standing on your doorstep", which they thought hilarious. And of course I'd be let in. Once I was there during a thunderstorm and announced "Donner und Blitz" (thunder and lightning) and Mrs Hummerston remembered it forever.
Mrs Hummerston never ever spoke down to me. As a child it is wonderful to be taken seriously and I would go and tell her all my really important stuff which anyone else would just have laughed at. The kids at school were all sniggering about a 'poem' so I went home and told my mother. I got into terrible trouble reciting,'Captain Cook did a poop behind the kitchen door. The cat came up and lapped it up and said it wanted more.' I was all upset for being in trouble so went up to Mrs Hummerston's place. When she asked me what was wrong I told her the poem and she laughed and said that I probably shouldn't go telling it to just anyone and gave me a big cuddle.
Mrs Hummerston had really good taste I thought. She dressed in navy, red and white a lot of the time (my preferred colours too). She loved blue and white striped china, so do I. She taught me to say 'please' and 'thank you'. My parents rarely used those words if I did things for them and I swore that if I ever had children I would always be polite to them.
Mrs Hummerston loved animals and as I did too we often spoke about them. I loved their cat, Yetti, even though one day she slapped me in the face and got her claw stuck in the inside of my lip. Mrs Hummerston was mortified as she unhooked the claw and we never let her know that my parents took me to the doctor for a tetanus shot afterwards.
One of my most special memories though is of a minature Victorian cabinet that hung on the wall of the Hummerstons' living room. It contained a set of the complete works of Shakespeare. Tiny little volumes of leather bound onion paper with minute printing and the occasional black and white illustration. I would ask if we could look at the little books whereupon we would go through a ritual. I'd wash my hands thoroughly with her 'Imperial Leather' soap and she would supervise the drying, then I'd sit on the lounge and she would bring me one of the tiny volumes which we would look at together, exclaiming about the detail and enjoying sharing the moment. She always said that one day those books would be mine. Unfortunately she didn't put that down in writing.
Sometimes I would stay at the Hummerstons' place if my parents were going out. There were twin beds covered in a green and pink chinz, a grandmother chair and a kidney shaped dressing table all with that chinz in the bedroom. It was very stylish and I loved it. Uncle Jack used to snore like a steam train so he slept in another room so I shared with Mrs Hummerston. Next to her bed she had a photo of the lovely young queen Elizabeth.
In the morning Uncle Jack would bring us a cup of tea and Vegemite toast to bed which I thought was the height of luxury.
Uncle Jack was a rep for a clothing firm and would be out on the road often for a week at a time. Every year he would bring me some item of clothing which I usually got for my birthday. My favourite dress was white cotton with a pattern of blue puppies inside a wreath of blue flowers. It had a sash that you'd tie at the back. My mother always starched the dress and I wore it with a pale blue angora bolero. It was very pretty.
Mrs Hummerston was skilful at sewing and had a treadle Singer sewing machine set up on her back verandah. She made clothes for Libby and me and declared that I was the blue girl and that Libby was the pink girl (I often wished that I could be a pink girl as well) and she made us lovely little outfits. She even sewed us flower girl outfits when our friend Annedore got married. On that occasion both of us had pink frocks with white spotted voile overdresses that had white velvet sashes.
Mrs Hummerston had a heart of gold but she could have a gruff manner and the other children around the place were a bit nervous of her. They made up a story that a bogey man lived in the pot plants on her front verandah.
On a few occasions when I was sick Mrs Hummerston would mind me if my mother had to go out. She would make up a cosy spot on her lounge in front of the television and bring me treats and we would sit in a companionable silence whilst she put cold compresses on my forehead.
Mrs Hummerston gave me my first 'Mum' roll on deodorant. My mother didn't believe in such things at the time. She said it would block your pores and you would probably get cancer. A good wash under the arms and a sprinkle of talc was the thing to do she said. I guess I must have been pretty pongy to be given the deodorant but I wasn't the least bit insulted, just thrilled to bits. Also years later Mrs Hummerston gave me a bottle of 'Madame Rochas' perfume. I still love the scent and always have a bottle of it.
Uncle Jack was gorgeous too. He always had cars which he needed for his job. He was a loyal Holden customer, the first one I remember was a cream coloured FJ which was replaced by the latest model every few years.
Uncle Jack left for work early and every year took my mother and me into the city to listen to the David Jones choir singing Christmas carols on my birthday (19th December).
He would often take John, Libby and me for a swim at Balmoral beach and would patiently let us dive off his shoulders even though we nearly took his ears off. I can also remember ice cream treats quite often.
He was known as 'Lucky Jack' because invariably he would find something of value nearly every time he went out, coins in the sand, once a plastic bucket in the water when plastic buckets were really expensive, money lying in the street and if he had a ticket in a meat raffle he would win. Mrs Hummerston rarely had to buy meat.
The Hummerstons moved to Springwood in the Blue Mountains to be near their former neighbours, the B family, as they had become very good friends. Uncle Jack got the train into Sydney every day and I can remember with horror hearing about the Granville train disaster. That was his usual train. That day however he hadn't gone into work for some reason - lucky again!
Eventually his luck ran out and poor Uncle Jack got dementia and had to be moved to a secure facility. It broke my heart when Mrs Hummerston told me that he would hold on to the bars of the gate when she left him after a visit crying and begging to be taken home.
Mrs Hummerston lived in an uninsulated fibro cottage that wasn't much better than a garage. She decorated it beautifully and made it into a home however it was boiling hot in summer and so cold in winter that she spent most of her time in bed with the electric blanket on. Mrs B, who was the reason the Hummerstons had moved to Springwood had died and so poor Mrs Hummerston was alone. Had she stayed in Sydney my parents and other friends such as the MacK's could have helped so much more. They loved her too.
I used to write regularly and as she got older rang at least once a week. On one occasion when my husband and I visited her she said she wanted me to have her engagement ring and gave it to me. It is a modest band of seven diamonds. I absolutely treasure it and wear it always.
Eventually Mrs Hummerston became ill with an enlarged heart and was sent to hospital in Sydney where my mother visited her. They talked about the happy days we had spent together. Before I could come up from Canberra my darling Mrs Hummerson died. I was so sad that I couldn't spend that final time with her but I know that she knew how much I loved her. She is the only person in my life who always maintained that I had never done a thing wrong - now that's unconditional love! What a blessing that I had her in my life.
Sunday 25 November 2012
Saturday 24 November 2012
Tales from Clitheroe flats - No 7 part 3
After the B's moved to Springwood a single mother and her son moved in. Mrs W was a very attractive blond who used to sunbake in a bikini on the path on the way to her and the Hummerstons' flat. So that she didn't have strap marks she would undo the back of the bikini. It was amazing how many of the male residents had to do jobs in that vicinity. The other ladies were bemused and surprisingly didn't go out of their way to be overly welcoming.
I don't remember terribly much about the duo. The son's name was David and we did play with him a bit but by now we were in high school and playtime was curtailed by homework.
Mrs W sent her son to a private school and she said it was quite a struggle for her. At the end of the holidays one year David's hair was a bit long - it was short back and sides in those days before the Beatles, and he was worried he would get in trouble so he asked me to cut it for him. Not a good idea! I was very nervous. I had never cut anyone's hair before. We set him up with a towel around his shoulders and I wielded a nice pair of sharp scissors. I was trimming the long hair around his ears, misjudged and cut his ear instead. He yelped. It was good that we had the towel handy! He wasn't pleased and refused my offer to try and do the other side.
I don't think that I was ever invited into the W's place as Mrs W worked and David came home from school much later than I did.
The W's were just neighbours. We were polite to each other but certainly didn't have the warm relationship which we had with the others. When we moved away we lost all contact.
In my mind Mrs W is still a young glamorous woman but in actuality she would probably be well into her 80's.
I don't remember terribly much about the duo. The son's name was David and we did play with him a bit but by now we were in high school and playtime was curtailed by homework.
Mrs W sent her son to a private school and she said it was quite a struggle for her. At the end of the holidays one year David's hair was a bit long - it was short back and sides in those days before the Beatles, and he was worried he would get in trouble so he asked me to cut it for him. Not a good idea! I was very nervous. I had never cut anyone's hair before. We set him up with a towel around his shoulders and I wielded a nice pair of sharp scissors. I was trimming the long hair around his ears, misjudged and cut his ear instead. He yelped. It was good that we had the towel handy! He wasn't pleased and refused my offer to try and do the other side.
I don't think that I was ever invited into the W's place as Mrs W worked and David came home from school much later than I did.
The W's were just neighbours. We were polite to each other but certainly didn't have the warm relationship which we had with the others. When we moved away we lost all contact.
In my mind Mrs W is still a young glamorous woman but in actuality she would probably be well into her 80's.
Wednesday 21 November 2012
Tales from Clitheroe flats - No 7 the next family
We were all sad when Aunty South, Uncle Don and Uncle Mac left the flats although we were happy for them that they had managed to buy their own house. That was the dream of most of the flat's residents.
One day Mrs Hummerston told me that new people were moving in on the weekend - a mother, father and a little girl about my age, 6. As well they had a dog. I was so excited. I had always loved animals and the cats at the flats were a joy, but a live-in dog. Wow! I couldn't wait.
