As a young married woman, I came to live on this farm that has been my home for more moons than I can comprehend. Two generations of the Grocke family had lived here before me. The sense of history, the warm comfort of imagining the old days here, are always with me. My husband, Warren, grew up here. I wrote a short story called ‘The Crossing’ – about a bridge he and his two cousins built to cross the river that meanders past the lower reaches of the property. In this story I described the farm as it was in the fifties, when they were boys –
‘In their stalls, the steaming horses came down from the rigors of work, whickering softly to each other with eyes still wide. Late rosellas hung from the last of the apples still clinging to bare trees in the orchard. Hens strutted and faltered across their scrap-littered yard towards their roosts.
The farm-house lights were on. The two men and the boy knew that the women would be busy with food. The days’ routine had been unchanged for decades. Uncle Bill had chopped the morning kindling for the stove, and ever wanting to avoid reproach, placed it neatly in the wheelbarrow to bring to the house. Warren had fed the several hundred chooks and collected the eggs that would be sold at the end of the week. With darkness falling and only then aware of his rumbling tummy, he walked the slight incline up to the house, scuffing his worn but sturdy boots. As usual his head was filled with ideas for current projects, and those still in the melting pot.
His father wasn’t far behind. There were still some repairs to be done to the plough but that would have to wait till morning. It was time to sow crops in the vineyard rows but there’d been not enough rain. He looked to the west where the sunset had been without promise. Clear skies. He cast his eyes about his vineyard that surrounded the farm-yard. Its autumn colours were still vibrant despite the withdrawing day. The night air was cooling quickly.
The small farm-house kitchen was warm – the fire in the wood-stove flickering through gaps in the cast iron door. Cutlery clattered as Jenny set the table. Lin stirred a simmering pot of soup and tasted it from the small tasting spoon. Grandma Helena held a high home-baked loaf with one hand while she cut perfect slices on the board worn down with her years.
Warren and his father went to the laundry at the end of the verandah to wash. If there was conversation between them, it was about the farm, work. It was Otto’s purpose. Warren enjoyed the life, his chores, and there were passions stirring in him too, but not for vines. The world was a much wider place than just right here…… ‘
The story about three boys building a bridge, and life on this farm in the fifties, is heart-warming. I loved writing it. It’s a precious story for our grandchildren, and theirs, and for many others of course when it is published.
It was the late sixties when the house became ours. The beautiful hard-working and productive women who had kept the home fires burning had dispersed – Warren’s beautiful grandmother whom I never knew had passed away, his parents had built a new home. We were the care-takers now. The sixties were revolutionary. An electric stove soon replaced the wood fueled one. A television set and stereo record player replaced the mahogany radio and radiogram. The record covers of old, had names like Beethoven, Handel, Strauss on them. The heavy Bakelite discs within them smelled musty and aged. Ours were of Buddy Holly, Little Richard, Chubby Checker. Vinyl. I loved this new music. We entertained a lot. In winter there was always an open fire, candle-light, dancing. Sixties food. Barossa wine.
‘The world was a much wider place than just right here’ …. the tenet held by the man I married, has given us an amazing life – documented in my memoir. Travels a many, farms a many, but always our home has been The Barossa and the Grocke Homestead. Today I must admit our adventures are with less risk. We are not quite so gung ho and the Outback has been tamed a little. However we still like to go to places many of our friends have finished with. Because Warren is so resourceful and skilled in mechanics, and because the classic Range Rovers he collects are computer free, he dares to take us out into the back country that we love.
We extended and renovated the beautiful homestead a few years ago – closed in the verandah that has given us a big room in which to entertain friends and family. The original part is a hundred and thirty years old. The gnarly, twisted almond trees that Grandma Helena planted back then are still producing. The stick she used to knock the almonds down is still standing against the fence. There are always a few sheep in the back paddock, a handful of chooks, two sheep dogs, a shed full of wood for the fires, a large workshop, an assortment of tractors, utes and machinery – not monstrous like some broadacre farms of today, but a small, homely establishment that our grandkids love to play about.
We had planned a trip to the Northern Territory to watch the Finke Desert Rally in June, and my next blog would have been about this trip. However Warren is in hospital at the moment. Something they haven’t been able to diagnose after umpteen tests, has hit him like a ton of bricks. For a man who just five weeks ago was going for 90km mountain bike rides, swimming daily and going to the gym, this is way out of the ordinary. We are hoping for a diagnosis soon and having him on the road to recovery.
Please feel free to communicate with me via the Comments box. I would love to hear from you. And for those who have read my book, a review in the same spot would be awesome.
Till next time,
Sue
Warren with Daisy and Molly
Warren and me 1966 
Warren and me today
The farmyard
