Food for thought - the early days

Mutti told me that when she first married my father she cooked for six weeks without repeating a meal. At that time women had to resign from their jobs when they got married, so I guess she had the time for this food extravaganza. My parents married in the May of 1939 and war was declared in the September, so this food extravaganza could not continue as rationing soon became the order of the day.

During the war, Mutti learnt to do lots of things with potatoes because she had some relatives with a farm and that was what was available. She and my father were far luckier than the majority of the population because most people were completely dependant on rations. They were doubly lucky because my father had relatives who were fishermen up by the Baltic Sea so occasionally they were able to get herring as well. Mutti also told me that when she and my father left East Germany they hosted a farewell party. None of the guests, apart from close family members, had any idea that they were leaving. Had the secret plans of escape been made known, they could have been arrested. She somehow made sandwich topping for a great crowd of people using one hard boiled egg. I have no idea how.

When my parents lived in India (where I was born) they didn't at all embrace the local culture and kept making German type food. Buying food in the markets was certainly tricky and I heard stories of the meat hanging black with flies. My mother would buy a massive chunk of meat and cut off all the outsides before cooking the small nugget from right in the middle. She boiled all the water we ever drank, washed fruit with 'Sunlight Soap' and never attempted to use lettuce. We three survived unscathed unlike many of their friends who suffered with severe 'Delhi belly'.

When my mother arrived in Australia she assumed the food would be similar to what had been available in Germany before the war. Had she and my father moved to the Eastern suburbs of Sydney where there was a large, mainly northern European Jewish migrant community, they would have immediately felt right at home, but they ended up in Mosman and the food just wasn't the same. Had they been British they would have found all that was familiar.

One night in the early days not long after they had settled in Australia, as a real treat, my parents went out for a coffee and were really looking forward with anticipation to the delight that they had known 'back home'. These days we are all used to nice little cafes where you can get a large variety of coffees or teas but in the early 50s in the northern suburbs of Sydney that just wasn't available. They ended up in a milk bar - wooden benches either side of a wooden table and the coffee they ordered was a cup of chicory with hot milk that had a skin on it. My mother nearly threw up and then nearly cried with disappointment.

Eventually coffee became more widely drunk and was available, not anywhere near where we lived, but in European style cafes in the city. As a family when I was a bit older we would dress up and go by ferry into the city and have afternoon tea at 'Repins' where they served lovely coffee and also had a big variety of European cakes and pastries. I remember one particular occasion vividly when I ordered a slice of 'Dobostorte' a many layered cake with butter cream between each layer and a thick glaze of toffee on top. I was trying so hard to be a lady, sipping my hot chocolate and eating tiny forkfuls of the delicious torte. I tried to spear some of the toffee topping which shattered, sending a shard flying right at a man at the next table hitting him on the arm. I was mortified.

We had a coffee grinder at home and I think for a while our German relatives sent us coffee beans which my father ground. My mother always baked beautiful cakes and on Sunday afternoons they would drink coffee and we all would eat cake. We often had visitors or went to someone else's place for coffee on a Sunday afternoon. Even if they were our best friends we would dress up, frocks for my mother and me and a tie for my father.

At the local shops my mother bought meat from Mr Boulton the butcher and he cut topside steak for her in very thin slices so that she could make 'Rolladen'. This was one of the meals for special occasions. The meat hammered thin, spread with mild mustard, sprinkled with speck, was rolled up and cooked in a delicious creamy sauce.

My mother really wasn't a meat cook though. She made stews, roasts and casseroles very well but she never learnt how to cook chops and steaks. She fried them in oil until they were grey and as tough as old boot leather. The smell of a big fat leg chop simmering in oil used to make me gag and I could never understand why people loved chops so much until someone served me a tiny grilled lamb loin chop. Now they are amongst my favourite dishes. Steak to my mother meant topside steak - a dry meat at the best of times, but if you fry it in oil - yuck!

Vegetables and fruit she bought from Mr Morrissey. We always had lots of potatoes. Mutti would want waxy potatoes for potato salad or floury potatoes for dumplings but nobody knew what she was talking about. The choice, much to her despair, was old or new potatoes. Waxy? Floury? What was she talking about!

We used to go into the city and visit a delicatessen in Wynyard station, run by Hungarians, who sold European style smallgoods. After a few years we discovered another delicatessen had opened at Crows Nest, a northern suburb close to my father's business premises. Every Friday he would buy a variety of smallgoods, enough to last the week plus extra for the kids at the flats. John, Libby, Pamela, Michael, Katy and I would line up with our mouths open and my father would go down the line popping pieces of Berliner sausage and slices of salami into what he called 'the beaks of little hungry birds'. We loved this treat and it introduced the other kids to completely new flavours of food.

Mutti cooked every day. We were too poor to eat out until I was much older and even then my parents resented how expensive everything was, not taking into account the fact that a restaurant needs to pay wages, rent and has a whole lot of expenses that need to be added to the price of a dish. At home we always had lots of vegetables, little meat and plenty of fruit even when we were at our poorest. My mother could never forget having nothing and being hungry during the war, so every morsel was used, even dry stale crusts of bread would be soaked in water then added to mince to make rissoles.

My mother's greatest culinary expertise lay in baking. She was particularly clever at using yeast and made many wonderful creations over the years.

