). But, I shot a crow with my didget finger, it dropped like a rock, I saw misty visions of my father standing beside my bed when he was miles away, he talked to me and consoled me, I have this apparition to this day. Don’t dwell on it, how about the "real" vision of seeing Jack Frost peering and beckoning from behind a tree at the service station mum and dad owned at Bell, I saw him, fair dinkum, it had nothing to do licking the frozen liquid that had accumulated on top of the 44 gal. PETROL drums.
I can describe Jack, but you will say I was a petrol sniffer. Katoomba is a mystic place. The Boarding School, well I can’t go there except I met a boy from Plunkett Street I knew, he looked after me. We left there; never saw Denis Payne Farley again.
MASHED ‘TATERS, ARE HALLUCINOGENIC.
Then there was a place I know not where, very young my earliest memories? I can see Nuns and kids and beds and Gremlins.
Running by outside the windows grimacing and calling, but only after eating mashed potatoes. Imagination is a kids best friend, my little buddy Michael, (my son), had a friend, never got to meet him, diet may play a part, we all had dreams, and no body can take them from us. Importantly, keep the thoughts in the context of a young mind and protect the innocent little people who grow up to be us. Holy mackerel brother, you deviated something dramatic.
THE BEGA VALLEY, A PLACE FOR A YOUNG BLOKES ‘DREAMTIME’.
Bega Primary seems a good school to re-visit, the south coast of N.S.W. is incredible, the dairy country is renowned for its rich harvest and the close proximity to the coast means;) shut yer face, keep it to your self.
Soon after leaving Katoomba mum dragged me to the Bega Valley, if she hadn’t of this adventure could not have happened, thanks mum.
Mum worked at a hotel in Bega, she was preety good looking and took up? With the son of a dairy farmer, Clive was his name, (the son). They formed a tumultuous partnership for many years and again they carted me all over. For a period mum and I lived in town, had already commenced school at Bega Primary then found ourselves on Clive’s’ Parents dairy property (3)? Miles north of Bega, 90 plus milkers plus Bill and Grace the loveliest people I have ever met, Peter became my step brother and we had some interesting experiences, wonder if Peter can remember the day Grandma Snowdon asked us to go and fetch mushrooms in the north paddock.
MUSSHIES, SLING SHOTS AND BLOODY PLOVERS.
We set of with "Grannies" basket, a slingshot each and pride in our step; the plovers were "Stukas" protection of their young was by brute force, equipped with spurs on their elbows. As one picked musshies the other let off, who’s my proofreader! I mean, shot a missile in the direction of the diving plover. Now it’s my turn with the anti-aircraft weapon and lets go a rock to protect Peter, bugger missed no! The bloody stone hits Peter and he drops, well, like a rock. In between helping Peter, (Prof. Peter Snowdon now!), fighting of dive-bombers we did have mushrooms for dinner.
NATURE BOYS AND DUCK EGGS.
Must linger with the Peter saga because we shared many stories as farm kids, the poor bugger had some ill health as a boy but he survived, just like most things in my life I lost contact, however, I do know he is a very respectable member of scientific community. He won't mind me relating the story regards climbing out on a tree limb over the creek below the farm. You see we were looking for Wood Duck nests, and eggs, yum, yum.
Peter has clambered along the over hanging branch and slipped into the creek, splash and help me!. in that order, he flails and displays obvious panic, I leaps into the water to assist my friend and, and, and, "Peter you goose stand up the water is only bloody waist deep". Had to get Peter home soaking wet to his mum, Grandma Grace was quite displeased.
Me because of Peter, became a "Conso", we grew green frogs from slimy bunches of eggs collected from the creek, we transposed the egg sacks to a water filled small corrugated tank with suitable furniture, like rocks and water foliage.
As they became tadpoles and grew into frogs Peter the note taker would record their progress, smart bugger. To supplement his need for edifying information we would take the .22 and shoot eels in the creek. Clive, (Peters older) had an obsession to hunt and we wandered through adjoining properties on occasion in search of rabbits.
I must relate that mostly all rabbits suffered from "myxzo", this syndrome was an incredibly painful human induced method to combat a problem we established in the bloody first place. Get that up ya. Let me tell you how two young boys intended to solve the problem.