There was the usual confusion when a new family arrived with removalists struggling with the lack of road and then having to carry heavy pieces of furniture along the obstacle course to the flat. It was always good to stay out of the way for a while because there were plenty of cranky people. I kept peeping out hoping to catch sight of the little girl and her little dog.
Finally, the move completed, we were invited to the Hummerstons' place to meet our new neighbours and have a cup of tea. I can remember being overwhelmed with shyness, I held my mother's hand tightly as we went up the stairs for our first meeting.
There were Mr and Mrs B and their daughter Libby. She was a real blond cutie and I liked her instantly. Next we were introduced to Spinny Boy, a black and tan mini dachshund. I loved him at once. His name was created by Libby who particularly loved spinach at the time the little dog was bought.
Libby and I were best friends for ages. We had secrets and dressed up and put on makeup and had a fabulous relationship. Now that there were three kids in the neighbourhood who played together, John, Libby and I there were also many more conflicts when we would take sides and have arguments. My mother told me I would come home crying saying that I was NEVER going to play with them again. Of course this never lasted and we would be best friends again by the next day.
We were school aged and as time went on John got his own friends and didn't play with us so often anymore although we would slot into the old friendship as soon as we were together.
Libby and I had sleepovers where we would talk and giggle for hours and the B's would take me on excursions as would my parents take Libby. We went to the Easter show and to the beach amongst other paces. As we were both only children it was wonderful to have a resident playmate.
One of my favourite memories is thanks to Mrs B. We were going to have a picnic day at school when we were in 1st grade. Party frocks and party food - I can't remember what this special occasion was for, but everyone was wild with excitement. My mother didn't understand the concept of party food, she thought it all a bit silly and planned to make my usual lunch of black bread with liverwurst or salami. Mrs B realising this was the case said she was happy to supply lunch for both girls that day. We had fairy bread!!!!!! I was in heaven!!!!! I had never eaten anything so absolutely delicious. White bread with the crusts cut off, butter and colourful hundreds and thousands. As I savoured every mouthful I wished the culinary delight would never end. To this day I love fairy bread. My mother never approved of multi coloured sprinkles - "Ach, these Australians, how they can eat this artificial food. Their teeth will all fall out with this rubbish." Uncle Don's did I suppose.
Spinny Boy, the dachshund was a delight and he followed us around, just like John's dog Susie had. Libby and I used to dress him up in baby clothes including little bonnets and wheel him around in a doll's pram. He was usually patient and put up with the humiliation unless he saw a cat. He hated cats and would chase them barking fiercely. One day as we were taking our 'baby' for a walk down to Mosman wharf Spinny Boy saw a cat and leapt out of the pram dressed in all his finery. He raced off, his outfit billowing behind him and we couldn't catch him so reluctantly went back home. Hours later Spinny Boy limped home. It must have taken him ages because he was still wearing the dress but his poor little stumpy legs were all tangled up inside and the bonnet had slipped around under his chin. He certainly was a sorry sight - funny though.
Libby moved away to Springwood in the Blue Mountains when we were about 10 or 11. Neither of us wanted her to go and we tied our arms and legs together not wanting to be separated. We cried and cried and both sets of parents were upset to see our distress but the house had been purchased and the move took place of course.
We wrote to each other for a while and also spent many happy holidays at each other's place but we grew up and apart.
Spinny Boy unfortunately got bitten by a paralysis tick. He survived but his hind legs never worked properly again although he got around pretty efficiently, all be it in a fairly ungainly manner. He was a tough little character.
Libby married and had three children and also lives in Canberra. Her parents sadly passed away years ago. Our lives moved apart and these days we keep in touch with Christmas letters.
One day Mrs Hummerston told me that new people were moving in on the weekend - a mother, father and a little girl about my age, 6. As well they had a dog. I was so excited. I had always loved animals and the cats at the flats were a joy, but a live-in dog. Wow! I couldn't wait.
There was the usual confusion when a new family arrived with removalists struggling with the lack of road and then having to carry heavy pieces of furniture along the obstacle course to the flat. It was always good to stay out of the way for a while because there were plenty of cranky people. I kept peeping out hoping to catch sight of the little girl and her little dog.
Finally, the move completed, we were invited to the Hummerstons' place to meet our new neighbours and have a cup of tea. I can remember being overwhelmed with shyness, I held my mother's hand tightly as we went up the stairs for our first meeting.
There were Mr and Mrs B and their daughter Libby. She was a real blond cutie and I liked her instantly. Next we were introduced to Spinny Boy, a black and tan mini dachshund. I loved him at once. His name was created by Libby who particularly loved spinach at the time the little dog was bought.
Libby and I were best friends for ages. We had secrets and dressed up and put on makeup and had a fabulous relationship. Now that there were three kids in the neighbourhood who played together, John, Libby and I there were also many more conflicts when we would take sides and have arguments. My mother told me I would come home crying saying that I was NEVER going to play with them again. Of course this never lasted and we would be best friends again by the next day.
We were school aged and as time went on John got his own friends and didn't play with us so often anymore although we would slot into the old friendship as soon as we were together.
Libby and I had sleepovers where we would talk and giggle for hours and the B's would take me on excursions as would my parents take Libby. We went to the Easter show and to the beach amongst other paces. As we were both only children it was wonderful to have a resident playmate.
One of my favourite memories is thanks to Mrs B. We were going to have a picnic day at school when we were in 1st grade. Party frocks and party food - I can't remember what this special occasion was for, but everyone was wild with excitement. My mother didn't understand the concept of party food, she thought it all a bit silly and planned to make my usual lunch of black bread with liverwurst or salami. Mrs B realising this was the case said she was happy to supply lunch for both girls that day. We had fairy bread!!!!!! I was in heaven!!!!! I had never eaten anything so absolutely delicious. White bread with the crusts cut off, butter and colourful hundreds and thousands. As I savoured every mouthful I wished the culinary delight would never end. To this day I love fairy bread. My mother never approved of multi coloured sprinkles - "Ach, these Australians, how they can eat this artificial food. Their teeth will all fall out with this rubbish." Uncle Don's did I suppose.
Spinny Boy, the dachshund was a delight and he followed us around, just like John's dog Susie had. Libby and I used to dress him up in baby clothes including little bonnets and wheel him around in a doll's pram. He was usually patient and put up with the humiliation unless he saw a cat. He hated cats and would chase them barking fiercely. One day as we were taking our 'baby' for a walk down to Mosman wharf Spinny Boy saw a cat and leapt out of the pram dressed in all his finery. He raced off, his outfit billowing behind him and we couldn't catch him so reluctantly went back home. Hours later Spinny Boy limped home. It must have taken him ages because he was still wearing the dress but his poor little stumpy legs were all tangled up inside and the bonnet had slipped around under his chin. He certainly was a sorry sight - funny though.
Libby moved away to Springwood in the Blue Mountains when we were about 10 or 11. Neither of us wanted her to go and we tied our arms and legs together not wanting to be separated. We cried and cried and both sets of parents were upset to see our distress but the house had been purchased and the move took place of course.
We wrote to each other for a while and also spent many happy holidays at each other's place but we grew up and apart.
Spinny Boy unfortunately got bitten by a paralysis tick. He survived but his hind legs never worked properly again although he got around pretty efficiently, all be it in a fairly ungainly manner. He was a tough little character.
Libby married and had three children and also lives in Canberra. Her parents sadly passed away years ago. Our lives moved apart and these days we keep in touch with Christmas letters.
Tales from Clitheroe flats - No 7 (part1)
In the time we were at Clitheroe No 7 had three lots of residents. Part 1 is about the first residents we knew there.
Mr and Mrs South and Mr McDonald lived there. I called Mrs South Aunty South, and her husband Uncle Don. Mr McDonald everyone called Mac and I called him Uncle Mac. Nobody ever quite
understood the relationship those three shared. Uncle Mac was a tenant supposedly but when eventually they all bought a house together, it was all a bit confusing.
Aunty South was a gentle, absolutely sweet lady and she loved to give me cuddles. She used to wear corsets which held her very upright and firm, but when those corsets were off she was gorgeously soft and I would sink into her in a most satisfying snuggly manner. On washing day the corsets would hang out on the line and were a fiercesome sight with boning and lacing and hooks and eyes and with suspenders hanging down.
Aunty South was a war bride. Why she chose Uncle Don is anyone's guess. She was refined and gentle and he was rough as guts, skinny as a rake and tiny. He could easily have been a jockey.
Aunty South said he was the laziest person she had ever met. He could turn his hand to almost anything, but usually chose not to. He had no teeth because, as Aunty South said, he was too lazy to chew. As a returned soldier his medical necessities were looked after and he was given a new set of teeth every so often. They lived in a drawer. Aunty South said, "one day those teeth are going to jump out of the drawer and bite you on the bum!" He didn't care and I can't remember him ever wearing them.
Uncle Mac, on the other hand, was a refined, kind, tallish, roundish gentleman who helped Aunty South around the place. We all really liked him. He was almost the direct opposite of Uncle Don. When people met the trio for the first time everyone assumed that Aunty South and Uncle Mac were the married couple.
Uncle Don's passion was magic tricks. He was a really good magician and had a performance in which he did his tricks at charity events until he was in his 80s. I can remember being astonished and amazed when he magically transformed a cake pan full of cigarette butts into a sponge cake and pulled a 1952 penny that we had all examined out of a whole sack of pennies without even looking. He was driven when he was interested. Only he wasn't interested that often.