I resented the fact that we couldn't have good Aussie food like that which my friends ate, such as savoury mince with mashed potatoes followed by rice pudding, that she never learnt how to make a proper curry when she was in India (her version of a curry was diced left over lamb with a spoonful of Keen's curry powder and a few sultanas) and that she wasn't willing or interested in trying new things. When I was older and still at home I cooked the occasional meal and liked to experiment a bit in the kitchen using recipes from Margaret Fulton's cookbook so I went out and bought bottled herbs such as oregano, thyme and dill and then threw out those same bottles of herbs when my parents moved out of their house over twenty years later. My father on the other hand loved the food that his beloved wife cooked him. He appreciated the fact that she made the dishes that he was familiar with and he always looked forward to sitting down at the table with the starched tablecloth and napkins to share a meal with the woman he adored.

I pride myself in being quite a good cook, very different from my mother, but she is the one who taught me the basics. As a young child I had my own tiny rolling pin, mixing bowl and cake forms and when Mutti was baking she would give me a bit of dough which I would pummel, sprinkle with sugar and bake alongside her creation. I always thought it tasted fabulous. I helped shell peas, peel carrots and potatoes and chop parsley (the only herb my mother really knew) incredibly finely. I will always be grateful to her for her patience, introducing me to and giving me a love of cooking.

Boobs

There has been something of a furore in the media recently about breast feeding. If I understand correctly, a media person said that he didn't object to women breast feeding their babies in public, but he thought it should be done discreetly. There have been thousands of comments made on Facebook. People strongly agreeing or disagreeing. Fair enough, it's good to have debate, so long as the babies get fed!

It got me thinking about these protuberances we women carry about on our chests. I am no expert in other peoples' breasts, but I do know mine pretty well.

When I was young my girlfriends and I really wanted breasts and we would scrunch up hankies and place them appropriately under our singlets and admire ourselves in the mirror. Eventually we would forget and start playing a game and the 'boobs' would slip and just become random lumps somewhere around our middles.

Not having breasts was great on reflection. I was a terrific skipper. Also one activity I really liked, that sounds corny now, was to jump up and down on steps and play 'elastics', a game that involved lots of jumping. As soon as my breasts started growing all those activities became uncomfortable so I stopped doing them.

My breasts grew and I needed a bra. Mutti went out and bought me one. It didn't fit because she bought the smallest size she could and my boobs, as soon as they started growing, were never small. They were round like apples. I should have been fitted professionally but wasn't, so my breasts were channelled into whatever my mother bought me and I was fairly uncomfortable a lot of the time.

I'm not boasting but my breasts were the sort of boobs that film stars aspire to and mainly achieve by having silicon implants. They were pert and round and when people said you know when you need a bra it's when you can hold a pencil under your breast, I had no idea what they were talking about. I surprisingly had a couple of women, even one of my teaching colleagues, grab my boobs, because they couldn't believe that they were absolutely real. And when I was in a female only gym where we went into the sauna nude, I had people check out my breasts and make comments. They were pretty impressive, if I do say so myself.

It was nice having breasts that were admired. They looked good but I didn't like them because they were so damn uncomfortable. If we went to the beach and I wanted to tan my back, I had to dig holes for my breasts because they were so firm that I couldn't lie on my stomach.

When I was 20 I discovered my first lump. It turned out to be a benign fibroadenoma but it was the size of a golf ball when it was removed. The surgeon somehow damaged the surrounding nerves and the site has been constantly sore since then. Over the years I had more surgery to remove lumps, thankfully nothing cancerous.

When I became pregnant I thought my breasts would explode. I don't know anyone, even very flat chested women, who don't increase their bust size when they get pregnant. If your breasts are already sizeable, the increase is ridiculous.

When my beautiful girls were born I turned into a moo cow. My husband laughed and suggested we buy a stall or a rotorlactor - I could have competed with any jersey cow. When you feel your breasts fill up it is called 'let down'. Anything at all started my 'let down' response. It didn't need to be my baby announcing that she was hungry. It could be water running, bells ringing, a nice piece of music, other children calling out and whenever it happened it happened with gusto, or should I say gushto!

At one stage I had to go to the Queen Elizabeth hospital for mothers and babies because I had hideous mastitis and was exhausted and couldn't settle my firstborn. The lovely nurses give mothers a break. You use a breast pump to express enough milk for a baby's feed, the nurses send you to bed for a good night's sleep and they take care of the baby. The theory is good. My breasts never ran out of milk on the breast pump. I could have gone on indefinitely or until the rest of my body was a husk to blow away in the wind. The nurses were amazed. They had to tell me to stop.

To this day I am jealous when I see a mother cradling her baby breast feeding. I had so much milk that my babies couldn't cope with the flow. I got in touch with the Nursing Mothers' Association who gave all sorts of advice which left both my baby and me frustrated and crying. Finally I worked out what to do by myself. I had to hold the baby between my knees vertically so that gravity helped. It was cumbersome and I NEVER EVER fed in public because it looked awful, was terribly uncomfortable and I never looked serene. My babies thrived however. It was a relief when I decided to stop breast feeding after several months.