Firstly. Peter and I used to chat a lot, Peter talked and I would listen and argue, the hunting expedition commenced with Clive as lead. Peter and I would follow constantly discussing various issues; there were many polite requests for silence from the lead, "shut up you little pricks" was his favorite expression. During one hunting trip as we stumbled behind we came upon a warren and discovered several small kittens in hiding.
With great innovation we stuffed several weeping bunnies into our shirts and said naught to the "great white hunter", our intention was unclear expect for their survival. When we arrived back to the Farm House Peter and I discussed our plan for their future existence, Clive’s sense of hearing, remember his survival skills, was exemplary. "What have you little bastards got hiding in those shirts", the game was up! No intention was deliberated into regards relating "off" stories so don't read further. One by one the kittens were disposed of by this farmer’s son.
Clive was a dead shot, a good fisherman, a returned serviceman and a carpenter, he had the same inherent problems every returned service person has, "you sent me, now let me forget with dignity, at least respect me".
BEGA VALLEY SNOWDONS, GREAT FOLK.
The Bega Valley Snowdons are well respected, they are Scottish and proud and will have a similar hierarchy to my Lovegroves. Graham may help me. God I love the Bega district, Tathra is a seaside town about (11) miles east, it was a Port in the past days of coastal maritime traffic.
Loading produce on to small steamers was no small feat on a wharf built inside a partially protected headland, Tathra Wharf south coast N.S.W., go and see, in fact don’t hesitate its got a great Pub.
Will not bring myself to say "step". Grand Parents Grace and Bill Snowdon were the best people who ever milked a cow, preserved in a "Fowlers", worked from dawn to dusk, suffered hardships but never complained, Bill worked for the council, he died for the council, he was hospitable and I am biased, why, he would take us to the wharf on a Sunday to go fishing.
TATHRA WHARF, I MUST GO BACK ONE DAY.
Oh yes the payoff; 0530 start, help with the milking the Jerseys, in the old Ford and off. Grace always smelt like butter and cream and flour and cow shit, things like country mothers should smell like, she also smelt just like my mum and together could churn butter and brand a calf. Incidentally Betty Isabella Matilda Elizabeth Farley / Lovegrove is still waiting to return to "Rosedale" and Bega; I have her ashes with me, THEY WILL GO WITH ME.
My problem is a separation thing, if some of her ashes are spread at each place can she "join up", don't hate me for this, that's mums humour / humor. Piss off ‘spell checker’.
COUNTRY GIRLS AT HEART.
I have read several stories relating to women from the country, some are suspiciously biased and sexist, let me tell you country girls have been holding their head high for ever, they have contributed and are largely responsible for the generation of our country values, they were capable of any task and willingly contributed, any person who denigrates their contribution or questions their equality, male or female should have lived then and so get a frigging life.
Your truly has got emotional with these memories and no, we can’t produce a video of our inner thoughts, baby you live your life, these happy days are ours, (thanks Fonsie?), join me soon 'cause this place has personal thoughts and things only a mother should know.
So there you go, a very brief overview of a bloke’s life. Might help to give credence to the crappy poems, you know, ‘been there, done that’, no big deal. I have mentioned many times:
If you relate mate, and you will, you can enjoy re-writing my poems so that you get some sense from them. But I wager this, the essence is based on first hand life, all you will change is the grammar, if your game, regards john f.
PS:
There is a poem that covers me from litigation, "GIVE OR TAKE A METRE", I know in my piss-poor brain that great poets have a professional duty to uphold ‘correctness’, I have tried that. From the above stories have come; "MOON BAY, ARAGUNNU", "MOOSEFACE", others.
Still trying to follow a chrono time frame, this is #3 I believe.
MOOSEFACE, MY FRIEND.
Milton is a small but worthwhile community south from Wollongong, N.S.W, just north of Ulladullah and the Marlin Hotel and a girl called "Moose Face", another pub mum dragged me to, and not the Marlin forgot the pub in Milton.
Fact; as soon as I started school here the most chronic migraine pains commenced, you bloody wimp, went to the chemist and he prescribed eye drops all gone in days, maybe you medical folk will have an explanation Not many memories remain; maybe the guilt factor has entered the agenda.