Uncle Don did make me my first dressing table which I loved for ages. He also rescued me from a funnel web spider. One day he captured another funnel web spider in a glass jar and brought it down to our flat so that we knew what to look out for. The spider was terrifying. It was in the jar rearing up, huge, black and hairy. After my parents had examined it, my father announced that I could take it back to the Souths' place. I was scared and didn't want to. The Souths' place was one of the funny hodge podge flats. To get there from the front gate of the property you had to walk up a long concrete path, up 4 steps, past our courtyard, up about 20 brick steps, along another long concrete pathway and then down 4 steps and onto a wooden walkway which led to their door. There was no back door. As an imaginative child I had visions of dropping and smashing the jar on the steps, the spider jumping out and biting me and me dying in agony. My parents insisted that I don't be a coward and return the spider, so extremely frightened, and super carefully I carried the jar with its dreadful contents back to Uncle Don. Non of my fears eventuated, but as a result I had nightmares for years.
Uncle Mac bought a car. There was great excitement when we knew that he had picked it up and was bringing it home. All the neighbours went out to admire the new purchase. There was a collective gasp and then much laughter when Uncle Mac drove to where the residents' cars were parked (some distance from the flats because the road sort of petered out near the front gate and there was quite a drop next to that bit of road so you couldn't park there). The car was a real vintage number dating from about the 1930's. It was a box-like vehicle (think model T Ford) with skinny tyres. Uncle Mac was so proud. He never drove above 25mph because he had a fear of the tyres bursting, so if he ever gave us a lift it took absolutely ages to get anywhere. Aunty South was equally proud of the car and she and Uncle Mac would go on excursions which they both obviously enjoyed.
I used to love spending time with Aunty South and would often sit in her kitchen watching her cook. The food was so different from anything my mother made. She baked sponge cakes and often made rice puddings. Uncle Don refused to eat fruit or vegetables so she made lots of mushy stews. He loved sweets so there were bowls of lollies around the place. No wonder he didn't have any teeth!
Aunty South and Mrs Hummerston were direct neighbours and good friends. They both spent a lot of time with me and we became very fond of each other. The two ladies asked my mother if they could take me into the city to visit Father Christmas. My mother had never allowed me to be anywhere without her but she agreed and I was taken into the city two years in a row by these two delightful surrogate aunties.
Aunty South, Uncle Don and Uncle Mac bought themselves a tiny little house not too far away on Avenue Road when I was about 5. We visited often.
After several years Uncle Mac was stricken with prostate cancer and Aunty South nursed him until he died. She lived on for a few years but then had a stroke and had to be moved into a nursing home where she died.
Uncle Don, who had smoked like a chimney from the age of 12, who ate sweets, white bread and mush and enjoyed more than the occasional beer, lived well into his 80's. The secret to his long life was that he didn't worry about a thing. He enjoyed every day and figured that problems would sort themselves out if he worried about them or not. It used to drive Aunty South batty.
Perhaps his attitude is something we should all work on!
Mr and Mrs South and Mr McDonald lived there. I called Mrs South Aunty South, and her husband Uncle Don. Mr McDonald everyone called Mac and I called him Uncle Mac. Nobody ever quite
understood the relationship those three shared. Uncle Mac was a tenant supposedly but when eventually they all bought a house together, it was all a bit confusing.
Aunty South was a gentle, absolutely sweet lady and she loved to give me cuddles. She used to wear corsets which held her very upright and firm, but when those corsets were off she was gorgeously soft and I would sink into her in a most satisfying snuggly manner. On washing day the corsets would hang out on the line and were a fiercesome sight with boning and lacing and hooks and eyes and with suspenders hanging down.
Aunty South was a war bride. Why she chose Uncle Don is anyone's guess. She was refined and gentle and he was rough as guts, skinny as a rake and tiny. He could easily have been a jockey.
Aunty South said he was the laziest person she had ever met. He could turn his hand to almost anything, but usually chose not to. He had no teeth because, as Aunty South said, he was too lazy to chew. As a returned soldier his medical necessities were looked after and he was given a new set of teeth every so often. They lived in a drawer. Aunty South said, "one day those teeth are going to jump out of the drawer and bite you on the bum!" He didn't care and I can't remember him ever wearing them.
Uncle Mac, on the other hand, was a refined, kind, tallish, roundish gentleman who helped Aunty South around the place. We all really liked him. He was almost the direct opposite of Uncle Don. When people met the trio for the first time everyone assumed that Aunty South and Uncle Mac were the married couple.
Uncle Don's passion was magic tricks. He was a really good magician and had a performance in which he did his tricks at charity events until he was in his 80s. I can remember being astonished and amazed when he magically transformed a cake pan full of cigarette butts into a sponge cake and pulled a 1952 penny that we had all examined out of a whole sack of pennies without even looking. He was driven when he was interested. Only he wasn't interested that often.
Uncle Don did make me my first dressing table which I loved for ages. He also rescued me from a funnel web spider. One day he captured another funnel web spider in a glass jar and brought it down to our flat so that we knew what to look out for. The spider was terrifying. It was in the jar rearing up, huge, black and hairy. After my parents had examined it, my father announced that I could take it back to the Souths' place. I was scared and didn't want to. The Souths' place was one of the funny hodge podge flats. To get there from the front gate of the property you had to walk up a long concrete path, up 4 steps, past our courtyard, up about 20 brick steps, along another long concrete pathway and then down 4 steps and onto a wooden walkway which led to their door. There was no back door. As an imaginative child I had visions of dropping and smashing the jar on the steps, the spider jumping out and biting me and me dying in agony. My parents insisted that I don't be a coward and return the spider, so extremely frightened, and super carefully I carried the jar with its dreadful contents back to Uncle Don. Non of my fears eventuated, but as a result I had nightmares for years.
Uncle Mac bought a car. There was great excitement when we knew that he had picked it up and was bringing it home. All the neighbours went out to admire the new purchase. There was a collective gasp and then much laughter when Uncle Mac drove to where the residents' cars were parked (some distance from the flats because the road sort of petered out near the front gate and there was quite a drop next to that bit of road so you couldn't park there). The car was a real vintage number dating from about the 1930's. It was a box-like vehicle (think model T Ford) with skinny tyres. Uncle Mac was so proud. He never drove above 25mph because he had a fear of the tyres bursting, so if he ever gave us a lift it took absolutely ages to get anywhere. Aunty South was equally proud of the car and she and Uncle Mac would go on excursions which they both obviously enjoyed.
I used to love spending time with Aunty South and would often sit in her kitchen watching her cook. The food was so different from anything my mother made. She baked sponge cakes and often made rice puddings. Uncle Don refused to eat fruit or vegetables so she made lots of mushy stews. He loved sweets so there were bowls of lollies around the place. No wonder he didn't have any teeth!
Aunty South and Mrs Hummerston were direct neighbours and good friends. They both spent a lot of time with me and we became very fond of each other. The two ladies asked my mother if they could take me into the city to visit Father Christmas. My mother had never allowed me to be anywhere without her but she agreed and I was taken into the city two years in a row by these two delightful surrogate aunties.
Aunty South, Uncle Don and Uncle Mac bought themselves a tiny little house not too far away on Avenue Road when I was about 5. We visited often.
After several years Uncle Mac was stricken with prostate cancer and Aunty South nursed him until he died. She lived on for a few years but then had a stroke and had to be moved into a nursing home where she died.
Uncle Don, who had smoked like a chimney from the age of 12, who ate sweets, white bread and mush and enjoyed more than the occasional beer, lived well into his 80's. The secret to his long life was that he didn't worry about a thing. He enjoyed every day and figured that problems would sort themselves out if he worried about them or not. It used to drive Aunty South batty.
Perhaps his attitude is something we should all work on!
Saturday 17 November 2012
Tales from Clitheroe flats No 6 and the shack up the back
Clitheroe had originally been a large family home which had been converted into flats. Not too much thought had gone into the conversion and there were strange idiosyncratic corners and add-ons. Flat number 6 was one these.
There must have been a space beside No 5 and underneath No 7. What could be done about it? Some bright spark must have decided to build another flat there although the space was completely unsuitable. Squashed against the hillside and so cramped it wasn't much larger than a caravan, there were no windows along the back or sides and only high windows at the front. Also there was only one door into the dwelling. The people who lived there kept the door open so a bit of light could get in.
A kitchenette and the tiniest of bathrooms came off the living area. It was damp and dark and probably terribly unhealthy. The only positive thing about the place was that it must have been very cheap to rent. Amongst others I do remember a married couple with a baby living there briefly.
We had an amazing landlord about whom I will write in a future blog. One wonders if he had any compassion for the desperate people who rented that appalling space.
As one might suspect there was a reasonably high turnover in that flat so those residents never got to belong to the Clitheroe 'family'.
Right up the back of the property was a shack which also got rented out as a flat. I must have been in it because I remember a kitchenette which consisted of a bench with a washing up bowl and a gas ring. There was no running water. I think the resident had to get water from a tap that was a bit further down near the Broses' place. The allocated toilet was opposite our back door and next to Mrs Bosique's kitchen door. It was, I estimate, at least 50 metres from the dwelling! I don't remember ever seeing the resident going in there although I guess he did, even if it was to empty a chamber pot.