Years have passed and gravity has not been kind to my boobs. Remember the story about holding a pencil under your breast was the sign you need to wear a bra. I can now hold the whole pencil case plus a lunch box under my boobs. They are no longer perky, just big and as much a nuisance as they ever were. If I could afford it I would like to have augmentation surgery. Small sounds nice. Also I could probably buy a nice filmy bra rather than the industrial strength hardware I have to use to keep the 'girls' under control. Oh, dreams! But wouldn't it be loverly!

We come in all shapes and sizes. I just happen to come in a larger size and so do my boobs. Although I have had medical problems with my breasts over the years I haven't had the agony of experiencing something really serious so I shouldn't complain.

Mr Webb and the rope petticoat

Mr Webb was the landlord while we were at Clitheroe flats. He looked like a character from a Dickensian novel. He was shortish and had an extraordinarily scrawny neck which protruded from a collar that was much too large. His suits were shiny with age and baggy with pockets so large that they could hold his double cheque books. He was balding and what hair he had hung greasily to his collar and his shoulders were liberally adorned with dandruff. He gave me the creeps. My mother always had the rent money ready in the hope that he would give her the receipt and leave, but he always hung around making her feel uncomfortable as well. If I came home and he was there smarmily smiling with his sparse yellow teeth and chatting up my mother by the back door, I would be naughty and stand behind him pulling faces which Mutti would pretend not to notice, but we would laugh about it afterwards.

Mr Webb owned something like 80 properties all over Sydney, mainly in places like Darlinghurst and Kings Cross and even though he looked like a pathetic beggar we often speculated about how rich he must be. He certainly didn't like spending money and in the years we were at Clitheroe the place deteriorated to such an extent that it would be considered slum conditions nowadays. If something needed fixing he would send his 'handyman'. This handyman was a frail ancient person who never had any new materials to fix whatever problem he was faced with. If he needed nails, he would pull old nails out of a plank of wood, straighten them and then hammer them into whatever it was he was repairing! He had a truck that was filled with old bits and pieces that had obviously come from demolition sites and he usually had something that was able to patch up whatever problem there was.

Mr Webb told us about his family. I think there were lots of children but they had mainly left home and because his wife was sad that they had gone he was taking her on a first class trip by boat around the world. We wondered what he would wear seeing he and his wife were going to be at the captain's table. I think the 'handyman' collected the rent while the Webbs were sailing on the high seas.

Mr Webb drove a green Jaguar which had seen better days. There wasn't one bit of shine left on the paintwork. It was completely matt with the odd bit of rust. The passenger door was wired shut and most of the windows were frozen up or down. It suited the man perfectly!

Now to the rope petticoat. In the 50's skirts were wide. Particularly dancers of rock and roll wanted their skirts to flow out as they whirled to the music. The really flash petticoats were made of net and multicoloured. There were, however, rope petticoats as well. Imagine a cotton fabric petticoat that was a full circle. To keep that petticoat stiff, rather than starching it, it had actual cotton rope sewn into the hem. Worn under a wide skirt the rope petticoat would hold the skirt out which was the fashion of the day.

I really, really wanted a rope petticoat and much to my absolute delight I got one for my 8th or 9th birthday. I immediately put it on and swished around the flats showing everyone and they were as complimentary as could be. My friends Libby and John weren't there that day so I swished down the little road outside Clitheroe making up stories and having a generally good time all by myself.

Half way down the road was our climbing tree, a camphor laurel which we kids used to climb and play Tarzan and Jane or just sit on the branches squashing the leaves and smelling the spicy scent. I saw Mr Webb's Jaguar parked just outside the gate of Clitheroe. He always backed up the road because he had to clutch start the car. I saw him get in and had a brilliant idea.

I thought I would shimmy up the tree and swing out on the branch, my new rope petticoat would whoosh out and he would be terrifically impressed. I could absolutely imagine his look of amazement.

The car started moving down the hill coughing and spluttering while I got ready to do my spectacular act. I sat on one branch, reached out to the next branch from which I was to swing, prepared myself, launched into the air, let my hands go and.........my feet didn't touch the ground as I expected. Horror of horrors, the petticoat had become hooked on the branch I had been sitting on and the rope securely hung on leaving me to dangle in mid air as the cotton fabric started tearing ever so slowly.

Mr Webb stopped his car, got out and unhooked me from the tree. I put my head down and ran away not stopping to thank him. I arrived home red faced and crying feeling absolutely humiliated. Then I got into terrible trouble for tearing my brand new petticoat. What a horrible birthday. I don't think I ever thanked Mr Webb because I was just too embarrassed. I hid when he came and certainly never made faces behind his back again.

A few days later Mrs Brose (upstairs neighbour) presented me with the most beautiful frothy lace and tulle petticoat. My mother didn't approve as she thought it unsuitable for a child, but I loved it even though it was too long. If I folded the waistband over and over I could shorten it to a more reasonable length. I kept that petticoat for ages because I was actually able to grow into it. The rope petticoat I wore as well but it did bear some very painful scars.

After the 2003 Canberra fires

After the fires all of Canberra seemed shocked. 4 people had died and about 500 homes severely damaged or destroyed. As Canberra was still a smallish place everyone knew someone who had been affected. Everywhere you went, including shopping centres, people stood around in somber groups, quietly discussing what had happened. Often you would see people hugging and comforting each other.