OK we broke into the Show Grounds offices and chappied some soft drinks and got bilious from the CO2. Or was there a problem during the school holidays, explanation; a local farmer came to school and asked if any kids would like a job over the holidays picking beans, several friends including myself went "pick me". Now the money by the bushel was great, but the bushel by the kid = hard work. Beside the bean patch was a paddy melon field, when the overseer left the scene and we had eaten our fill of melons we disposed of the skins, full stop.
Who knows what attracts us to the opposite sex, an affinity developed between me and this lady of twelve / forty seems to have happened, she was a good swimmer and pretty, and when we went to the swimming baths at Ulladullah we enjoyed each others company. My friends called her moose face and I do not know why, to this day, while I can’t see her face, I can see her smile. We left Milton soon after every boy in town died of a strange illness.
LOVEGROVES, HUNTER VALLEY.
In 1853 a young family moved into the upper Hunter Valley of N.S.W, they were my ancestors and their surname was Lovegrove, another family unaware of this historical fact, or at least me, moved into same area in 1952?, the town was Coolah. This family consisted of Betty Farley / Lovegrove, Clive Snowdon and JohnFarls. I am uncertain of the circumstances for our traveling to this town although Clive was a carpenter and perhaps he was following work in this field. I was billeted at the local hotel for a period and well cared for and commenced school soon afterwards.
Shortly there afterwards we moved to a property owned by the Body family, (Bundemar, Trangie!), and spent some time there, Clive apparently was building stuff, mum was (?). Schooling for me consisted of catching the bus and traveling quite a distance to town where one found the syllabus delivered in a classroom that consisted of 3 / 4 grades, no problem. Years later, guess what, I found out many of the kids were my 1st and 2nd cousins, the ancestors had been busy.
BANG, LIKE DUCK.
As always the weekends and holidays were all fun, the property (?) was quite large and had as one of its borders an escarpment of quite high cliffs upon which wild goats roamed. Of course a .22 caliber Pea rifle was standard issue, and as hunter goat meat was quite acceptable, regrettably a long rifle round looses oomph at 300metres. The big story as regards firearms was the day I fired a .45 caliber, hexagonal barrel, single shot, pump action Winchester, this monster was owned by a station worker and it took me till tea time to stop bouncing on my bottom…
YAMBA / NAMBUCCA.
Lost the plot a little in real time so I travel to the north coast of N.S.W. to Nambucca Heads, and hey guys I did not know how hard it is to describe life lived, at least the true story nor can one reliably describe the visions. So here’s a site you might peruse, and oh, went to school here, went fishing, gathered seashells. The seashells were gathered at, wait, Shelly Beach just north of Nambucca.
We would bring our harvest back for a lady who would use the shells to coat jam tins as souvenirs; she made a plaster to which she adhered the cowries and winkles and limpets. Fishing became Clives obsession, he made his own rods from a 16 foot length of bamboo, attached the runners with colored cotton, varnished the rod and fitted a 8 inch Alvey reel, caught a cold. As with some of our sojourns my memories are a flash.
Yamba, north from Nambucca was a slightly different experience, we moved there just after the devastating 1954 floods, 20 feet of water in Prince Street Grafton, so I guess it was my swan song school year. Made friends at school as usual after the initial stand off and again settled into a pattern of work and play. I have returned to many of these towns in later years the growth has been incredible.
THE PUB THAT SLID DOWN THE HILL.
Could attest to the actual year we moved to Yamba, you see the huge seas and wave surge associated with the flooding rains had undermined the one and only hotel and it slid down the hill, Clive was traumatized by this event, he enjoyed a drink, shall we say a big drink. The only outlet was at McLean some miles inland requiring a lengthy bus trip. Now this story will have a happy ending, (for some). You see Clive loved his fishing and would frequent the south training wall at the mouth of the Clarence. My job was to catch small yellow tail in the boat harbor and race along the break wall with my prize(s) in a bucket of water. A wriggling fish were soon on the hook and cast into the briny.
