My Childhood My Town

When we travelled Australia in the seventies – our home hooked up behind our Toyota Land Cruiser and with two toddlers wide-eyed and trusting as trapeze artists – leaving our home, our roots, our security behind was something that flattened me for a while. Gradually though I began to take ginger steps towards adopting, while we were in them, the cast of the towns and regions we lingered in. A town can give much to strangers who step temporarily on its paths, but it can’t give its heart. There was a certain delight in wearing a track from caravan park to certain shops, becoming familiar with the peculiarities of the place, the stop off points along the way that children find to satisfy their curiosities. But you never got to know the people. Home was where that luxury lay.

In my last blog I remembered the fabric and character of my own town’s main street – a small section of it anyway. To continue on that theme –

Next past Mrs. Seaman’s shop of homeopathics, natural remedies and mountainous icecreams, was Homburg’s Real Estate Office. Not a place kids ever visited unless uncommon help was needed, as it was by me the day I was riding my Dad’s racing cycle to school. Pushing hard against a boisterous wind, my foot slipped off the pedal. As it was a fixed wheel mechanism, the serrated metal pedal continued its motion and as it came around again hacked into the back of my leg. I stopped and looked down to see a horrific gash. I was right in front of the real estate office so I downed the bike onto the footpath and hopped on one leg into the hallowed halls of polished floors and mahogany. The image of the lavish trail of blood on the pristine floor is still with me. Someone put me in their car and drove me to the hospital. My hamstring was hanging by a thread. Miraculously our family GP happened to be at the hospital at the time and with compassion and great competence was able to perform remarkable micro surgery to secure it. I was not allowed to use the leg for three weeks and so was confined to home until the injury healed. Without Dr. Botten’s help that day I would probably have lost the use of that limb.

Next along the street was Wallent’s Clothing, Drapery and Haberdashery store – owned by the two brothers Wallent – Maurice and Aubrey. Maurice had the air of a man of station – impeccably dressed – suit, waistcoat, tie. Distinguished. Justice of the peace. Brother Aub managed the Menswear. Also well-dressed as expected, but with a twinkle in his eye and a bit of mischief about him. Enjoyed a joke with his customers and a little camaraderie and card game with his mates around a jar of wine on the weekends – as did many Barossa men.

That was the last of the shops (on that side of the street) as we dawdled home from school. Next came the houses – beautiful old stone cottages and villas – the first in line owned by the Sisters Ottens – all four of them spinsters (probably not politically correct to say that these days so let’s say single). On passing their front garden, perennially awash with flowers of the season, you walked through a haze of glorious perfume. It was told that one was responsible for this garden and the vegie patch out the back, another for the care of the orchard, another for cooking and preserving and another for housework. Something along those lines. They were tall, slim and elegant – maybe a little equine but beautifully dressed. I wonder what kept men from their door. Maybe something had frightened them. Could make interesting characters in a work of fiction.

A few hundred yards more of houses brought us to our creek. It’s luscious green banks, scattered with edible wild flowers and herbs, hauled us in. Birds in trees. Ducks on water. Boys with shanghais. Frogs ballonking. The whole place teeming with life. We knew where the wild fruit trees grew and when they would be bearing – pomegranite, loquat, quince, apple. Always enough to satisfy our after school hunger pangs.

None of us wore watches but the daylight told us when it was nearing five o’clock – time to be home for our favourite radio serial ‘Hop Harrigan.’ With heads close to the family Astor bakelite radio, my sister and I would listen with hearts pounding to the thrilling tales – presented by radio actors – of air missions, dog fights, insane villains, destructive ray guns et al.

To be continued . . . . . Must stop here as I need to pack up for one of our big family camp outs this long weekend. About twenty of us (near and extended family) will gather in my beautiful Barossa hills country around a large camp-fire, eat, drink, laugh and reminisce – perhaps a little about these wonderful times.

Hope this has sparked some of your own memories.

Warmly,

Sue