I only ever recall strange old men living in the shack. One who was there for a while even had chooks which annoyed the residents in No 7 because there was a rooster that crowed at all hours. I can't remember any details apart from the fact that there was an unhappy ending to the relationship - something to do with the chooks I believe.
The shack didn't even have an allocated letterbox, so it and other parts of Clitheroe were probably unapproved structures. The landlord collected rent nevertheless.
We all got on with our lives and were slightly amused about the transient residents. I guess we were all hard up and just accepted that someone would put up with these dreadful conditions. It was a step up from being completely homeless.
There must have been a space beside No 5 and underneath No 7. What could be done about it? Some bright spark must have decided to build another flat there although the space was completely unsuitable. Squashed against the hillside and so cramped it wasn't much larger than a caravan, there were no windows along the back or sides and only high windows at the front. Also there was only one door into the dwelling. The people who lived there kept the door open so a bit of light could get in.
A kitchenette and the tiniest of bathrooms came off the living area. It was damp and dark and probably terribly unhealthy. The only positive thing about the place was that it must have been very cheap to rent. Amongst others I do remember a married couple with a baby living there briefly.
We had an amazing landlord about whom I will write in a future blog. One wonders if he had any compassion for the desperate people who rented that appalling space.
As one might suspect there was a reasonably high turnover in that flat so those residents never got to belong to the Clitheroe 'family'.
Right up the back of the property was a shack which also got rented out as a flat. I must have been in it because I remember a kitchenette which consisted of a bench with a washing up bowl and a gas ring. There was no running water. I think the resident had to get water from a tap that was a bit further down near the Broses' place. The allocated toilet was opposite our back door and next to Mrs Bosique's kitchen door. It was, I estimate, at least 50 metres from the dwelling! I don't remember ever seeing the resident going in there although I guess he did, even if it was to empty a chamber pot.
I only ever recall strange old men living in the shack. One who was there for a while even had chooks which annoyed the residents in No 7 because there was a rooster that crowed at all hours. I can't remember any details apart from the fact that there was an unhappy ending to the relationship - something to do with the chooks I believe.
The shack didn't even have an allocated letterbox, so it and other parts of Clitheroe were probably unapproved structures. The landlord collected rent nevertheless.
We all got on with our lives and were slightly amused about the transient residents. I guess we were all hard up and just accepted that someone would put up with these dreadful conditions. It was a step up from being completely homeless.
Monday 12 November 2012
Tales from Clitheroe flats - No 5
A family, I believe, called the Condons lived in No 5. I really don't remember them at all as they moved away when I was very little and then the flat remained empty for some time before the N. family moved in. Mr and Mrs N. were a delightful couple and with them they brought two children, Pamela who was about 4 years younger than me, and Michael who was about 2 and very cute. After a while a baby arrived - little Katie who I thought was gorgeous.
It was wonderful having other children at the flats and I relished being a big sister to them. I helped Mrs N. with the kids in the evening, bathing them while she cooked dinner. Then I'd help with feeding them. One thing I remember with amusement is that Michael hated peas. He pretended to eat them but secretly hid them down his pyjama pants, which was a good hiding place until he stood up. I laughed so much that his mother couldn't get as cross as she wanted.
Mrs N. was tiny in all directions in an era when being buxom was the fashion. One day when she was out, the kids were having a sticky beak through her drawers and found what they thought were foam rubber party hats. Pamela and Michael put them on their heads and paraded them around the flats showing them to all the residents who were very complimentary but secretly had a good laugh. Mrs N. nearly died of embarrassment when she came home to discover that her children had been parading her 'falsies' around the neighbourhood.
One favourite game we had was 'ponies'. We all had broomsticks which had string 'bridles' and we would gallop around and around on the concrete areas of the flats, neighing and rearing up having a thoroughly wonderful imaginative game. Those broomsticks got such a workout that they ended up being dangerously sharpened from being dragged on the rough ground. At the end of the day when we were summonsed inside for dinner, we would stable the 'ponies' in a corner next to our flat until they were called into service again.
Mr N. worked for the Queensland travel bureau and the family would head off to Rockhampton, I think, for a holiday every year. I then had the pleasure of minding Twinkie, a dear little grey and white striped cat, while they were gone. I also watered their pot plants and they would pay me a little something when they came back, which was always very welcome.
Pamela and Michael went to Mosman Infants and then Primary school and we all walked home together. I made up stories to tell them on the way home and tried to have a suspenseful ending which I would then continue the next day. It was fun and made the long walk home seem shorter, especially in summer when the bitumen melted and formed itself into bubbles which we would squash and we also nearly melted in the heat.
There was a mulberry tree on the way home. The mulberries were delicious and we could never resist having a feast resulting in purple fingers and tongues as well as quite a few stains on our uniforms. So our mothers didn't get too cross about the mess we would fill our lunch boxes with more of the bounty and take it home to share.
The N's bought a little blue car and we would all pile in. Mrs N. driving, my mother with baby Katie on her lap were in front while Pamela, Michael, probably John, another girl, Libby and I were squashed in the back. There weren't any seat belts of course.
Pamela went to my high school Cremorne Girls' High and I felt proud as punch to be able to show her the ropes.
The N's bought themselves a house and moved away from Clitheroe not long after we did. We stayed in touch for years before they moved to Queensland. One day, years later, when I had married and moved to Canberra I received a call from Michael who happened to be in Canberra. He was working for the Aboriginal legal service and was here for work. It was great catching up. Pamela has also been in touch and we have caught up in person on a few occasions as well as exchanging the odd Christmas letter. Katie lives in Sydney I believe but we have never been in touch. The last I heard of Mr and Mrs N. was that their health wasn't good.
How lucky were we and how much exercise did we have galloping about and having those imaginative adventures. I reflect on the fact that today's children sit inside playing computer games or are driven to organised activities. The olden days sometimes were better.
It was wonderful having other children at the flats and I relished being a big sister to them. I helped Mrs N. with the kids in the evening, bathing them while she cooked dinner. Then I'd help with feeding them. One thing I remember with amusement is that Michael hated peas. He pretended to eat them but secretly hid them down his pyjama pants, which was a good hiding place until he stood up. I laughed so much that his mother couldn't get as cross as she wanted.
Mrs N. was tiny in all directions in an era when being buxom was the fashion. One day when she was out, the kids were having a sticky beak through her drawers and found what they thought were foam rubber party hats. Pamela and Michael put them on their heads and paraded them around the flats showing them to all the residents who were very complimentary but secretly had a good laugh. Mrs N. nearly died of embarrassment when she came home to discover that her children had been parading her 'falsies' around the neighbourhood.
One favourite game we had was 'ponies'. We all had broomsticks which had string 'bridles' and we would gallop around and around on the concrete areas of the flats, neighing and rearing up having a thoroughly wonderful imaginative game. Those broomsticks got such a workout that they ended up being dangerously sharpened from being dragged on the rough ground. At the end of the day when we were summonsed inside for dinner, we would stable the 'ponies' in a corner next to our flat until they were called into service again.
Mr N. worked for the Queensland travel bureau and the family would head off to Rockhampton, I think, for a holiday every year. I then had the pleasure of minding Twinkie, a dear little grey and white striped cat, while they were gone. I also watered their pot plants and they would pay me a little something when they came back, which was always very welcome.
Pamela and Michael went to Mosman Infants and then Primary school and we all walked home together. I made up stories to tell them on the way home and tried to have a suspenseful ending which I would then continue the next day. It was fun and made the long walk home seem shorter, especially in summer when the bitumen melted and formed itself into bubbles which we would squash and we also nearly melted in the heat.
There was a mulberry tree on the way home. The mulberries were delicious and we could never resist having a feast resulting in purple fingers and tongues as well as quite a few stains on our uniforms. So our mothers didn't get too cross about the mess we would fill our lunch boxes with more of the bounty and take it home to share.
The N's bought a little blue car and we would all pile in. Mrs N. driving, my mother with baby Katie on her lap were in front while Pamela, Michael, probably John, another girl, Libby and I were squashed in the back. There weren't any seat belts of course.
Pamela went to my high school Cremorne Girls' High and I felt proud as punch to be able to show her the ropes.
The N's bought themselves a house and moved away from Clitheroe not long after we did. We stayed in touch for years before they moved to Queensland. One day, years later, when I had married and moved to Canberra I received a call from Michael who happened to be in Canberra. He was working for the Aboriginal legal service and was here for work. It was great catching up. Pamela has also been in touch and we have caught up in person on a few occasions as well as exchanging the odd Christmas letter. Katie lives in Sydney I believe but we have never been in touch. The last I heard of Mr and Mrs N. was that their health wasn't good.
How lucky were we and how much exercise did we have galloping about and having those imaginative adventures. I reflect on the fact that today's children sit inside playing computer games or are driven to organised activities. The olden days sometimes were better.
Sunday 11 November 2012
My childhood friend John
There were only four houses in the area which became Harnett Ave when we first came to Australia. The houses were fairly remote and set in the bush. First was Reid House, the oldest dwelling, made of convict hewn sandstone, next came Clitheroe flats which also had convict hewn sandstone blocks in the foundations and the large retaining wall which was beside the 'road' that went up the hill. There was a tennis court and then the Sommervilles' house and finally John's place where he lived with his parents Mr and Mrs MacK. and his two sisters Pam and Joan.