For a matter of many days or weeks Clive would fish, pack up and return to our accommodation, sometimes with a good mulloway, can’t mention the common name it has religious inferences, he would commence drinking his bottled beer. Then one day I met him returning along the wall as I traveling out with my catch, "where you going" was my question, "to the pub, a bloke just told me the saloon bar was the only remaining thing open, and the bastard has been serving grog since we got here", bugger.
Made friends quickly, one of my friends father was a trawler man he owned a rather unusual boat, a converted RAAF patrol boat a "Fairmile", the gantry was amidships forward of the wheel house. On occasion we were allowed to go prawning provided we did not get seasick, I am lucky in that regard. The Yamba prawners used a communal cooker back then, their catch was weighed and every body cooked the catch in a big copper cauldron and spread the cooked prawns on a fine gauge wire drying rack and liberally applied rock salt to the cooling prawns. The good thing about this process was that during sorting of the "shots" several small squid would slip through and is cooked, good tucker.
ANOTHER GIRL.
Great times as usual, a girl from school fell in love with me, boys know these things because she used to make rude gestures to me in the playground. For pocket money we would collect pippies and sell them to the bait shop and the Co-op, something that is illegal now. Us white kids and the local aboriginal kids were great friends and we would display our mutual respect for each other by having bow and arrow fights, seriously it seems we did get along excellent, I must say Plunkett Street and other places gave me the grounding for racial tolerance, Yamba was no exception.
Must be close to the end of BORN IN THE BUSH, Carrathool and Telopea Park ACT will conclude the school sojourn, I probably mentioned that snippets of memories will be added. Carrathool was and probably still is a one-horse town located between Narrandara and Hay in the far central south west. Mum drags me to another pub, she was the cook and good at it, initially a very warm welcome from two brothers was my school highlight, I bloodied one nose and became overwhelmed until another boy came to my aid, and we all became friends after the welcoming committee settled down.
Soon re-discovered that horses and me have certain ongoing social problems, remember the story about the Clydesdale and the dray, horse and buggy, never had a problem, well I forgot the time at Boonoke when we traveled by buggy out into the far reaches of the property escorted by several stockmen.
The object was to locate and conduct a census on the many cattle on the property. The process commenced with a stockman calling in a unique fashion something like the sound of moooooorrrraaaa, incredibly the cattle came out of the bush to investigate and were counted. No problems here until a stockman invited me to sit on the saddle of his bloody big black horse, no doubt to impress mum. He lifted me up, gave me the reins it was then all hell broke loose. The big mongrels’ ears laid back, his nostrils’ flared and he commenced bucking to dislodge me, I went the 10 seconds for the trophy and then fell heavily bum first onto a thorn bush.
HOLD HER HEAD.
Between bouts of giggles, mum extricated the needles from my butt, AND despite my embarrassment, I lived. So I became wary of horses, not scared, incidentally the big black horse was forgiven. Back to Carrathool. Well the publican’s daughter loved horses, there was a stable behind the pub housing her friends, and she gained my friendship and invited me to go riding out to a property not far from town. My horse was a little mare of mature age and appeared docile, UNTILL, unbeknownst to me the mare was born on the property mentioned and upon mounting de ja vou belted me. The ears pinned back the frigging nostrils were dragging in breath, AND;
With the jockey holding on for dear life we preceded out of town at a munificent clip never deviating from a GPS planned route, the girl from the pub yelling instructions from somewhere astern. "Hold her Johnnie, hold her head", well johnnies knuckles were white as snow, his panic was palpable and then suddenly a gate appeared and all became serene and beautiful, she was home. We all had a pleasant day, had a swim and rode back into town, quietly.
TIME WENT BY.
Generally mum was even tempered and never displayed impatience, that is until I was a little inconsiderate in her kitchen on a busy day. She had recently bought me a new watch and I wore it on my wrist with pride, this day it was in my back pocket. After a bit of cheek mum chased me out the door waving a huge wooden spoon at my ginger, I felt no pain, but the watch did, honestly. Mention was made to embellishing and self indulgent comments if you believe the preceding what can I say, I will be there at 9 am Monday, the cheques in the mail etc., and the truth is known by god and the story teller.
CITY AND THE BUSH, "BUSHY POEMS" ALSO........
