Yes, in 2002 on Tony's request I began to type up some of my childhood memories. He had promised me he would write down his life but asked that I begin my own first, to help inspire him.
Over a short period I did little pieces - and then life changed for us, for many and varied reasons and writing of my childhood seemed almost witless, so it didn't happen.
Today, I have pulled down some long ago stored paper files and found this, written most basically, but made me a little wistful I had not carried on writing at the time.
The script below was never finished, I had clearly been interrupted mid key stroke and never got back to it...
However, this last period has had me type up many a memory recall of other things so this now adds to it and the fact it was written 20 years ago means even more - particularly as there are things in it I had already forgotten.
So here tis, all 6,000 words of it ...
.... and a photo of my parents and myself at a family wedding, not long after moving to Auckland
There is nothing more certain in life than change. It's how you live with the change that makes you what you are.
And I've certainly lived
with more change than any one of my peers, so far. The changes have made me what I am. And I'm comfortable with what I am.
Yet for some years I spent
a lot of time worrying about my life ending, just like my mother used to. While I worried, my life continued to
change. Then the realisation, life isn't about its ending, it's about grasping every day, about enjoying the
changes, making the changes and making sure you are living it as best you can.
Many of the changes I have
lived with have been filled with love, filled with heart break, constantly filled
with financial rollercoasters, yet filled with the greatest memories. As it is right now.
How lucky I have been.
And recently I had cause to
reflect on my life - going as far back as I can remember. I'm not sure what exactly it was that had me become reflective.
Perhaps it was seeing the
sewing machine that began my chain of thougts.
Was it a Singer sewing machine?
Never being one for important details, I cannot remember whether the
brand of the machine was Singer or not.
That's despite the machine itself being in my life for maybe thirty plus years, or more.
And there it was, the
sewing machine. Outside that horrible, musty smelling junk and second hand shop in Karangahape Road. That old, historic, multi-cultural main street
in central Auckland with the reputation of red light district, drugs and
questionable patrons. And there it was, displayed among the junk goods on the footpath outside the shop window beside the shop entry.
Plonked on an old table or bookcase. It
was lunchtime, I was heading down
As a child I was completely
ignorant of our family financial arrangements, but did recall Mum purchased
the machine on hire purchase. We were
living in Netherton Street, in Avondale, at the time and if I remember correctly at that time Mum was working full time at a company called Dominion Containers
down on Stoddard Road. So purchasing the sewing machine on HP probably was not such a sudden drain on the family
finances. I vaguely remember the brand
new machine being set up on our 1930's oak dining table in the lounge. Placed between the table and the machine was
the old grey blanket which was probably the most utilised blanket in the
house. It always sat between the table
and whatever sewing machine we had – "to stop the vibrations” my mother
said. That same grey blanket was used as
the under-blanket for the ironing sheet as well, our house never did have an
ironing board. During sewing sessions
all the pins were stuck into the blanket and when putting the machine away it
was always the last chore to run your hands over the blanket to pick up any
pins that had not been noticed earlier.
I do recall this sewing
machine was not the ultimate in machines of the time – but what it did do was a
form of overlocking and made button holes.
It had knobs and levers our other old white machine never had. Mum was truly excited by her purchase and
this rubbed off onto me. Me, who at that
time would have been attending intermediate school where one of the standard
class modules was sewing. Twice a week,
I think, we had sewing. The girls went
to sewing classes while the boys went to metal work or wood work. I remember the first apron I made. Whatever happened to that? I remember sweating out the anxiety because
certain articles I was creating just would not go right. I remember the disappointment in class when I
missed out on using the electric machines and had to do my work on the old
treadle machines, which everyone hated.
It was always difficult getting those treadles working smoothly.
So having this nice modern
sewing machine at home meant there would be many an hour spent at home learning
how to use it and making some clothes I would otherwise not have.
Mother was a classic post
war housewife. A great house cleaner and
cook - a knitter and able enough to sew sufficiently to keep the females in the
household reasonably basically dressed.
Perhaps not in the manner the girls would like – but there were many a black
or navy bloomer made with her housewifely hands. Skirts, summer shorts, tops, school uniforms,
tennis dresses. Anything that would mean
no great expense by purchasing from the retail shops.
