My Walkabout - The Way It Was

CHAPTER 1

In The Beginning

So where’s the beginning? When does life begin? I’m not talking about biological life. That’s easy; it started with a twinkle in your father’s eye. No, I’m thinking about something far more complicated than that. Where did I begin? What began to shape me and make me? Is what I can remember, even subconsciously, what made me? Was it all those early experiences? Did the meanness, or the doting love bestowed on me, make me, or is it all about the DNA pool? I don’t know, but I do wish I’d asked a lot more questions of the dear ones that have already passed on. I have pictures of many early experiences in my head, but like window shopping, none of the stores have the same displays or sell the same goods.

I was born in the “nice” eastern suburbs of Melbourne, Australia, during WWII. My father was away at the war for four years and was wounded while fighting in Egypt, so he returned to Australia and had the opportunity to have a weekend with my mother in a small rural town somewhere in northern Victoria. Nine months later, there I was. I’m sure about that because as a child if we ever drove through this insignificant little country town, my parents would look at each other in a very “gooey” way. The post-war baby boom didn’t begin until after 1945, but I was born in 1943.

After the war, my father purchased a poultry farm on the outskirts of Melbourne, at a place called Ringwood. My mother created the farm’s name, “Glenmarjon,” the combined names of their three children: Glenys, Margaret, and John. “Glenmarjon” was painted on a large sign attached to the wide farm gate. I can remember the old farmhouse kitchen, all the single-pane windows covered in frost, me in a highchair, a bowl of hot water on the tray, and my cold hands dabbling in its welcome warmth. I remember the “jinker,” a strange two-wheeled wagon that my Dad loaded with buckets of runny mash and pulled to row after row of chicken pens. I was poked between the buckets, riding in my glory, then toddling into the chicken pens behind Dad as he emptied the mashed-up brew into the hen’s long feeder troughs.

There was a huge annual event: the Melbourne Royal Agricultural Show. My Dad prepared the hens and roosters for the poultry judging, which was far more important to him than any family occasion. I remember our farm assistant washing hens and roosters in our bathtub, standing them on the bathroom cabinet, and rubbing their feathers with olive oil, then poking them with a small stick to get them used to the judge’s prodding inspection. Hopefully, when they were under his keen eye, they wouldn’t have a fit, unpreen all their feathers, and look unprizeworthy. Years later when we sold the farm and moved closer to the city, my father heard that his entire prize Rhode Island Red and Leghorn poultry had been sent to the killing floors for human consumption, thus ending all his fine breeding stock. This event was spoken about in very hushed tones if he was present.

During our last year in Ringwood, I attended kindergarten at a small private school called Winnington Grammar, where my older brother and sister were in higher grades. My only learning memory was the discovery I made that if I scratched extremely hard on the kindergarten tables, I could remove paint. I relished the thought that my scratchy round-tummy, stick figures would remain on the furniture forever. I think at four years of age, I traveled both ways to school on a public bus. Kids were smart in those days and did all sorts of amazing lone feats. My mother felt quite comfortable with me traveling this way. One time when the bus accelerated with a sudden jolt, I went sprawling the length of the bus aisle. Many loving hands helped me up, but I was mortified by the childish spectacle I had caused.

Later, when I could read, another window shows me traveling alone to visit an aunt who lived in the Dandenong Mountains, a 50-minute train ride from my home train station. My mother would put me on the train at our local station with a written list of all the stations between home and Ferntree Gully, which was the terminus of the railway line. I’d check off the stations on the list, get off the train at the last station and find a public bus in the railway parking area that had “Belgrave” on its visa. I’d board the bus, and after a half-hour ride, and just as the bus driver yelled, “Hazel Grove!” I would spot my aunt waiting for me at the bus stop. I’d scramble down the bus steps into the loving arms of my dear Aunt Bertha.

