Reminiscing on my childhood in 1950’s Australia
Rosalie Busch, 71, recently retired from her job as a School Services Officer in South Australia. She’s married with two children. She enjoys live theatre, reading and travel.
When I was five or six years old my mother sent me off to join Bjelke Petersen’s School of Physical Culture (Physie as it is more commonly known) because, she believed, as there was every indication that I was going to be tall, it would benefit my posture as I grew and prevent me from becoming ‘round-shouldered’ (her words).
This young physie girl was obviously a ‘Champion Girl’ and is wearing a similar outfit to the one I wore.
The program was a mixture of gymnastics and dance and I really enjoyed it. I continued to attend well into my teen years.
There were competitions held and an end of year concert.
When I was nine I won ‘Champion Girl’ for our district. I was overwhelmed and still don’t know how my legs carried me onto the stage to receive my medal. That was the only time mum and dad were not able to attend one of these events. Mixed feelings all around! I still have the medal.
My greatest desire was to learn classical ballet but my mother informed me my height was against me there so I bowed to her wishes or rather never discussed or argued the matter.
As time went by more houses appeared in our street.
I became friendly with the neighbours opposite our house and, in particular, with their eldest daughter. She was one for pressing her parents’ buttons and was always in trouble. However, we liked each other and spent a bit of time together during school holidays (she did not go to the same school as I did).
Next to our property was a vacant block which had not been cleared and was overgrown with tea-tree. One summer my friend decided we should build a cubby-house in the tea-tree, take some bread with us and make toast. She secured the matches, I supplied the bread, and of course you can guess what happened next. I will never forget my mother’s face as she held the garden hose over the fence while waiting for the fire-brigade to arrive.
Both my friend and I made a hasty retreat. She hid under her house and I was sobbing so much I don’t think Mum could bring herself to reprimand me too severely. Thankfully the house and the fence were not touched and my friend was grounded for some time. I was not.
Summer holidays was also a time for pumping up the bicycle tyres, attaching a basket, grabbing sandwiches and soft drink and disappearing for the day with parting words from Mum – “be home before it gets dark”. Wow, such freedom and what adventures we had!
Saturday afternoons were often spent either watching my father play cricket (summer) or watching my brother play soccer (winter). It wasn’t a ‘chore’ for me because I always enjoyed being a spectator, especially when family was involved. I didn’t participate in a sport myself until I was at high school although I was always a keen swimmer.
My father had a lovely singing voice. Most nights, while sharing the washing and drying of dishes we would harmonise, singing songs Dad taught me from the war years. I loved that time together and I can still retrieve some of those old melodies – if called upon to do so – but I really don’t think that will happen!
It was some years before Dad was given a company car. Up until that time he caught a train to work each day (not really a hardship) and when we visited our grandparents it was a journey which necessitated catching two buses. Both sets of grandparents lived in Five Dock, a suburb closer to the city and about 13 km from our home.
Having a car meant we could journey further afield and I remember on many a hot day mum would pack a picnic tea and when Dad arrived home from work we would depart for Manly Beach. Along with a whole pile of Sydneysiders, we would eat our tea on the grass under the pines and swim for hours, never wanting to return to the heat of our house.
Mum always made sure Christmas lunch was traditionally English in keeping with her heritage. A roast dinner, plum pudding (containing threepences) with brandy sauce and fruit mince pies was the order of the day. Both sets of grandparents and a close Aunt and cousin joined us at our Christmas table each year.
The weekend preceding Christmas we would make the journey to our family at Woodford in the Blue Mountains. We enjoyed an early Christmas with my Uncle (mum’s brother), Aunt and three cousins. After lunch Dad and my Uncle would venture into the bush to find our pine Christmas tree which we loaded onto our car for the journey home. I can’t remember the time in my life when this tradition ceased but I do remember the fresh pine smell throughout the house for quite a few Christmases.
Even though money was in short supply in our younger years, my brother and I always received Christmas gifts which had been on our Santa list. Whether it be a doll and cradle or Davey Crocket hat and meccano set, somehow they made it under our tree.
Davey Crocket was a 19th Century American hero referred to as “King of the Wild Frontier”. My brother was a big fan and when replicas of the hat he wore hit the stores he had to have one!
I can remember hanging the billy-can on the front fence for the milkman who would fill the can from a vat in his van and chasing the baker’s cart up the street to get the fresh bread – which was still warm – before it was delivered to our home so we could tear some of the bread out of the middle of the loaf. Delicious!
And then there was the ‘Sani’ Man (Sanitation). I can’t remember how many times per week he came but he was the person who took away our full toilet pans and delivered fresh ones. Sewerage had not been connected to our area and we had the traditional ‘outhouse’. Mum used to leave a ten-shilling note on the toilet seat for our Sani man every Christmas. We very rarely got to see him – he usually came in the early hours (which was probably a good thing!). Sewerage was finally connected not long after we moved into the house. Such luxury!
The ‘garbos’ were a very athletic lot. Their huge clanking truck, which could be heard for miles, carried men who would jump off the truck, grab a bin, run back to the truck and empty the contents into the truck, replace the bin and continue on this path down every street. They must have been the fittest people on the planet!
Another regular visitor was the Ice Man. Refrigerators were available in the 1950’s but were not cheap. Too expensive for us and for many families at that time, we kept our perishables cold in an ice chest. The ice man would arrive carrying a huge block of ice on his shoulder (his shoulder was protected from the
cold by a large piece of leather) and it was placed in the side compartment of the wooden upright chest. As the ice melted water drained down the back of the chest into a tray underneath. Mum (or Dad) would slide out the tray and empty the water every so often. I can’t remember how often the Ice Man made his delivery but I’m guessing it would have been more often during the summer months. Great celebrations the day we were able to purchase our one door, Kelvinator refrigerator!
At the end of every week day when Dad was still ‘training’ it to work, we would wait at the top of our driveway to see him turn the corner after his 3-mile walk (almost 5 km) home from the railway station. He always carried the evening newspaper under his arm and one particular day I remember him opening the paper where the front page read “WAR” which was in reference to the Suez Canal crisis. At the time, I did not understand what this all meant but seeing that one word did scare me.
I think it scared mum and dad too and many others like them as WW2 was still very fresh in their minds.
In a nutshell, anger erupted in 1956 when the Egyptian president announced that the canal was to be nationalised. The canal had been owned by the Suez Canal Company which was controlled by British and French interests. Fearing that petroleum shipments from the Persian Gulf to Western Europe would be cut off, troops were sent in. Israel also had a beef with Egypt and they also entered the debacle. However, Anglo-French troops and Israeli troops withdrew a few months later with the threat of possible Soviet intervention.
Everyone’s childhood holds special memories, and there are memories that are not so special, but I think it is better to reminisce about the good times. I know there were many in my childhood. One word which comes to mind when describing this time in my life is, I think, ‘uncluttered’.
The year I turned twelve I started High School and that, my friends, is another story for another day.
You can read part one of Rosalie’s childhood memories series here.