Mum's entire wardrobe was
made at her own hands. Mind you, the
wardrobe usually consisted of only three or four dresses and one of those was
her 'good' dress. Whilst she could sew
sufficiently to reduce the concerns and costs at having to buy from the
department stores, her repertoire of sewing did consist of the basics. No fancy articles really came out from under
the needle. Her own dresses were always
the sleeveless, floral, shift-type frocks.
Probably best made by her own hand to ensure they fitted well over her
reasonably truculent middle girth. At
somewhere between 5 foot 7 inches to 5 foot 8 inches, she had rather shapely,
well defined legs, with well defined calf muscles, but in relation to the size
of the rest of her body the legs were quite lean. Bearing four children and having lived with a
man with a well developed appetite meant Mum's middle regions were not of
slender girth –yet neither would she have been seen as overweight. Just the stock standard post ward build –buxom
breasts and relevantly buxom mid drift.
And always looked well statured when in her tennis attire.
So walking in
As has been the case
through most of my childhood, rather than own up to it and get into trouble, I
quickly placed the machine, it's electrical cords and foot pedals into the
machine's case. Placed the broken piece
of plug strategically where it should be and hoped that when the machine came
out again Mum would think it must have happened all by itself! Whatever, so long as I didn't get into
trouble for my carelessness and impatience at trying to disconnect the
cord.
Standing in
But this was 2002 –our
original machine must have been brought somewhere around 1964 or 1965. Yet there was no doubting it. It WAS the same machine. In an instant I thought of the life it had
had and the stories surrounding the machine.
Childhood nostalgia flooded back.
Adult traumas of endeavouring to create so many tap dancing costumes on
that machine came pouring over me. All
those late nights at sister Delwyn's, every year –for how many years? –trying
to make something we were never gifted to be able to create. Complicated little outfits for her three little
tap dancing girls and their end of year concert. Back there again the next day, unpicking the
mistakes we'd made late in the night the night before.
This was that same
machine. How did it get here? To Karangahape Road? Years ago I had sold it at a garage sale, and
here it was, it had come back into my life.
Standing there, did I want
to buy it back? Heavens no. It took so many years to build up the courage
to sell off this last piece of my mother.
Buying it back would be moving back in time again. And practically speaking, it would be of no
use at all. Just another piece of 'stuff'
to put down in our storage under the house, adding to the rest of that which I
cannot bring myself to throw out.
I walked away. And walked back again two days later to see it
still sitting there. Some two or three
weeks later I walked past the shop again and it was no longer on display
outside. It must have been sold. I imagined that some lovely Samoan lady,
mother or grand mother, could see the use in it and be happily running up
colourful lava lavas or floral dresses for her children or grandchildren.
The memory of seeing that
machine set me on a period of memory recall of my life, particularly my
childhood life. Whilst always being one
to hanker for memorabilia, I had never really spent much time recalling my
childhood years. It has only been in
recent times that my present life has been truly happy. I have been and am the most contented I can
ever remember –with the exception of my childhood. In my childhood I really did not have a care
in the world. You lived for each day. Therefore what happened yesterday or what
would happen tomorrow just did not matter.
You didn't think about it. Today
was fine. Except for the todays when I
was in the usual childhood trouble with my parents. And really, that wasn't that often.
As a little girl, growing
up in
We moved to
I do remember the big railway
house we lived in in Taumarunui. Up on
Sunshine Hill, where all the railway houses were. Well it seemed big to a 5 year old. We were lucky as our house was on the higher
side of the street and the back fence boarded a local farm, on which I vaguely
recall having cattle grazing out the back. To my memory the house had a number of steps
leading up to the front door and smack dab in the middle of the lawn out front
was a very big palm tree. There are hazy memories of the summer evening din of birds nestling down for the night in the
big palm tree out the front of the house.