I slept in on the morning after the fire, completely exhausted from the day before. When I finally got up it was to discover that my husband had already been out early and had stocked up on bottled water and bags of ice so that we could salvage some of the food from the fridge. He had bought enough to help our neighbours as well. Also he thought to buy fresh croissants and bread so we had a delicious start to what was a fairly grim day.

The sky was a murky brown for some days to come. It was still hot but we couldn't open the windows because of the strong smell of smoke and of course the power was off so there was no airconditioning. We were able to use our BBQ to heat water and to cook as many of the contents of our fridge and freezer as we could before they went off.

The sewerage treatment works had been severely damaged and Canberrans were asked to minimise using showers and washing up water. As well toilet flushing was to be minimised and jokes were being made about 'If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down!' I heard of quite a few people who even dug toilet trenches in their backyards.

Eventually on the day after the fire we went up the back of our place. We are on the edge of the suburb and the land behind our place goes all the way down to the Murrumbidgee River. Beyond that are the Brindabella Ranges. As far as the eye could see was devastation. Black, burnt, stark, still smouldering land. There was a huge gum tree on the crest of our hill and it was a 20 ton glowing ember. Every so often you would see the burnt corpses of kangaroos. It was horrible and so depressing we came back inside.

J and A went to his place in Belconnen where J stayed for a couple of days. The power came back on at 7pm on the first day after the fire - the technicians must have worked like crazy because the infrastructure had been severely damaged. Other places weren't as lucky as we were, it depended on how bad the damage was in that area.

We didn't 'spectate' in the most severely affected suburbs such as Duffy, Chapman or Rivett. The residents who had lost their houses resented being gawped at although they did appreciate the many people who delivered cold drinks and packs of sandwiches.

You couldn't help seeing the damage though. The randomness of the damage was mind blowing. In our suburb of Kambah you would be driving along and suddenly there would be a house burnt to the ground in the middle of a street of houses. The giant fireballs had bounced over the hills and consumed whatever they landed on. Even the fire station was burnt to the ground.

There was much to be saddened by. So many peoples' lives had been wrecked. The veterinary clinic and kennels where we had boarded our dogs was destroyed. The staff there was traumatised as they had to run for their lives leaving all the animals including their own pets behind.

The local ABC radio station became a sounding board for the community. We heard many many sad stories but also stories of great heroism and lucky escapes.

We managed to track down a friend who had lost her house in Duffy and it became part of our own healing helping her. We managed to get her some furniture and bought bits and pieces to help with daily living. She and her family scoured the burnt out wreck of their house and were delighted to discover that a pot with some goldfish had miraculously survived in the garden.

We put big tubs of water up the back for any creatures that needed a drink. Also the Wanniassa shops gave me lettuce leaves and fruit that they couldn't sell, which we put out for the animals and birds that had managed to survive.

For a long time L felt stressed driving down the Tuggeranong Parkway as she kept remembering seeing all the smoke and flames not knowing what awaited her at home because she couldn't see that far. It was a scarred landscape for a long time.

We used to have an echidna visit our place. I was always happy to see him patrolling because I figured he would find any termites before they found us. Unfortunately we never saw him again after the fires. Also we didn't have any bees visit our large garden for several years.

Ten years have passed. Homes have been rebuilt and people have accumulated possessions, often wondering how their houses have filled with so much 'stuff'. The trauma of the fires ruined some relationships and strengthened others.

Our garden has grown and is better than ever. It is filled with bees and other insects as well as a large variety of birds who visit regularly. We have many blue tongue lizards and skinks in the rocks as well as the occasional unwelcome visitor such as snakes. The trees, bushes and grasses have returned up the back and the big gum tree which was the massive ember has four 'babies' growing from the root stock. Mobs of kangaroos have returned to the hills and are in great numbers because we have had a few years of good rain. Unless you are observant you would never know that a huge fire had passed through.

Lessons have been learned. Fires will come to our region again for sure, but hopefully they won't be as destructive and hopefully people will be more informed and prepared.

The 2003 Canberra bushfires

On 17th January my daughter L and I were lying on our backs on our steep driveway as the sun was setting. That part of the yard was in full shade but the concrete drive was still very warm. We were just chatting about things in general but noticed leaves swirling high in the air although everything where we were seemed quite windstill. Eventually some of the leaves dropped to where we were lying and much to our surprise we noticed that they were burnt. My husband came out to join us sitting on the driveway and he was also surprised at the state of the leaves that fell from the sky and we hypothesised about the fires that were at the edge of the ACT and how dangerous they could possibly become. I kept one of the burnt gum leaves. At the time it seemed so strange.

That night L had dinner at a friend's place in an elevated section of the suburb Isaacs that has a westerly view. She came home saying how spectacular the swirling red sunset was. Also she had to drive home really carefully as unusual numbers of kangaroos had come out of the bush and were on the roads and on peoples' lawns feeding on the grass.

Our other daughter was at a wedding reception. I had gone to the actual ceremony in Commonwealth Park earlier in the day. It was blazingly hot and the huge brown clouds of smoke to the west were really disconcerting.

My husband checked web sites and we watched the television and went to bed that night 'concerned but not alarmed' about the fires. J (younger daughter) went to A's after the wedding reception. All was well.

We woke on 18th January 2003 to a very dry, oppressively hot and windy day. L and I decided to go to the movies in Manuka to see the German film 'Mostly Martha'. We went in our own cars because she wanted to finish some work in the office afterwards and I had to do a bit of grocery shopping. The movie was great and then we went our separate ways.