My parents were at least 10 years older than John's parents but they became good friends and spent many happy hours together.
John's mother, Ishbell was Scottish and had the most beautiful skin which my mother really envied. Ron, the father was tall and handsome and had been an airman during the war. John used to love wearing the navy blue captain's cap with the golden wing insignia.
They owned a much loved corgi called Susie who came on many of our adventures.
John and I were the best of companions. We loved playing 'mothers and fathers' and were always building cubbies. I remember one cubby that my father helped us build. In the bush, directly below the flats, two large rocks jutted out from the rock wall. We found an old door (you never knew what you would find under Mrs Bosique's verandah - everyone just stacked things there) and that, wedged onto the rocks, became the roof of the cubby.We found an old ironing board and that, covered with a blanket, became a seat inside. A large piece of canvass was hung from 'the roof' and voila! We had a front wall.
The neighbours all visited our splendid cubby and donated various bits and pieces such as crockery to make it more homey. There were lots of crevices in the rocks so we had plenty of places to stack these treasures. When I think about it now my blood runs cold - there were so many funnel web spiders in those sandstone fissures we are lucky we didn't get bitten. It's good that you don't worry about such things as a child or you would never do anything.
We had picnics in our cubby and I always had a vase of flowers in there to make it look pretty. We would go off adventuring in the bush and then 'come home' for a rest or a cup of pretend tea.
One day while out adventuring we noticed smoke billowing from under an overhanging rock which was like a cave. We decided that it must be a bush fire and that we would save the day and become heroes. We rushed up to Clitheroe to fill Aunty Helen's big old metal watering can and then struggled together with the can down the hill finally managing to tip it over the edge. Angry shouts erupted. We had managed to douse the campfire and the boy scouts who were about to have a cookout. The scouts came barreling out of the cave. We dropped the watering can in fright and ran to hide. And there we were trying to save the world! Luckily Aunty Helen's watering can wasn't touched so eventually we retrieved it and didn't mention the incident to anyone.
John was very kind. I had had a teddy bear which had come from India with us but one day I left him somewhere in the bush. We searched and searched, even my parents helped, but he was not to be found, so I didn't have a toy to cuddle. John generously lent me his gollywog and his little suitcase that we made into a bed for the golly. It was my birthday not long after and I received a doll from Germany so Golly could go back to his real home.
John had a wonderful blue pedal car. Both of us would squeeze in and career around the patio in front of his house with Susie running along beside us. Sometimes even she got to have a ride. It was such fun but whenever I now see one of those pedal cars I can't imagine how we both fitted in!
John was also really brave, I thought. If I had been playing at his place and it got late he would escort me home. The path was very dark with the looming bush all around and I was afraid of bogey men, but John protected me and always got me home safely.
We played Tarzan and Jane and made bows and arrows and swung on branches. We also explored the gullies and waterfalls around Reid Park and crept through the forbidden drain that ran under the park. We had been told not to play in the storm water drain, but we did, and had I not slipped and fallen, ending up covered in green slime, we would probably not have been found out. That day ended in tears!
One day as we were wandering through the bush we chanced upon some lovers. We took exception to their behaviour and John threw a stone which unfortunately hit the woman on the head. The man jumped up and furiously chased us through the bush. Luckily we knew the area well and hid behind an old wall as he blundered by. It was the first time I was so scared I thought I was going to wet myself. Eventually, after what seemed like hours, we emerged and slunk home - not mentioning the incident to anyone.
John and I planned to marry when we grew up and had even chosen the house, a pink and blue art deco extravaganza in Seaforth called something like 'Blue Pacific'. Eventually his family moved away to a beautiful large house with views over Balmoral Beach. We stayed friends with his family but he went to a different school, our interests and friends diverged and then finally we lost contact.
John and I had a wonderful friendship. It would be great if we could meet up again sometime.
Addendum to this story:
After writing about John I started thinking about his parents. The last time I saw them was at my mother's funeral in 2004. I knew where they had moved to so rang up on spec. Mrs MacK. answered and we had a lovely chat. Later Mr MacK. gave me
John's address in Queensland so I shall write and hopefully reestablish a
connection, even if it is only an annual Christmas letter. The MacK.s sounded
great. They are both in their 90's but living independently and very proud of their children, grandchildren and 24 great grandchildren. I shall keep in touch with these beautiful people.
My parents were at least 10 years older than John's parents but they became good friends and spent many happy hours together.
John's mother, Ishbell was Scottish and had the most beautiful skin which my mother really envied. Ron, the father was tall and handsome and had been an airman during the war. John used to love wearing the navy blue captain's cap with the golden wing insignia.
They owned a much loved corgi called Susie who came on many of our adventures.
John and I were the best of companions. We loved playing 'mothers and fathers' and were always building cubbies. I remember one cubby that my father helped us build. In the bush, directly below the flats, two large rocks jutted out from the rock wall. We found an old door (you never knew what you would find under Mrs Bosique's verandah - everyone just stacked things there) and that, wedged onto the rocks, became the roof of the cubby.We found an old ironing board and that, covered with a blanket, became a seat inside. A large piece of canvass was hung from 'the roof' and voila! We had a front wall.
The neighbours all visited our splendid cubby and donated various bits and pieces such as crockery to make it more homey. There were lots of crevices in the rocks so we had plenty of places to stack these treasures. When I think about it now my blood runs cold - there were so many funnel web spiders in those sandstone fissures we are lucky we didn't get bitten. It's good that you don't worry about such things as a child or you would never do anything.
We had picnics in our cubby and I always had a vase of flowers in there to make it look pretty. We would go off adventuring in the bush and then 'come home' for a rest or a cup of pretend tea.
One day while out adventuring we noticed smoke billowing from under an overhanging rock which was like a cave. We decided that it must be a bush fire and that we would save the day and become heroes. We rushed up to Clitheroe to fill Aunty Helen's big old metal watering can and then struggled together with the can down the hill finally managing to tip it over the edge. Angry shouts erupted. We had managed to douse the campfire and the boy scouts who were about to have a cookout. The scouts came barreling out of the cave. We dropped the watering can in fright and ran to hide. And there we were trying to save the world! Luckily Aunty Helen's watering can wasn't touched so eventually we retrieved it and didn't mention the incident to anyone.
John was very kind. I had had a teddy bear which had come from India with us but one day I left him somewhere in the bush. We searched and searched, even my parents helped, but he was not to be found, so I didn't have a toy to cuddle. John generously lent me his gollywog and his little suitcase that we made into a bed for the golly. It was my birthday not long after and I received a doll from Germany so Golly could go back to his real home.
John had a wonderful blue pedal car. Both of us would squeeze in and career around the patio in front of his house with Susie running along beside us. Sometimes even she got to have a ride. It was such fun but whenever I now see one of those pedal cars I can't imagine how we both fitted in!
John was also really brave, I thought. If I had been playing at his place and it got late he would escort me home. The path was very dark with the looming bush all around and I was afraid of bogey men, but John protected me and always got me home safely.
We played Tarzan and Jane and made bows and arrows and swung on branches. We also explored the gullies and waterfalls around Reid Park and crept through the forbidden drain that ran under the park. We had been told not to play in the storm water drain, but we did, and had I not slipped and fallen, ending up covered in green slime, we would probably not have been found out. That day ended in tears!
One day as we were wandering through the bush we chanced upon some lovers. We took exception to their behaviour and John threw a stone which unfortunately hit the woman on the head. The man jumped up and furiously chased us through the bush. Luckily we knew the area well and hid behind an old wall as he blundered by. It was the first time I was so scared I thought I was going to wet myself. Eventually, after what seemed like hours, we emerged and slunk home - not mentioning the incident to anyone.
John and I planned to marry when we grew up and had even chosen the house, a pink and blue art deco extravaganza in Seaforth called something like 'Blue Pacific'. Eventually his family moved away to a beautiful large house with views over Balmoral Beach. We stayed friends with his family but he went to a different school, our interests and friends diverged and then finally we lost contact.
John and I had a wonderful friendship. It would be great if we could meet up again sometime.
Addendum to this story:
After writing about John I started thinking about his parents. The last time I saw them was at my mother's funeral in 2004. I knew where they had moved to so rang up on spec. Mrs MacK. answered and we had a lovely chat. Later Mr MacK. gave me
John's address in Queensland so I shall write and hopefully reestablish a
connection, even if it is only an annual Christmas letter. The MacK.s sounded
great. They are both in their 90's but living independently and very proud of their children, grandchildren and 24 great grandchildren. I shall keep in touch with these beautiful people.
Friday 9 November 2012
Tales from Clitheroe flats - No.4
Dr and Mrs Brose lived directly above us in No 4. They shared the dim stairwell with Aunty Helen and argued with her about whose turn it was to replace the lightbulb whenever it died leading to it often being spookily dark in there.
The Broses were already quite old compared to the other neighbours when we moved in - ancient, I thought. I would go up and visit and plink around on their baby grand piano or ride the donkey that Mrs Brose's brother had made, but I didn't have the close relationship with them that I had with most of the other neighbours although Mrs Brose was really kind to me and once gave me a most beautiful petticoat that will feature in a future blog.