Inside the house there was
no carpet, only mats in the rooms. I
cannot remember a lounge room, I can remember the central hall leading straight from the
front door to the kitchen, with bedrooms off to the side. Mum and Dad's room was on the left, where I
slept was on the right. I cannot even
remember whether it was a two bedroom or three bedroom house. It matters little. I do recall something of the kitchen. It had lino, or perhaps lino tiles, on the
floor. And we had a coal range
fire. Something all railway houses had,
it was the times, plus coal was probably gratis from the New Zealand Railways
at the time. Perhaps not openly so, but
it was. The wash house, leading from the
back porch had an old copper in it, which Mum used regularly. In fact, I think there was some consternation
on Mum's behalf, when moving to
As with all wash houses of the time, there were two
tubs in the wash house. Concrete ones,
which Mother used to scrub clean regularly.
They would have been the cleanest concrete wash house tubs in Sunshine
Hill. She was good at cleaning. Not all of us kids inherited those genes!
Other memories of
Taumarunui are few, with the exception of going to school and the schoolhouse. Over the proceeding 45 years there has only
been one or two occasions when I have been lucky enough to smell an odour which would bring instant recollection of the smell of the old cloakrooms in the primary school. Cannot recall whether my first school bag was
a red tin box, or a shiny new leather over shoulder bag. I do know I had both at some time in my first
years at school. The school house was
made of the same timber as our own home – dark stained. The door handles were high, but then again,
at 5, all door handles are high.
I only went to that school
for a short period before my father transferred to
Thus, apart from the school
cloakroom, there are no other memories of the actual school. I do remember walking to and from school with
big brother John, and big sister Delwyn.
We had to walk home via the bridge traversing the Wanganui river. Going straight home wasn't always the case
and there are recollections of Delwyn and I following John down off the bridge
to the riverside. Parents would shudder
now a days at that. They probably would have
then, if they had known.
Another recollection of
Taumarunui is the family at the end of the street.
I do recall some of the
other families too. All of them 'railway'
families. The Coopers. I think Mr Cooper was a Fireman on the
railways. There was a clear distinction
of the mens roles on the railways. There
were the Drivers, the Firemen and the Guards.
My Dad was a Driver. Mr Cooper
was either a Fireman or a Guard. To my
mind, this meant my Dad was more important.
Mr Cooper was a red head. Interestingly he was
married to Mrs Cooper, who was also a red head!
They had five children and they were all red heads and lots of freckles. Why the whole family were freckled red heads, and why
there were so many children was clearly explained to my by my mother, "They're
Catholics.”
Clearly, Catholics were red
heads … therefore all red heads were
Catholics. And all Catholics had lots of freckled kids. As my childhood progressed, this
constantly proved to be what seemed a factual case.
Another family were the
Rountrees. As kids, the Rountrees must
have featured highly in the socialising.
My Dad liked and got on with Mr Rountree, and my mother used to talk a
lot with Mrs Rountree. The Rountree
house was on the same side of the street as ours and we had to pass it to get
home. Mr Rountree was a big man, a fat
man. Bigger than my father. My Dad was big, but he was also tall. Mr Rountree was shorter, thus fatter. To me he always seemed a jolly sort of man. Mrs Rountree was also big, although she would
not have been considered 'fat' – just quite a bit bigger than my mother. That is, she had more buxom a bosom and midriff
than Mum.
I recall us kids going to
the Rountree's after school one day to play with the Rountree kids, Janet and Wayne. Mrs Rountree was lying down on a couch in
their kitchen. She had fallen over the
open door of the coal range and had knocked herself out. We'd arrived not long after she had come
around. The fact she had fallen over an
open door and had knocked herself out remained in my memory. Seeing her lying there in a semi-stunned state seemed to have a huge impact on a 5 year
old.
There is also a vague
memory of the farewell party that was held in the back yard of our house when we were to
depart to
Perhaps it was a
significant sign of eternal family semantics, but a most vivid memory of those formative Taumaranui years relates
to a prank played upon me by the local kids, lead by my brother John and Wayne
Rountree. As one enters Sunshine Hill Road,
there was a wooded area up on the left hand side bank from the road. There the kids were. I am not sure exactly who apart from John and Wayne
Rountree. But there were at least four
others. Calling to me, yes little me, to come see what they had. Being a child of little distinction who
attracted little attention, I was delighted that the big kids wanted my company
and me to come to them and have them show me something. I was suddenly important. I skipped and ran to them. Only to immediately fall head first into a
hole. A hole which had been dug then covered with
fern and bracken. A standard country-town childhood trick. I hurt myself,
particularly my pride. At 5 I felt the merciless shame and embarrassment that
they all laughed and thought it a merry joke that I had been tricked into the
prank. Those who laughed loudest were
John and Wayne Rountree.