I drove home via Hindmarsh Drive which has panoramic views of the Brindabella Mountains behind Canberra and was shocked at the voluminous amount of thick brown smoke. As soon as I arrived home I got my husband to come to the opposite side of the Tuggeranong valley from our place to look at the smoke which by then really looked dangerous. We took a whole lot of photos from an area which was completely burnt out a few hours later.

By this time it was about midday. J and A (boyfriend at the time and now husband) came home and we discussed the wedding they had attended and then how much smoke there was and how scary everything looked. Our neighbour came over and we also discussed the scary looking scenario. My husband checked the web site again and still it showed the fire site to be some distance away, however when we turned on the radio we were shocked to hear an emergency warning siren constantly blaring with the announcer giving evacuation advice.

Things happened very quickly after that. We realised as we were on the western side of Canberra where the fires were coming from, that we were in it's path. I quickly climbed onto the roof, plugged the downpipes and filled the gutters with water. By now it was beginning to get much darker as the clouds of smoke enveloped the sky. Whilst I was on the roof I could hear a car roaring closer at high speed. It was our daughter L who I had been trying to get in touch with without success. Was I ever glad to see her. Now the whole family was together.

L told us her story. She went into the office but the air conditioning failed so she decided to go to Woden Plaza to have a massage. Whilst she was there the large stores such as David Jones, Big W and the supermarkets were informed about the fire situation and were evacuated. The little Chinese massage place had no idea about what was happening and carried on obliviously. When the massage was finished L decided to check her phone which she had ignored so as not to be distracted from her massage and heard my brief panicked message, "please come home." She walked past a window, saw the blood red sky, rushed into the car park where her's was the only remaining vehicle and drove home as quickly as she could, probably the last car that managed to get down the Tuggeranong Parkway before that road was closed. Everything was already burning beside the road and all she could see ahead were billowing clouds of smoke and huge flames. No wonder she was going fast! She realised no traffic police would be trying to catch speeding drivers so really put her foot down.

Once L was home and the gutters filled and windows shut, my husband got us and the neighbours organised. We filled buckets, dressed in long sleeved shirts, jeans, socks and leather shoes. To cope with the thick air and stinging ash we also wore hats and sunglasses and tied big wet handkerchiefs over our noses so that we looked like a bunch of outlaws. We took rakes and wet mops up to the back where a fire trail runs behind the houses. Our chook yard was up the back so I soaked the thick straw that covered their enclosure. By now the water pressure was very low but as we have a swimming pool we felt we would at least have access to water if the hoses dried up.

A friend had turned up while we were rushing about. He had a visiting German academic with him who was stunned at all this activity but said he wanted to help when the fires arrived. He came up the back where we were all standing waiting for the fire front to arrive. T (my husband) warned him that animals would probably come rushing ahead of the fire, possibly even snakes, and that he should just stand still, leave them alone and they wouldn't be at all concerned with him. "I don't think I could stand still if a snake was coming," he said, but T insisted that that was what he must do to avoid being bitten.

There was a whole army of neighbours armed with their various fire fighting implements just waiting. T tried to get one of the people to take his dog away. "He'll be alright," the guy said but when the fire did arrive with kangaroos bounding in front, the dog barked and lunged and the poor kangaroos turned and jumped back into the flames where they were overcome. I don't know what happened to that man and his dog because I was too busy to pay him any attention after I sent him the initial thousand bad thoughts!

While we were standing waiting, we could hear the explosions to the north where the suburbs of Chapman and Duffy were being consumed. The air became thick and black, the ground began to vibrate, all around you could hear a sound like heavy drops of rain, however those were embers which would immediately set the grass in which they landed on fire. Flocks of birds were whirling along in front of the fire and then as the oxygen depleted and the temperature rose they would drop into the flames. We could do nothing to help those poor creatures.

Unless you have experienced it yourself it is hard to imagine the sound of a big fire. The sound is like a train in a tunnel, including the vibrations that you can feel in your feet.

We didn't have the pine plantations which caused the devastation by creating the fireballs, or many gum trees close by, but we did have very high dry grass behind the houses. The sky went black and then brilliant red as the flames attacked our area. Although very intense the fire front, driven by a strong wind, passed relatively quickly. We also had an army of well armed volunteers who pounced on any stray embers and put out the spot fires almost as soon as they started. One neighbour's fence caught on fire but was extinguished efficiently.

The German academic, who had stood still for ages fearing snakes, had obviously decided none were coming and fought valiantly alongside everyone else. In fact, he and our friend went to Rivett after the fire front had passed our place, where our friend knew that some colleagues were away on holiday. The verandah of their house was on fire and the two men ended up saving that house and the place next door.

L, who wasn't coping well with the smoke, had stayed inside the house trying to calm our two terrified dogs as well as organising drinks and any equipment that we needed. The rest of us were outside doing our best. One lot of neighbours were so frightened that they had jumped in the car and rushed away. T locked their front door which they had inadvertently left wide open.

We were exhausted by the time the fire front had passed. Grimy with bright red sore eyes we collapsed in the family room. One dog had peed on the carpet in her fear and then kept looking at the airconditioning duct and then us in an accusing manner. It was hot and she wanted us to turn the cooling on but not surprisingly the power was off.