Mrs Brose was variously called 'her Majesty' or 'Mrs High and Mighty' behind her back by the other neighbours (except my parents) as she grandly swept about. She had been an actress, Jean Robertson, and had starred on the stage in Australia and in England, mainly in the 20's and 30's. When we knew her she performed in radio plays, which were very popular in the 50's. In those days there was often a live audience at those performances and she would grandly depart for the radio theatre wearing evening gowns and furs. I thought it unbelievably glamorous. Sometimes when I went to visit her she would let me drape myself in her silk wraps or furs. She had looked beautiful as a young woman and would tell me about herself and the other actors in the multitude of photos that covered the walls of their flat. Unfortunately I can't remember anything about those conversations, it was just too long ago. When I knew her Mrs Brose dyed her hair a rich chestnut so that she looked younger and tried to avoid ever being photographed. If she happened to be snapped by the neighbours at a social event she would deny that it was her in the photo and would refuse to look at it.
Mrs Brose's brother had worked on the big face at the entrance of Luna Park when it was first erected in Sydney. He was some kind of sculptor, I think, and made the model of his sister's hands which lay on the piano lid as well as the beautiful little donkey on wheels that I loved to ride. He would come and visit every so often and apparently I decided that he looked like the picture of Uncle Toby on the front of boxes of oats and insisted on calling him Uncle Toby. Everyone thought that was so funny that he was called Toby by everyone thereafter. I have no idea what his real name was.
In her later years Mrs Brose became quite forgetful. She would start filling the bath and then decide to go to the shops. The bath would overflow and then flood the floor. There were no drains in the floor so the water would work its way through the floor and then through the ceiling into our place. I'm not sure how, but rather than running down the walls, the water would fall through the ceiling like rain. I can remember going to the toilet holding an umbrella during the downpours. My mother ended up with a huge cleaning job and stemming the flow before it worked its way into our hallway was a big challenge. Because she was forgetful Mrs Brose often wouldn't lock the door so turning the water off wasn't a problem. It was another story if the door was locked and someone had to break in. We thought it fairly funny the first few times but the novelty wore off pretty quickly.
When I was thinking about the Broses the other day, I decided to google 'Jean Robertson' (Mrs Brose) and through that discovered that it was her husband Henry who was actually the more famous one in the family.
Henry was a German speaker and through him my parents were introduced to Dr Schweizer, the dentist. I called Mr Brose Onkel Doktor and spoke German with him.
In the 1940's, 50's and 60's Henry Brose was the Australian agent for Bioglan Laboratories and was a great advocate for vitamins which really weren't commonly taken in those days. Certainly people didn't know much about them at all and many people in that era suffered from vitamin deficiencies, particularly if they came from poorer socio economic groups and didn't eat fruit or vegetables.
No 4 always smelled of Vitamin B which Dr Brose considered a miracle vitamin. He used to give us bottles of Vitamin C particularly if we had colds. My mother was a great believer and fed me the tablets and also insisted I have various health giving tonics at the change of seasons. All I remember is that I would complain bitterly because they tasted foul. My mother maintained that the worse they tasted the better they were for you.
I found out the following facts when I did my google search. Dr Brose had a long and varied scientific career but had also been a gifted pianist, hence the baby grand piano in their flat, which I don't recall ever being played. He taught French in Adelaide before being awarded a Rhodes scholarship in 1913. He did research and held positions as physicist, pathologist and biochemist. He translated German physics texts into English, studied mathematics at Oxford and taught physics at the University of Sydney and at the University College in Nottingham where he acted as Albert Einstein's interpreter in 1930 and 31.
Dr Brose was in the wrong place at the wrong time twice in his life. He was interned in Germany during WW1, being considered an enemy alien seeing he had been born in Australia. To add insult to injury he was interned in Australia during WW2 because he was a German speaker. He had a terrible time whilst being interned in Australia. An academic, with little physical prowess, he was sent out to do hard manual labour on farms. Mrs Brose mounted a campaign to have him released and was finally successful. She had kept the Bioglan business going throughout this difficult time.
Dr Brose became interested in cancer research and started giving Vitamin injections as cancer cures. His reputation suffered.
I didn't know all those details about his life and I don't know that my parents did either. They were on first name terms with him very early on, so they must have got on really well.
There is a little picture of Dr Brose in one of the articles I looked up. He had been a good looking man and must have been quite a catch or the glamorous Jean Robertson wouldn't have had her head turned, but I remember him as a little white haired stooped figure. The poor man got Parkinson's disease. I visited him and we spoke as equals and giggled about monkey bottoms, of all things. He was diminished in mind as well as body. The Broses had a live-in nurse for a while but Henry was moved away and died in a nursing home in 1965 aged 75. His wife Jean lived out her days in Clitheroe but only survived him by two years. Unlike some of the other neighbours, there was a son. I don't think I ever met him and am not sure that he wasn't overseas somewhere.
How lucky was I to have had the Broses in my life! Both were idiosyncratic and so interesting.
The Broses were already quite old compared to the other neighbours when we moved in - ancient, I thought. I would go up and visit and plink around on their baby grand piano or ride the donkey that Mrs Brose's brother had made, but I didn't have the close relationship with them that I had with most of the other neighbours although Mrs Brose was really kind to me and once gave me a most beautiful petticoat that will feature in a future blog.
Mrs Brose was variously called 'her Majesty' or 'Mrs High and Mighty' behind her back by the other neighbours (except my parents) as she grandly swept about. She had been an actress, Jean Robertson, and had starred on the stage in Australia and in England, mainly in the 20's and 30's. When we knew her she performed in radio plays, which were very popular in the 50's. In those days there was often a live audience at those performances and she would grandly depart for the radio theatre wearing evening gowns and furs. I thought it unbelievably glamorous. Sometimes when I went to visit her she would let me drape myself in her silk wraps or furs. She had looked beautiful as a young woman and would tell me about herself and the other actors in the multitude of photos that covered the walls of their flat. Unfortunately I can't remember anything about those conversations, it was just too long ago. When I knew her Mrs Brose dyed her hair a rich chestnut so that she looked younger and tried to avoid ever being photographed. If she happened to be snapped by the neighbours at a social event she would deny that it was her in the photo and would refuse to look at it.
Mrs Brose's brother had worked on the big face at the entrance of Luna Park when it was first erected in Sydney. He was some kind of sculptor, I think, and made the model of his sister's hands which lay on the piano lid as well as the beautiful little donkey on wheels that I loved to ride. He would come and visit every so often and apparently I decided that he looked like the picture of Uncle Toby on the front of boxes of oats and insisted on calling him Uncle Toby. Everyone thought that was so funny that he was called Toby by everyone thereafter. I have no idea what his real name was.
In her later years Mrs Brose became quite forgetful. She would start filling the bath and then decide to go to the shops. The bath would overflow and then flood the floor. There were no drains in the floor so the water would work its way through the floor and then through the ceiling into our place. I'm not sure how, but rather than running down the walls, the water would fall through the ceiling like rain. I can remember going to the toilet holding an umbrella during the downpours. My mother ended up with a huge cleaning job and stemming the flow before it worked its way into our hallway was a big challenge. Because she was forgetful Mrs Brose often wouldn't lock the door so turning the water off wasn't a problem. It was another story if the door was locked and someone had to break in. We thought it fairly funny the first few times but the novelty wore off pretty quickly.
When I was thinking about the Broses the other day, I decided to google 'Jean Robertson' (Mrs Brose) and through that discovered that it was her husband Henry who was actually the more famous one in the family.
Henry was a German speaker and through him my parents were introduced to Dr Schweizer, the dentist. I called Mr Brose Onkel Doktor and spoke German with him.
In the 1940's, 50's and 60's Henry Brose was the Australian agent for Bioglan Laboratories and was a great advocate for vitamins which really weren't commonly taken in those days. Certainly people didn't know much about them at all and many people in that era suffered from vitamin deficiencies, particularly if they came from poorer socio economic groups and didn't eat fruit or vegetables.
No 4 always smelled of Vitamin B which Dr Brose considered a miracle vitamin. He used to give us bottles of Vitamin C particularly if we had colds. My mother was a great believer and fed me the tablets and also insisted I have various health giving tonics at the change of seasons. All I remember is that I would complain bitterly because they tasted foul. My mother maintained that the worse they tasted the better they were for you.
I found out the following facts when I did my google search. Dr Brose had a long and varied scientific career but had also been a gifted pianist, hence the baby grand piano in their flat, which I don't recall ever being played. He taught French in Adelaide before being awarded a Rhodes scholarship in 1913. He did research and held positions as physicist, pathologist and biochemist. He translated German physics texts into English, studied mathematics at Oxford and taught physics at the University of Sydney and at the University College in Nottingham where he acted as Albert Einstein's interpreter in 1930 and 31.
Dr Brose was in the wrong place at the wrong time twice in his life. He was interned in Germany during WW1, being considered an enemy alien seeing he had been born in Australia. To add insult to injury he was interned in Australia during WW2 because he was a German speaker. He had a terrible time whilst being interned in Australia. An academic, with little physical prowess, he was sent out to do hard manual labour on farms. Mrs Brose mounted a campaign to have him released and was finally successful. She had kept the Bioglan business going throughout this difficult time.
Dr Brose became interested in cancer research and started giving Vitamin injections as cancer cures. His reputation suffered.
I didn't know all those details about his life and I don't know that my parents did either. They were on first name terms with him very early on, so they must have got on really well.