No doubt I would have
bawled my way home and 'told on them', I don't know. I cannot recollect. But feel sure they would now tell me I
did. I was a precious little soul and
could not understand why people would be mean and hurtful. Aren't children so innocent!?
My older sister has told me
since that I did go and '"tell on them”.
And my mother was angry and sent the boys back to fill in the hole. According to my sister Delwyn, they used shovels and it
was this incident which ended in her having her face cut open. My recollection of her face being cut open was
quite different.
My memory bank has always
kept a vaguely misty record of the street kids digging a jumping pit in the
paddock behind our house. A long jump
jumping pit. The actual jumping pit was
really just a rectangle of soil dug up to make a soft landing for the kids to
do long jumps. It was when Delwyn went
for a great long jump that she leapt high, landed in the soft soil, but as she
landed she also landed her face on the upturned shovel next to the pit that the
boys had used to dig the dirt.
Great panics. Delwyn bore a scare all her life from
this. In today's time modern medicine
would have ensured she was not left with a life-long scare.
There were other families in the street – the Baylis family lived across the road from us - there were two sons and a young girl. Mr Baylis was a Guard. They featured often in my first 5 years of neighbourhood playing. Their family had a tape recorder machine. To this intrigued 5 year old that was their greatest attribute.
Then there were the
Troups. They lived somewhere further
down Sunshine Hill, somewhere down by the Coopers. Mr Troup was an engine driver too - so he
fitted in with what was the clear structure of status in the area. But I do remember my Dad was a kind of boss of Mr Troup. The Troup's had two children,
There is little else about
Taumaranui I remember. When I travel
there now, the house looks different, smaller, and I have trouble working out exactly which one
it is. The river and the bridge are still
as big as ever. It's actually a pretty
town now – and very bustling in comparison to previous years.
The house was brand
new. Completely different from the one
in Taumaranui – with the exception of two concrete wash tubs in the wash
house. Oh, and the toilet and wash house
were indoors – not out the other side of the back door. And the concrete tubs were an addition my
mother organised as she just couldn't see how
This 3 bedroom house with
lots of room seemed very large to this child.
It had a panoramic view of the local neighbourhood from the bedroom
Delwyn & I shared and from the lounge windows which all through my
childhood I thought nothing of.
Only this year have I had
the treasured opportunity of meeting up with another 'kid’ who featured in
those 10 years of my life in
Interestingly, the bad bits
have not really featured too strongly in my memory cells, fortunately – self preservation ? some would say – a personality trait to not
dwell on the negative more likely.
In one of those were the other Russell family
who had moved out to New Zealand from
So there were ample
children in the neighbourhood to make my childhood a period of fun and play and
nothing else to have to worry about. It
was mostly with the Hunts and the Russells across the road who I whiled the
childhood playtime away with. The Hunts
were always going to be the most fascinating to my small and narrow child mind. I just wanted fun and play and the Hunts had
those two options on tap. With their
eldest child being
Was also continually fascinated
with being over at the Hunts because their house was always a mess. My mother was the ultimate housewife of that
period. Housework being her main
objective in life and keeping the house clean and tidy. We never had much in the way of furnishings or
clothing. Mum hand sewed hers and our
clothing. It was sparse and plain. Our furnishings were the classic 1950's art
deco of today. But it was no doubt the
cleanest furnishings in
Even our wash house was
clean and tidy - after all it was adjacent to the kitchen and one had to walk
through the wash house to enter the house from the back door. So it had to be kept clean and tidy!
As for the Hunts
house. Similar type of plan with the
back door opening into the wash house - but their wash house always had that
smell to it. That grungy wash house
smell one sometimes sniffs when visiting grotty, grungy places. And the house was always rather messy and
dirty. Even to a small child it seemed
dirty. After all, what would you expect
when the kids had to wash and dry the dishes every night !! Dirt comes with having the children wash the
family dishes! That didn't happen in our house!