After a while we went to check on our chickens. They were nowhere in sight, however when they heard our voices they emerged from where they had buried themselves under the wet straw. I was impressed. Chooks are pretty stupid but they obviously have a terrific survival instinct.

We didn't sleep much that night. We kept checking the area making sure that no further fires were flaring up. Also the constant bad news on the radio was terribly distressing. Friends from around the country were ringing to make sure we were alright.

In the days and weeks after the firestorm we heard from friends who had lost houses and all their belongings. We tried to help, as did most of the Canberra community, to replace 'things'. Individuals and businesses were amazingly generous and finally people saw the 'heart' of Canberra which we who live here have always known was here.

People were traumatised. On a hot, dry, windy day such as today, I'm on edge, but I know how lucky we were this day ten years ago. After the firefront had passed and the family was flopped in an exhausted heap I knew what was really important. Certainly not the 'things'. It is the people who are important. They cannot be replaced.

Ralfs and Hermsdorf - part 2

The firm Ralfs and Hermsdorf soon established itself as the premier place to have any commercial photolitographic work done. Apart from the 'bread and butter' business such as the art work for phone book covers, a wide variety of food and grocery packaging, promotional material, and advertising, Ralfs and Hermsdorf did the lithography and plate making for books such as 'The Australians' and Norman Lindsay's 'The Magic Pudding' and 'Norman Lindsay - Two Hundred Etchings', just to name a few. As well they worked on major pieces of art.

It was not unusual to have original works by artists such as Albert Namitjira, Hans Heysen or Norman Lindsay sitting on the bench in the office. The owners of these pieces would ask if there was a safe to protect the works. My father would deliberately misinterpret and say, "Safe, yes of course." Then he would package the work up at the end of the day and bring it home where it certainly was much safer than in the office! We had the pleasure of hosting some marvellous works of art which gave me an enduring appreciation of the skills that the various artists had.

I also remember having Lieutenant Bradley's journal at home. The Library of NSW reproduced the whole journal so we had the original in our 'safe'. It was such an honour to be able to handle (with great care) a book that had been on the First Fleet. I was about 14 when this book was reproduced and there was a lot of retouching needed on the negatives. I was employed to do some of the work. My father built me a glass top with a light underneath for my desk, taught me how to do the retouching and set me to work in the school holidays at 50c an hour. Miserly pay for unbelievably boring work, but if you ever get to see a reproduced copy of Bradley's Journal, I helped with the production.

There were about 10 members of staff including a couple of apprentices. One of the apprentices was a real dreamer. He worked in the plate making section. One day he was coming over into the other part of the building where my father worked and was feeling so happy that he jumped with joy for no reason at all. Unfortunately the corrugated iron roof there was particularly low. There was a head shaped bump in the metal forever after. Another time he was reading something as he was walking along, didn't notice that the glass door was shut and walked straight through, giving himself and everyone else a fright because of the noise - he didn't even have a scratch!

Another character who was heaps of fun was Mike B from Germany. There was always a Christmas celebration at work and he suggested to my father one year that they spice things up a bit by him dressing up as a woman, pretending to be my father's non English speaking cousin from Germany, and then doing a strip when the party had really got going. Vati thought it a great idea so he and Mike went off to buy Mike appropriate clothing.

There was a Coles store at Crow's Nest near work which the two men decided was an appropriate place to get the lingerie - nice but not too expensive. My father approached a young female shop assistant and in his German accented English said, "I would like to buy a brassiere for this young man please". The poor girl, beside herself, rushed off for the manager. Much explanation, much laughter and Mike left the shop with a massive black bra and matching panties.

Mike in his wig, dress and makeup was introduced to everyone at the party. The other tenants as well as everyone from Ralfs and Hermsdorf were invited. Mike was very convincing and the stout owner of the soap factory became very upset when someone used an expletive 'in front of the lady'! I wish I could have seen the striptease. Everything went well until Mike stripped to his undies and the cotton wool exploded out of his bra. The game was up, he whipped off his wig and everyone had a good laugh and quite a few drinks.

Another of the lithographers was Bert P also from Germany. He used to spend weekends in the Blue Mountains shooting feral animals. While in the bush he developed a great interest in native flora and would pore over botanical books in his lunchtime. He now lives in the Blue Mountains and even has a garden at the Springwood tennis club named after him.

Phil G and Henry G, read my father's death notice in the Sydney Morning Herald and came to his funeral. My mother and I were very touched.

People who had worked for my father and Uncle Harry kept in touch. Many said it had felt like being in a big family when describing how much they had enjoyed working there.

Ralfs and Hermsdorf - part 1

I think I was about 6 when my father and Uncle Harry established their firm 'Ralfs and Hermsdorf', a photolithography and plate making business, which was an essential part of the printing industry. My father ran the lithographic side of the business and Uncle Harry was in charge of the plate making part. The finished metal photographic plates would be loaded into Uncle Harry's car and then driven to the actual printing firm where the images processed at 'Ralfs and Hermsdorf' would be brought to life as coloured prints.

The business was located off the Pacific Highway in Christie Street St Leonards in Sydney. These days that area is covered with sophisticated high rise office blocks but in the 50's St Leonards was a very modest suburb mainly filled with single storey family homes. The buildings immediately along the Pacific Highway, particularly near the railway station, were a bit more industrial with car repair yards, small factories, the odd corner store and a Chinese restaurant.