There is a little picture of Dr Brose in one of the articles I looked up. He had been a good looking man and must have been quite a catch or the glamorous Jean Robertson wouldn't have had her head turned, but I remember him as a little white haired stooped figure. The poor man got Parkinson's disease. I visited him and we spoke as equals and giggled about monkey bottoms, of all things. He was diminished in mind as well as body. The Broses had a live-in nurse for a while but Henry was moved away and died in a nursing home in 1965 aged 75. His wife Jean lived out her days in Clitheroe but only survived him by two years. Unlike some of the other neighbours, there was a son. I don't think I ever met him and am not sure that he wasn't overseas somewhere.
How lucky was I to have had the Broses in my life! Both were idiosyncratic and so interesting.
Monday 5 November 2012
Hats
Today is the first Tuesday in November - Melbourne Cup Day. The famous horse race that stops the nation. It is also a day that celebrates the hat.
In the 50s and 60s when I was a girl, hats were commonly worn by both men and women. If you look at film footage of the era, crowds of people would all be wearing hats, streams of office workers all wearing hats. Men would lift their hats as a greeting, particularly to women and I was always super chuffed if someone 'dipped their lid' to me.
My mother had a whole wardrobe of hats. She would always wear one if we went to visit friends, even if it was only for afternoon tea. And if she went into the city it was absolutely de rigueur. Gloves as well of course. Although I was only young, if we went into the city for a day's shopping I would also wear my hat, gloves and carry a handbag.
My father looked very smart in his hats. He had a small head so had trouble getting a hat he liked to fit properly so he would fold a page of newspaper into a long strip which would then be fitted into the inside rim of the hat. Even in old age he loved his hats and if he wasn't wearing a sun hat he would be wearing a cloth cap. He loved one cap in particular so I placed it in his coffin for his final journey.
I remember the delight of the hat department in such stores as David Jones, Farmer's and Mark Foy's. From simple little numbers to enormously expensive extravaganzas of tulle, flowers and feathers - gorgeous! There were tables with mirrors where you could sit and the shop assistants would bring a selection of hats to be tried on, admired and accepted or rejected. The assistant would hold up a mirror, like you do at the hairdresser's, so that you could admire the side and back view. If you did buy a hat it would be placed reverentially in a hat box for transportation. It made storing the hat in a cupboard at home easier too.
I always loved trying on hats. They suited me well, and the shop assistants never seemed to mind as long as you were careful and put them back on their stands.
At the nursing home where I am a volunteer, we are having a few games and then a fancy afternoon tea with savouries, muffins and champagne before watching THE race this afternoon. Everyone has been asked to wear a hat, just to make the occasion a little more festive. We have one lady who has to wear a helmet because of a medical problem and I'm going to stick flowers on it so she can also feel part of the spring carnival atmosphere.
My daughter, Lisa, has a lovely blog (blithemoments.blogspot.com.au) and her post this morning shows the elegant fascinator that she is wearing to the office today. She has a whole range of pretty fascinators and artificial flowers that she wears in her hair on social occasions. As she has an active social life they get quite a workout.
I thought I had better go and buy a hat to wear at the nursing home so I went to David Jones in Woden yesterday. What a shock! Not one formal hat! If you want a hat for the races, you have to go into Civic.
I bought a white sun hat at Big W for $9.87 and pinned up one side with an artificial flower. All a bit tragic really but being rather practical I thought the sun hat could come in handy and the artificial flower may be of some use further down the track.
I love watching the 'fashions in the field' on Melbourne Cup Day and really admire the stunning creations worn on people's heads. Some of those hats are worth thousands of dollars. I wonder if I could ever justify spending that sort of money. I do love looking at them though.
Off to the nursing home I go. I wonder what creations people are going to be coming up with. I'm sure it will all be fun.
In the 50s and 60s when I was a girl, hats were commonly worn by both men and women. If you look at film footage of the era, crowds of people would all be wearing hats, streams of office workers all wearing hats. Men would lift their hats as a greeting, particularly to women and I was always super chuffed if someone 'dipped their lid' to me.
My mother had a whole wardrobe of hats. She would always wear one if we went to visit friends, even if it was only for afternoon tea. And if she went into the city it was absolutely de rigueur. Gloves as well of course. Although I was only young, if we went into the city for a day's shopping I would also wear my hat, gloves and carry a handbag.
My father looked very smart in his hats. He had a small head so had trouble getting a hat he liked to fit properly so he would fold a page of newspaper into a long strip which would then be fitted into the inside rim of the hat. Even in old age he loved his hats and if he wasn't wearing a sun hat he would be wearing a cloth cap. He loved one cap in particular so I placed it in his coffin for his final journey.
I remember the delight of the hat department in such stores as David Jones, Farmer's and Mark Foy's. From simple little numbers to enormously expensive extravaganzas of tulle, flowers and feathers - gorgeous! There were tables with mirrors where you could sit and the shop assistants would bring a selection of hats to be tried on, admired and accepted or rejected. The assistant would hold up a mirror, like you do at the hairdresser's, so that you could admire the side and back view. If you did buy a hat it would be placed reverentially in a hat box for transportation. It made storing the hat in a cupboard at home easier too.
I always loved trying on hats. They suited me well, and the shop assistants never seemed to mind as long as you were careful and put them back on their stands.
At the nursing home where I am a volunteer, we are having a few games and then a fancy afternoon tea with savouries, muffins and champagne before watching THE race this afternoon. Everyone has been asked to wear a hat, just to make the occasion a little more festive. We have one lady who has to wear a helmet because of a medical problem and I'm going to stick flowers on it so she can also feel part of the spring carnival atmosphere.
My daughter, Lisa, has a lovely blog (blithemoments.blogspot.com.au) and her post this morning shows the elegant fascinator that she is wearing to the office today. She has a whole range of pretty fascinators and artificial flowers that she wears in her hair on social occasions. As she has an active social life they get quite a workout.
I thought I had better go and buy a hat to wear at the nursing home so I went to David Jones in Woden yesterday. What a shock! Not one formal hat! If you want a hat for the races, you have to go into Civic.
I bought a white sun hat at Big W for $9.87 and pinned up one side with an artificial flower. All a bit tragic really but being rather practical I thought the sun hat could come in handy and the artificial flower may be of some use further down the track.
I love watching the 'fashions in the field' on Melbourne Cup Day and really admire the stunning creations worn on people's heads. Some of those hats are worth thousands of dollars. I wonder if I could ever justify spending that sort of money. I do love looking at them though.
Off to the nursing home I go. I wonder what creations people are going to be coming up with. I'm sure it will all be fun.
Saturday 3 November 2012
Tales from Clitheroe flats - No. 3
Sister Helen Reid lived in No 3 above Mrs Bosique's flat. The stairs to the 2 upstairs flats were beside my room and my friend John and I loved to bump all the way down on our bottoms. There was one light bulb dangling in the stairwell, so it was very dim in there, and whenever the bulb died it was almost pitch black and you would have to feel your way up and down by clinging onto the rail.
Sister Reid was a Scott with a lovely soft brogue. She had come from a well-to-do family who had relegated her to the servants' quarters because they thought she was mentally deficient. She hadn't learnt to read, couldn't play suitable ball games or play cards so was hidden away and considered hopeless. All her life she was desperately upset that her mother hadn't loved her.
Eventually Helen was sent away and it was discovered that she was extremely short sighted. As soon as she was given suitable glasses and was able to see, the world opened to Helen and it turned out that she was really very bright.
She trained as a mothercraft nurse and migrated to Australia. She had a regular Friday morning radio program with another nurse providing information on baby and childcare. In the 1930s there was a gastroenteritis outbreak and Sister Helen Reid made over 300 housecalls. She ran various clinics around the Sydney area and was always very busy.
She made some enemies in the medical profession with her radical ideas. Outrageous at the time, she expressed her belief that fathers should be present at the birth of their children. She thought it would help fathers bond with their infants. Fathers in many societies had been excluded from this 'women's business' for untold generations, and her ideas were generally condemned. To my mother, very conservative, the thought of having the father present at the birth was pretty radical and 'not very nice'. Also, bottle feeding had become fashionable. Sister Reid frowned on the practice and she may well have been the one who coined the phrase 'breast is best'.
One day my friend John and I were sitting on the lawn having a long serious talk about Sister Reid. We must have been about 4 at the time. She was such a loving kind person that we decided we wanted to call her Aunty Helen. When she came down to check on the mail we asked her if we could. She was so thrilled she nearly squeezed us to bits and then delightedly told everyone that she had come down the stairs as Sister Reid and gone back up as Aunty Helen.
Aunty Helen had very strong lenses in her glasses which made her brown eyes huge and glistening. Like an owl's. I was used to her gigantic eyes and got a massive shock one day when she took her glasses off. Where had her eyes disappeared to? To me her spectacle free eyes looked like tiny black pinpricks. Luckily I didn't say anything.
Aunty Helen would often go and spend time in private houses caring for new mothers and their babies if there was any sort of problem. She poured all the love that she had missed out on into those babies in her charge and into other children such as John and me.
If she had a house visit to make Aunty Helen would be picked up by car. She would wear her white uniform and starched nurse's veil. I thought she looked wonderful and briefly toyed with the idea of becoming a nurse simply because of the outfit.