We moved to the eastern suburbs of Melbourne, and Dad took a desk job, as the heavy work on the farm played havoc with his war injury. During that era, we played outside unless it was raining, spending hours after school each day practicing standing on our head, trying to do backflips and handstands. A neighbor had parallel bars in her yard; we loved hanging upside down and somersaulting off them and getting dirty. We didn’t sit at home watching television, which was unknown in Australia during those years or spend hours coveting advertised products or watching violence. Sometimes I’d curl up in a living room chair with a book, and almost always I was allowed to read in bed for 15 minutes before lights out. It was the era of radiograms or record players. We had one that you could stack with ten records at a time, and it would play them all one after the other. My favorites were Ravel’s “Bolero,” Bizet’s “Carmen,” and of course, “Peter and the Wolf.” I would lie on the living room carpet and indulge myself in every note the orchestra played.

I think we were “hyper” much of the time, but the jumping and yelling were done outside. So it didn’t aggravate anyone. Our noise told parents where we were, and everyone knew each other’s kids. My playtime ended when my mother stepped outside our front door and sang in her beautiful soprano voice, “Glenys.” I’d yell goodbye over my shoulder and take off at a run in her direction. It was a safer time for children because we had very definite boundaries. Everyone in the neighborhood had similar values, and no one was afraid to correct a delinquent child; it was expected.

In primary school, I took pride in being the drum and fife bandleader, which meant I played the fife and piccolo better than anyone else, and this won me the title of Captain. As Captain, I stood in front of the band and called out the next song we’d play while the students marched in silent rows of three from the assembly area to their classrooms at the beginning of every school day. When the quadrangle was empty, I popped up my right arm, indicating this was the last song; the drums would do their drum roll, and music would cease. I’d call band dismissed, and we’d all go to class. I thought it was the best job ever. Unfortunately, not all my experiences at that time were positive. The accusation of a male fifth-grade teacher that I had lied about a situation, then slapping me across the face in front of my class for something I hadn’t done haunted me for years. I was humiliated, hurt, and ashamed, and didn’t even tell my parents, who I felt sure would support the adult’s point of view. I was forced to apologize to the other student publicly for my “lie.” Those were the strange old days when children never contradicted a grown-up.

I remember the dreaded window of music exams, taken every October. At that stage, my mother was working as a kindergarten teacher, so my strict, stiff, and unsmiling grandmother would accompany me to the Melbourne Conservatorium of Music. My Dad would drive us there on his way to work. Nana would wait patiently for as many hours as the exams took: theory exams lasted one to three hours, and the practical only 30 minutes. The instrumental test was far more stressful for me, as I never seemed to be able to do enough preparation. For many years I learned three musical instruments: piano because I wanted to; violin because my father thought I would one day be good at it; and the clarinet because I heard someone play it and loved the sound. I mastered none, which I later deeply regretted.

The upside of music examinations was that later in the day, with all the tests finished, my Dad would meet Nana and me and take us to the Royal Melbourne Agricultural Show where there were sideshows, animal judging, and sheepdog trials: to see which dog could pen a number of sheep in the shortest possible time. I especially loved this event. So, there was the carrot to ensure I performed well during the music examinations. Nana always prepared a delicious assortment of food, so every hour or so we’d find a plank seat and delve into the “tucks” bag. My Dad would pick us up at a prearranged exit later in the day and take us home, exhausted but incredibly happy.

My father was a great believer in the outdoors and taught the family to be avid campers. Every school vacation, we went somewhere: to the mountains, beach, or someplace of educational interest. Shipbuilding yards, mines, and cemeteries where famous people I’d never heard of were buried. We climbed to trig points at the top of remote mountain ranges, which some early explorer had claimed for God and country, explored derelict railway stations, and Gold Rush ghost towns. You name it if my Dad had read about it, he determined that we should see it. The reason we were able to travel so extensively was that we’d been raised camping. We didn’t think it was strange to shower and toilet in a camp ground’s communal bathroom. We’d grown up doing it all our lives, and I think my mother loved the no-housework break.

Our favorite place was a wild ocean beach, and small-town along the Great Ocean Road in southern...