Right on the corner of the Pacific Highway and Christie St was a pub. Typically, the outside was covered with cream and green tiles and there were glass framed posters of horses racing, men playing football and glamorous ladies and gentlemen drinking Resch's beer. I certainly never saw anything glamorous in that pub and couldn't bear the smell when I walked by. There was a narrow lane way and then there was the yard where my father, Uncle Harry and some of the other workers parked their cars. We had to keep the gate shut or the drinkers would wander over and sit in the yard. My father often got one of his apprentices to collect up the glasses that were left in the lane way and return them to the pub. I was rarely there in the evening but in those days pubs closed at 6 o'clock and from about 5 there was always a stampede with men turning up to drink their fill before staggering home. The gate was always securely shut at that time and if I happened to be there I wouldn't be allowed out.

'Ralfs and Hermsdorf' was in two buildings which also housed other businesses. The street front looked like a little family home. The two men who worked in the front of the building made dentures. They shared a single toilet with the lithographers and I only ever peeped into their premises if the door between the businesses happened to be left open. Seeing all those pink 'gums' with their bright white teeth on the benches along with an alarming array of drills, hooks and other metal implements was a bit scary. Also the smell of the various resins that were used in the manufacture were eye wateringly pungent.

The back of that building housed the lithographers and the camera operator. There was a small office where my father and Uncle Harry did quotes for jobs and where my mother worked when she did the pays. Mutti was the book keeper for the business and always did the pays on a Friday. She did all the other administrative work at home. During school holidays I would accompany her to the bank and then go to the factory while she put the money into envelopes before handing it out to the employees.

My father's part of the building held five glass topped tables with lights underneath where the lithographers worked on the photographic negatives. There was also a really big glass topped table for large negatives. There was a room for the large camera, imported from Germany (and very expensive) which our friend Annedore operated. Next to the camera room were two darkrooms where the negatives were processed. There was yet another room where the finished works were packaged up.

Uncle Harry's plate making area was in a separate building and was shared by a business that produced industrial cakes of soap - grey and gritty that was guaranteed to take any grease off your skin (skin as well if you rubbed too hard!). It was run by two men - the owner of the business, whose name I have forgotten, was jolly and round. His offsider, who did all the hard lifting, was as skinny as a rake. I remember his name, Mr Still, because he shook like a leaf in a gale. He had suffered neurological damage saving a lady in a carriage when her horses bolted. He had grabbed the reins and had been dragged underneath the wheels. Although he shook like crazy he managed to work really hard. I liked both men very much.

Uncle Harry's plate making area was smelly because of all sorts of nasty chemicals and extremely noisy because of the strong exhaust fans. There was even a 'downdraft' table. The metal plates would be processed on this table and the whole edge of the table sucked the noxious fumes away, so the place was very loud. I didn't much like being in that part of the building but I liked the people, particularly Uncle Harry, so I never failed to visit. I always took drawings and paintings for Uncle Harry and he would tape them up with great ceremony. My father would announce that Harry had another Picasso to add to his collection. I had no idea who Picasso was but realised that it was somehow derogatory so hated this Picasso person whoever that was.

Going to the business with my mother was fairly boring after I had finished going around saying hello to everyone. We were often there for a few hours so I would have to find something to occupy myself with. There was always lots of scrap paper, pens and coloured pencils, so I could draw, but my favourite and most time consuming activity was with the sticky tape. There was a range of coloured sticky tapes which were used as special markers. The clear red tape wouldn't show up in photographic processes and it was my favourite. I would spend ages cutting the clear red tape putting it on my fingernails to look like nail polish, just like I would lick red 'Smarties' (similar to M&M's) and rub them on my lips to look like lipstick. My mother used a bit of lipstick but generally disapproved of other makeup, particularly nail polish. Perhaps as a reaction I thought all makeup fabulous and was always trying to emulate the look. Everyone laughed at my nail polish imitation and I certainly had to remove all traces before we went back home on the bus.

Uncle Harry

Another surrogate uncle, Uncle Harry was my father's business partner. They met when my father was working at a printing firm in Mascot, Sydney. My father worked as a lithographer and Harry was a plate maker. The two hit it off and eventually decided they could make a go of creating their own business, however my father said that Harry needed some more experience of the latest printing techniques so he set off for Europe, mainly Switzerland, where he spent a year researching and learning.

When Harry returned to Australia, speaking quite good German and filled with a whole lot of new knowledge, he and my father set up their firm, Ralfs and Hermsdorf, at Christie Street St Leonards in Sydney.

Uncle Harry was a lovely man. They broke the mould with him. I don't think they make innocents like him any more. Although he was well travelled and well read, Harry was astonishingly naive.

He lived with his mother who looked after him until she became too old and infirm. He was completely incapable of looking after her so she was moved into a nursing home. He used to visit her after work and help with feeding her. One day the matron saw him heading off home. His shoulders were slumped, he was pale and obviously exhausted. "Oh Mr Ralfs," she said, "you poor thing. You obviously need a good dose of TLC." What did Harry do? He went to the chemist and asked the young lady behind the counter for some TLC!!!! She blushed furiously and rushed off to get the chemist who stormed out, saw Harry's open, honest face and quizzed him as to why he had asked his shop assistant for such a thing. Poor Harry had never heard the expression TLC before and had assumed that it was some kind of tonic. He thought his mistake very funny and told everyone! Another time he tried to buy some 'elbow grease'!

