Or
The Evolution of Parties. My parties.
In our family, tradition had it that we were allowed a party every seven years. I’d had one for my seventh, my fourteenth, and after that, a cracking twenty first was on the agenda. However, by the time my friends and I reached sixteen, we considered this age also worthy of a shindig – mainly I think because it would be a mixed one and the opposite sex had become remarkably interesting to us.
By November of that year, my big night was being planned. My girlfriends and I had mulled over which boys to invite, and finally settled on the seven allowed – the number stipulated by my parents. Fourteen was the maximum our lounge room could comfortably hold.
Party night was warm and balmy – we girls in our gorgeous home-sewn frocks, boys scrubbed and neat – in white shirts and ties with a haze of Old Spice around them. We were buddies at school but in this uncommon environment (family home rather than school-yard) we were just a little awkward around each other – at the outset.
I’d been given a record player for my birthday, and that morning had bought The Diamonds’ first album – in that beautiful black shiny stuff – vinyl. All through the evening we just flipped it from one side to the other. This became common practice at parties. There’d be a super hit album that would be great to dance to and it would be thrashed all night.
There was no sign of alcohol at this age. Drinks would have been soft, with coffee later.
I’d organised a few games to break the ice, and then, as deviously planned by me and my
girlfriends, a scavenger hunt was announced. The boys had to leave the room while each of the girls took off a shoe and placed it in a pile in the middle of the room. Lights were turned off and boys asked to come back in with eyes closed and pick a shoe from the heap. Whoever owned the shoe each picked would be his partner for the hunt. It was the handsome Jimmy T who chose mine. Lovely smile, black hair, brown eyes and tanned complexion, Jimmy was already the pick of the bunch I thought.
I’d made up a list of items to be found – making sure that at least half an hour would have to be spent out in the lovely night and around town, as couples. Winners would be the first back with all the items on the list. There were no records broken!
Within five minutes out, Jimmy had taken my hand. We walked and talked and before long, finding the items was secondary to our enjoyment of each other’s company. I hoped that my girlfriends were having as nice a time as I was. By the time we all arrived back at the house, partnerships for the evening had been established.
We danced then, to The Diamonds – lights turned low, many of us cheek to cheek. I was gone for all money – ‘in love’ with Jimmy, which stretched into much of the following year. The relationship was without substance however. He had left school and was learning a trade. There were no dates, but for me, a buckling at the knees at every sighting of him – all written about extensively in my (today embarrassing) teen girl’s diary.
Most of us left school at seventeen, got jobs and looked forward to the weekends where we’d gather socially. There was a party somewhere nearly every Saturday night. Many of the boys had found work in the wineries and consequently had access to some of the most popular alcoholic beverages. As a result, gone were the soft drink and coffee nights. Now we girls were dipping our toes into the water of alcohol sampling. Barossa Pearl was possibly the Barossa’s first sparkling wine and a good one to cut our teeth on. In our time of growing up there was no D.U.I, no speed limits, no seat belts. It’s a wonder more of us weren’t killed. Sadly a few were.
We were a happy bunch – about twenty of us, mostly couples by now. As well as parties on the weekends, there was often a dance somewhere. If a bunch of single lads from another town showed up at one of our dances, and tried to ‘move in’ on any of the girls, there could be trouble – a ‘rumble’ in their words. Doesn’t sound very refined does it? Not uncommon for one or several of the boys to end up with bloodied noses. But that was about as bad as it got. Today (in the cities, not here) weapons are more likely to be knives, rather than bare knuckles.
In the late sixties, cabarets and dinner parties emerged – much more dignified affairs. Fashion was elegant. Audrey Hepburn had paved the way with her boat-neck, princess-line, sleeveless gowns, long gloves, stiletto heels, cigarettes in a holder, hair in a French roll. The guys were beginning to dress like The Beatles, growing their hair longer, skinny pants, pointy toed shoes and boots.
At these cabarets there would be a live band and dancing. We sat in groups of friends at large candle-lit, vine-decorated tables – in halls, or outside in sprawling winery grounds – drinking and eating the fare we had brought ourselves. A European flavour about these functions I guess. These then eventually gave way to dinner parties – smaller get togethers in our private homes. The focus here was more on home-cooked food, wine and conversation. Usually no dancing at these.
