I’ll tell you about our road trip to Broken Hill shortly but first I have been jotting down a few notes through the month. I think of things to write – just everyday thoughts that you might relate to – and I’m wondering how entertaining they might be if I shared them here.
I’m remembering back to the early sixties and how exciting our first trips to the city were – on the train, without our parents. The freedom, the wide world beckoning to us. In Adelaide at the time, cafes were nothing like the buzzing establishments they are today. More typical were the ones like our local Stoll’s Cafe in Tanunda.
Mary Jenkins (daughter of old Mr. Stoll) made beautiful pies and pasties, available all day and every day. Also to be bought there were sandwiches, milk shakes, pots of tea (one brand), ice-creams and ice-blocks, lollies, a small range of cool drinks.
Chairs and tables were modern – Formica and chrome, an ash-tray on each table, lino on the floor.
A slow flow of passing travelers called in for lunch from time to time, and also of course us school kids, on Mondays, the day we would have run out of bread for sandwiches, at home. The baker delivered fresh bread from door to door on that day once a week.
In the late fifties and early sixties, more modern European-style coffee lounges were becoming established in Adelaide. The Black Orchid and The Tropical were favourites. They were big and dark, also with basic menus, but espresso coffee had arrived. On the rare occasions I was in the city with girlfriends, the heavenly smell of brewed coffee as we entered one of these lounges, made me feel urbane, sophisticated. We weren’t allowed to drink coffee at home until we were sixteen, and then it was only Instant.
The first modern city cafe I can remember from the early sixties, was in Rundle Street (before it became a mall). Scott’s cafe was just above street level and opened onto a balcony – absolutely common today but so new and hip then. My two best friends and I made a special trip, by train, soon after it opened. We just had to sit in this latest and greatest place and have a real coffee and a toasted cheese, asparagus and pineapple sandwich. Asparagus! What was it? Something new and weird – long, thin, squishy things, sprinkled with pepper, that tasted divine. We sat watching the bustle of Rundle Street – cars and the passing parade of pedestrians – mostly women (the men were at work) dressed in up-to-the minute fashion. Witchery was the shop for the latest for women. We each would have bought a summery top on that day.
I look at my grandchildren now and see them spreading their wings, experiencing their own new freedoms, just like I did then.
I have more jottings to share but I feel I should find some way to segue in to the next one. I can only think of saying that these experiences build us over the years, making us the unique people we are.
I thought the other day about how I have always looked down at the ground when I’m walking – around here or in the bush. My property covers about six acres and I have been here for almost sixty years. I am still picking up artifacts from time to time – just tiny remnants now, of old farm workings. There are shards of old crockery, glassware, old rusty nuts, bolts, horseshoe nails, washers, small wire twistings, a short length of chain, a hook, a hinge. I get such a kick out of discovering yet another thing that has appeared – risen up from olden times as a result of our driving over the surface and wearing it away, ever so slowly.
I love the ‘show and tell’ tradition of men showing their mates ‘out the back’ or ‘the shed’ when they visit. I had my siblings up for lunch recently. After eating, I said to my sister ‘Would you like to have a walk around the garden?’ She’s a gardening junkie and didn’t need to be asked twice. There’s such a delight in digging up and giving away plants. Her garden is even more abundant than mine and we have shared so much over the years.
But the men look at everything – the repairs that have been made to the old shed, the vacant spot in the bottom paddock where the old super spreader used to be (sold last month), and right next to it the old hurdled trailer that was used for carting cattle or sheep to market – to go up on Marketplace next week, when we have it ready to go.
They disappear into the work-shop, the men. On the bench are works in progress, each job talked about – the chainsaw that needs new plugs, the juice extractor that needs a diagnosis, the Leigh-invented star-dropper puller-upper, and on the floor the quad bike that needs superior mechanical knowledge.
After a five minute discussion about my brother’s out-of-action leaf blower, Leigh says ‘I reckon you need a grommet in there mate,’ (or something to that effect). I know the word grommet was in there as it made me think – what a wonderful word. Sounds like the name of a character out of ‘Lord of the Rings.’
One night we were sitting by the fire after dinner, listening to music and talking, as oft we do.
‘What do you feel like listening to now?’ I asked Leigh.
‘How about some ‘America’?’
So I pulled up one of their playlists on Spotify. When that had finished, the app moved onto similar artists and tracks. We were given Al Stewart, Bread, Gerry Rafferty, The Doobie Brothers, Seals and Crofts, Chris Rea.
I said to Leigh ‘I have really enjoyed the music tonight. It’s just felt warm and syrupy.’
‘Plum and berry music,’ he said.
It’s a term we will use for this kind of music from now on. Plum and Berry.
I was going to tell you about Broken Hill. There’s so much to tell and I have written all of this already, so I will be brief about it this time and elaborate next blog.
We left early on a Monday morning – well 8.30, which isn’t early for some I know (those 5.30 am risers). It was raining lightly and this continued for most of the journey. Didn’t matter. I’m just so happy travelling anywhere by car in the country. The farmlands were lush all the way, after months of good rains. Our route took in Burra – such a lovely old mining town, but we wanted to make Broken Hill by two pm so didn’t stop. We will make it another trip.
Like a country kid who can’t wait to see the sea, I couldn’t wait for my Outback that begins to appear around Yunta, Olary. That pink/red soil showing through the soft greens and greys of the salt-bush and blue-bush, is something that makes me understand the passions of the artists who lived and painted up there – Pro Hart, Jack Absalom, John Pickup, ‘Ando’ Anderson.
I have been to Broken Hill a few times before but usually just passing through. This time it was our destination and we were there to see all that The Hill had to offer.
Out of time now as I have to get this up, so will tell you about all the things we saw next time.
In the words of Clint Eastwood when asked what his secret to ageing well was –
‘Don’t let the old man in.’
Think young, be curious, look up, look down.
Warmly,
Sue
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