After Harry's mother died he continued to live in the flat which they had shared. He confided to my mother that he was having a bit of trouble looking after the place and doing all his own washing etc, so seeing I was at Uni and could do with a bit of extra income (I was already teaching German on Saturdays) I offered to be his cleaning lady.

Harry handed over his key and I went to his place to do the cleaning. Well......it took me weeks to get the place reasonable. The grey carpet was actually green. The opaque front of the sideboard was actually clear glass. The kitchen!!!!!!!! I had to use a knife to scrape the grease off nearly every surface. I had never seen anything remotely so grotty. Luckily my mother had been a good teacher so I knew what to do.

Harry was completely thrilled with my efforts and not even a tiny bit embarrassed about how filthy the place had been. Every day when he got home to his flat he would ring and extoll my virtues as a cleaning lady. He was even more thrilled when I offered to do his washing.

Harry didn't move with the times. His underpants were white cotton boxer shorts with a drawstring at the waist. I bought him new shirts and singlets because his were falling to bits but I just washed and ironed his undies because he would have been too embarrassed if I had ever mentioned them or pointed out that there was a new invention called 'elastic'. Never could you mention body parts below the waist (apart from legs) because Harry would become acutely embarrassed. Our cat must have known, because every time Harry visited, she would immediately sit down lift her hind leg and thoroughly wash her bottom.

Harry fancied my mother. Actually he worshiped her. In her he saw everything that a woman should be. He thought my father the luckiest man in the world to be married to such a goddess. Mutti always treated Harry very kindly and invited him to dinner fairly regularly and as he was diabetic she would especially make him unsweetened 'Apfelmus' (puréed stewed apple) which he adored.

Harry never knew when to go home. I now wonder if he suffered from Aspergers syndrome. The evening would stretch on and on. Eventually my father would put on his pyjamas and announce that he was going to bed. Harry would say, "goodnight Walter." and keep sitting there almost going to sleep himself. Finally my mother would suggest that he looked very tired and that he probably needed to go to bed. Only then would he get up and leave declaring that he was leaving as 'the fat boy of Burton St' having had a wonderful meal.

Harry's mother had looked after him but I don't think there was much love in the home. Harry loved the fact that he was part of our family and joined in any family celebrations with gusto. He loved the German Christmas and was usually part of birthday celebrations as well. He was amazingly touched when we started celebrating his birthday.

Harry had told me how cold he was in bed in winter even though I had put lots of blankets on, so one year for his birthday I bought him an electric blanket which I turned on before I left his flat. His birthday was on one of my cleaning days in June or July. At his birthday dinner I warned him that he would get a bit of a surprise when he went to bed that night. We got a call quite late that night from an ecstatic Uncle Harry. I said he was unworldly. He had heard about electric blankets but had not understood how they worked and had thought it all a bit of a gimmick never even remotely thinking of trialling one. Harry must have rung me every morning for a month saying how well he had slept.

In 1973 I got married and Uncle Harry lost his cleaner. I never visited his flat afterwards and neither did my parents, so I can only surmise what it looked like after a few years.

Uncle Harry visited us in Canberra coming for Christmas as well as on other occasions. Sometimes he was extremely generous with the gifts he brought and then there was the year he had carefully wrapped an apple and an orange which he presented to our girls. Luckily they have always been very polite. Even though he knew I was a good cook one year he brought us a huge box of packaged cakes and ghastly biscuits and was as proud as Punch as he handed them over. I'm polite as well and was able to thank him with the enthusiasm he obviously expected.

Harry never completely filled the car with petrol, so on a trip to Canberra from Sydney he would often stop twice. He recorded how many miles travelled, how much petrol used etc etc. also he would check the tyre pressure with every stop.

The car was very well looked after and when he was too old and infirm to drive anymore he gave it to our elder daughter. Everything was ancient but still pristine. He had cut out cardboard to cover the dashboard and the parcel shelf so the plastic wasn't even cracked or faded. And then there were the volumes of car history!

Harry loved cardboard boxes. He could never throw a good cardboard box out. His whole garage was filled with them and the car had to be parked in the street covered with a car cover. He also kept newspapers. When I did his cleaning I discovered an entire cupboard stuffed from top to bottom with old newspapers. He had marked in red pen the articles he wanted to reread eventually. I threw them all out and he never noticed.

You will be amazed to hear that Uncle Harry married when he was 75. He had known Milba for many years. In fact he he had been going out with her when my father suggested he further his printing experience in Europe. Milba was very cross that Harry had gone and then proceeded to have a very enjoyable life doing whatever she wanted. She got in touch after more than 30 years, they went out a few times, got on well and married in haste. She had always wanted to be married and Harry had romantic ideas of an ideal marriage based on what he imagined my parents' marriage was (all sweetness and light). Sadly Harry's and Milba's marriage was not a success. Both repented at leisure.

Dear Uncle Harry had a stroke. To her credit Milba visited him in hospital every day to help feed him. I visited and held his hand and talked about all the good times we had had. He gave a funny little smile so I guess he knew I was there. He died on 14th March 1998.

Harry was in my life for a long time. He is sure to crop up in future blogs.