Aunty Helen was one of the first neighbours to buy a television. Everyone came to admire the set and to watch a program. I even think there was a celebratory drink accompanied by savouries, no doubt cheese, pineapple and pickled onions on toothpicks stuck into a grapefruit. On Friday nights I was always invited to watch the Mantovani orchestra followed by 'Dr Kildare'. I thought Richard Chamberlain gorgeous and lusted after him as much as an 11 year old can lust. Aunty Helen used to take my pulse to make sure I wasn't getting too excited, bless her.
In her 50s Aunty Helen married a psychiatric nurse, John Mullins, everyone called Johnny Boy. He was quite a bit older than she was and had white hair which he dyed a most startling yellow in the hope it would make him look younger. Johnny Boy maintained that the residents of Clitheroe flats were crazier than the patients in his care at the asylum where he worked.
Talking about crazy, Aunty Helen believed that morning dew was very health giving and could often be seen tiptoeing and dancing on the lawn in bare feet very early in the morning. If she wasn't feeling too well she would go a step further and would roll on the grass in the nude, a sight to startle early risers.
We all had allocated bits of garden and Aunty Helen had two beds of glorious roses. One year we had big storms and masses of kelp was thrown up on Balmoral Beach. Johnny Boy had a funny little car and Aunty Helen got him to bring many carfuls of the seaweed back to put on her roses. The pong was eye watering. We couldn't open the windows on that side of the flat for weeks until it dried and dissipated. The roses were spectacular after that though.
Johnny Boy died after we moved away and Aunty Helen lived at Clitheroe until she was too old to look after herself and had to move into a nursing home. My mother and I visited her there on one of my trips to Sydney. She was so excited to see us and had dressed up especially in her moth eaten fox stole with the fox tails and fox head hanging down at the back. She graciously served afternoon tea and we had a good old catch up as well as sharing fond memories of the times we had spent together.
We only found out by chance that Aunty Helen had died. Someone had gone to visit and she was no longer there. Yet another Clitheroe resident who had no family in Australia. We had been her friends but she hadn't left instructions for anyone to be contacted in case of any emergency because she didn't want to be a bother. Dear Aunty Helen. I hope she knew how much we all loved her.
Sister Reid was a Scott with a lovely soft brogue. She had come from a well-to-do family who had relegated her to the servants' quarters because they thought she was mentally deficient. She hadn't learnt to read, couldn't play suitable ball games or play cards so was hidden away and considered hopeless. All her life she was desperately upset that her mother hadn't loved her.
Eventually Helen was sent away and it was discovered that she was extremely short sighted. As soon as she was given suitable glasses and was able to see, the world opened to Helen and it turned out that she was really very bright.
She trained as a mothercraft nurse and migrated to Australia. She had a regular Friday morning radio program with another nurse providing information on baby and childcare. In the 1930s there was a gastroenteritis outbreak and Sister Helen Reid made over 300 housecalls. She ran various clinics around the Sydney area and was always very busy.
She made some enemies in the medical profession with her radical ideas. Outrageous at the time, she expressed her belief that fathers should be present at the birth of their children. She thought it would help fathers bond with their infants. Fathers in many societies had been excluded from this 'women's business' for untold generations, and her ideas were generally condemned. To my mother, very conservative, the thought of having the father present at the birth was pretty radical and 'not very nice'. Also, bottle feeding had become fashionable. Sister Reid frowned on the practice and she may well have been the one who coined the phrase 'breast is best'.
One day my friend John and I were sitting on the lawn having a long serious talk about Sister Reid. We must have been about 4 at the time. She was such a loving kind person that we decided we wanted to call her Aunty Helen. When she came down to check on the mail we asked her if we could. She was so thrilled she nearly squeezed us to bits and then delightedly told everyone that she had come down the stairs as Sister Reid and gone back up as Aunty Helen.
Aunty Helen had very strong lenses in her glasses which made her brown eyes huge and glistening. Like an owl's. I was used to her gigantic eyes and got a massive shock one day when she took her glasses off. Where had her eyes disappeared to? To me her spectacle free eyes looked like tiny black pinpricks. Luckily I didn't say anything.
Aunty Helen would often go and spend time in private houses caring for new mothers and their babies if there was any sort of problem. She poured all the love that she had missed out on into those babies in her charge and into other children such as John and me.
If she had a house visit to make Aunty Helen would be picked up by car. She would wear her white uniform and starched nurse's veil. I thought she looked wonderful and briefly toyed with the idea of becoming a nurse simply because of the outfit.
Aunty Helen was one of the first neighbours to buy a television. Everyone came to admire the set and to watch a program. I even think there was a celebratory drink accompanied by savouries, no doubt cheese, pineapple and pickled onions on toothpicks stuck into a grapefruit. On Friday nights I was always invited to watch the Mantovani orchestra followed by 'Dr Kildare'. I thought Richard Chamberlain gorgeous and lusted after him as much as an 11 year old can lust. Aunty Helen used to take my pulse to make sure I wasn't getting too excited, bless her.
In her 50s Aunty Helen married a psychiatric nurse, John Mullins, everyone called Johnny Boy. He was quite a bit older than she was and had white hair which he dyed a most startling yellow in the hope it would make him look younger. Johnny Boy maintained that the residents of Clitheroe flats were crazier than the patients in his care at the asylum where he worked.
Talking about crazy, Aunty Helen believed that morning dew was very health giving and could often be seen tiptoeing and dancing on the lawn in bare feet very early in the morning. If she wasn't feeling too well she would go a step further and would roll on the grass in the nude, a sight to startle early risers.
We all had allocated bits of garden and Aunty Helen had two beds of glorious roses. One year we had big storms and masses of kelp was thrown up on Balmoral Beach. Johnny Boy had a funny little car and Aunty Helen got him to bring many carfuls of the seaweed back to put on her roses. The pong was eye watering. We couldn't open the windows on that side of the flat for weeks until it dried and dissipated. The roses were spectacular after that though.
Johnny Boy died after we moved away and Aunty Helen lived at Clitheroe until she was too old to look after herself and had to move into a nursing home. My mother and I visited her there on one of my trips to Sydney. She was so excited to see us and had dressed up especially in her moth eaten fox stole with the fox tails and fox head hanging down at the back. She graciously served afternoon tea and we had a good old catch up as well as sharing fond memories of the times we had spent together.
We only found out by chance that Aunty Helen had died. Someone had gone to visit and she was no longer there. Yet another Clitheroe resident who had no family in Australia. We had been her friends but she hadn't left instructions for anyone to be contacted in case of any emergency because she didn't want to be a bother. Dear Aunty Helen. I hope she knew how much we all loved her.
Friday 2 November 2012
A stillness within
My friend M and I try to go for a walk together by Lake Tuggeranong as often as possible. We have a lovely time chatting as well as exercising. When M isn't available I tend to go for the walk by myself anyway. For company I have a little radio on which I listen to the interesting programs on 666ABC.
Yesterday M wasn't available so I grabbed my little radio, about to head off on my walk when I discovered that the batteries had died. I went for the walk anyway.
It was a glorious day. Sunny with a slight breeze. The water was glistening and I was feeling very at one with the world. Without the distraction of the radio I became very aware of the sounds all around me, the gentle rustling of the new leaves in the trees, the myriad bird songs and calls, the humming and buzzing of the various insects, the croaking of three kinds of frogs all amongst the backdrop drone of the traffic along the Tuggeranong Parkway.
As I walked all thoughts disappeared and I was aware of my surroundings, taking in the view, listening to the sounds but there was a stillness in my mind. I wasn't thinking about anything.
When I got home I turned on the radio
and there was an interview about meditation. The interviewer was asking about the stillness you are supposed to achieve with meditation. "How," she asked, "can you stop thinking about things?" The expert explained that we all have thoughts, which he called 'chatter', rushing about in our heads but when you change one thought for another there is a little gap of stillness. Over time and training you extend the gap until eventually you are able to stop all the 'chatter', leaving only the stillness. The amazing thing is that you are still fully aware.
Listening to the interview I suddenly realised that I had actually been meditating whilst on my walk. No wonder I felt so regenerated afterwards!
Yesterday M wasn't available so I grabbed my little radio, about to head off on my walk when I discovered that the batteries had died. I went for the walk anyway.
It was a glorious day. Sunny with a slight breeze. The water was glistening and I was feeling very at one with the world. Without the distraction of the radio I became very aware of the sounds all around me, the gentle rustling of the new leaves in the trees, the myriad bird songs and calls, the humming and buzzing of the various insects, the croaking of three kinds of frogs all amongst the backdrop drone of the traffic along the Tuggeranong Parkway.
As I walked all thoughts disappeared and I was aware of my surroundings, taking in the view, listening to the sounds but there was a stillness in my mind. I wasn't thinking about anything.
When I got home I turned on the radio
and there was an interview about meditation. The interviewer was asking about the stillness you are supposed to achieve with meditation. "How," she asked, "can you stop thinking about things?" The expert explained that we all have thoughts, which he called 'chatter', rushing about in our heads but when you change one thought for another there is a little gap of stillness. Over time and training you extend the gap until eventually you are able to stop all the 'chatter', leaving only the stillness. The amazing thing is that you are still fully aware.
Listening to the interview I suddenly realised that I had actually been meditating whilst on my walk. No wonder I felt so regenerated afterwards!
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