Around this time there were also festive home gatherings. These could be quite large, and loud. Rock’n’roll albums were played all night and we danced crazily – to Little Richard, Bill Hayley, Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry et al. Everyone would bring their own drinks, and to be honest I think there was little food. By midnight there’d be complaints from neighbours. We’d turn the music down but bit by bit people would tweak the volume up, until invariably the police turned up.
On one weekend we’d heard that an old and derelict stone cottage out in the back blocks was to be demolished. Someone must have asked the property owner if we could have a party there. Permission was given and the word went out. On that Saturday night, around fifty people found their way out to this cosy little four roomed house in the middle of a paddock. It had obviously been built by pioneers of old. It was completely bare which allowed us all to squeeze in – pretty much shoulder to shoulder. Someone had brought a record player and some LPs, someone else had set up a keg of beer that was triggered into plastic cups. We danced and sang and became loud with balderdash and laughing. The next day the little house was demolished but we’d given her a decent send-off we felt. Today I’d probably fight to save her. Sad.
Then there were the long-weekend parties when some of our parents would go away – to a shack on the river or to Port Parham, a crabbing beach an hour from the Barossa. In whispered tones, the word ‘Party’ would go out as soon as it was discovered whose parents would be away. The first one of these I ever attended was after I’d begun dating Warren (who I was to marry). His parents had gone to Port Parham. By ten o’clock on the Saturday night the house was full. Everyone knew that this show would go till around midday on the Monday. There would be little sleep. The vinyl would be played non-stop on the HMV stereogram. By three or four AM the rock’n’roll would be put to one side to make way for Patsy Cline, Mario Lanza and even some Richard Tauber – a famous German tenor. In dribs and drabs, party-goers would find themselves a couch or a corner in which to catch a nap. The music never stopped. There was always someone to drop the next disc onto the turn-table, always some-one to keep the wood fire stoked. As dawn broke, there’d be stirring. Eggs were plentiful and at the smell of sizzling bacon, people would gravitate towards the kitchen. Some of us must have gone home to shower but by mid morning everyone was back, the music cranked up, coffee made and then a slow return to beer and sparkling wine as the party entered Day 2.
I guess these were marathons of some sort. On the Monday, late morning, bleary eyed kids were doing dishes, mopping floors, bagging up bottles, returning vinyls to their jackets, straightening and fluffing cushions and generally trying to return the house to the condition it was in before the party started. On this occasion though, those attempts had failed. Warren’s mother rang me at my house on the Monday afternoon, in tears. Warren was with me. ‘What’s happened to my house?’ her quivering voice was asking. We thought we’d done a pretty good job of getting it back in order. What we hadn’t realised was that someone had stuck long neck beer bottle labels all over the windows. We’d left the blinds pulled down and when Warren’s mum returned, the first thing she did was to pull up all the blinds. Also, despite the cleaning, mopping and vacuuming I think the place probably smelled like a hotel. I think that was the last of those marathons. It was awful to hear her so upset.
As some of you may know from my memoir, in the early seventies Warren and I left home with our two young children to do a two year road trip around Australia. Along the way we met some wonderful people with whom we developed great friendships – some of which still exist today. We would sometimes spend weeks in a place while Warren worked to earn enough money for the next leg of our journey. On Saturday nights we’d have van parties. A few of us would gather at someone’s caravan, the table would be taken outside and we’d gather around that. Kids would be tucked up in bed and we’d have a bite to eat, some drinks, listen to music and sometimes dance. The conversation was usually around adventures we’d all had on the road to that point, where we were headed, the possibilities of work, life stories, favourite music, books read and those recommended.
I guess what all this is showing is that a certain type of socialising has always been part of my life. Our ancestors called it Gemutlichkeit – a feeling of cosiness, contentedness and comfort in gathering.
Today the tradition has changed again. It’s no longer like any of the above for me. You might have guessed by now that I was no Goodie Two-shoes. But the beautiful thing is that many of the people I shared these wonderful times with are still in my life. The music may be different, the dancing no longer, but the love between us, the camaraderie, the enjoyment of food and wine and good conversation is still there. This is how we find our friends for life – in the values we share.
Well I am truly on the death knock for putting this blog up. Late on the last night of the month.
More of what I’ve been up to next time.
Warmly,
Sue
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