Whilst our furnishings were
sparse and old and recovered - the Hunts were that much older still - and
dirty. Once they actually got a brand
new swept up lounge suite - all black – complete excitement in their house. Within a few weeks of being proudly sat on in
their lounge it soon became another vessel for the kids to drop their food on or
to wipe their muddy foot prints off.
Their house was also 3
bedroom, like ours - but with 5 children there was less space and the number of
children logically equated to my small mind the resultant mess and
uncleanliness of the house. They had
wooden bunks. I so envied their bunks. How I dreamed of having bunk beds and being
able to sleep on the top bunk. But not in their bunk - it smelt.
I wasn't allowed in
their house that much and every time I went across the fence and knocked on their back door to ask if the kids
could play, I was always made to stand at the back door and wait for the
kids to come out. It was only on special occasions I
was allowed in the house. On reflection
there were two possible reasons the Hunt parents did not like me in their
home. One, the more probably cause was
because they knew my mother was so fastidious in her housework, thus they would
have been conscious of their own lower standard of house pride. Secondly, and on deeper reflection, it has
become clear to me than I never did have the ability of using tact in any
childhood situation. I probably would
have blurted out something like, "our house is much cleaner than your
house”. Or words to than effect. I probably did.
But when I did go in the
house was often intrigued by the master bedroom. Mr and Mrs Hunt had separate,
single beds. It seemed strange to me that grown ups had separated single
beds. Another strange thing about Mr and
Mrs Hunt were the kids were often sent outside to play while the parents went
for a sleep, or lie down in the middle of the day. Going for sleeps in the middle of the day was not an unusual or questionable action for this child. After all our fathers were engine drivers and worked rostered hours and
were always having to sleep during day hours and work during the night
hours. But for Mrs Hunt to go sleep as
well? It was always a mystery as to what could possibility make her so
tired? After all, she never did any
housework like my mother. And always
just sat around in their lounge or at their dining room table smoking
cigarettes. In fact she hardly ever went
out – she was rather reclusive and didn't like going or doing anything. So what would make her so tired that she needed to
have a nap in the middle of the day?
That was real strange to me.
In my childhood I would
never have been able to put five children and afternoon naps together as a
reason and cause.
If the Hunt kids were not
allowed to play, which was quite often – the parents must have got wholly sick
of me as I was always over there knocking on the door asking if the kids could
play - then it would be option Number
2. Go over to the Russell's across the road
to see if they could play. Their mother was quite strict with the Russell
kids. Compassionately strict. They weren't really allowed to play out on
the street like the rest of us were. Mrs
Russell always made them play in their back or front yard, or indoors. Whilst she was strict, it never seemed to be
an unreasonable strict to me. I regarded
my mother as being far more draconian than Mrs Russell. Mrs Russell always seemed to actually like
her children and having them around and appeared to enjoy their company
too. That was quite different to what I
was used to. No doubt her attitude would have been enhanced
by the factor that of the two eldest children, twins Gail and Dene, Gail was
born with cerebral palsy. We never knew
it as cerebral palsy in those days –we only knew it as being 'spastic'. Very spastic.
Gail was in a pushchair for many of her growing childhood years. I always liked being around Gail as the inner me knew her brain was as good as ours but why couldn't her body work ? ... and that which worked she used well - she would write and drawer with her feet and toes ... I was fascinated with her dexterity. And loved her laugh. The twins were one year younger than I. They preceded the two younger boys Mark and
Craig. I used to like these two, they
were cute, even to me then. Latterly
there was yet one other boy born,
Mr Russell was a wharfie. A good looking man of medium to small
stature who seemed to ooze niceness. I
was not used to fathers being nice and fathers liking and able to talk to
kids. I was only used to fathers being
distant and gruff and far from openly approachable.
All in all the Hunts and
the Russell's were a major piece in my growing childhood years of five to twelve
or thirteen. Certainly I had an older
sister and brother, but they were much older.
No good for playing chasey or hide and seek. Fairly good for school holiday movies
though.
When reflecting back on
what were the most vivid memories of those years one of the list of ten would
be the Wharfie Christmas Picnic Day.
Once a year, usually just before Christmas the 'wharfies' used to have a
family picnic day at Pt Chevalier. It
was just such fun. Huge numbers of
families would arrive for a day at the beach and a day of races and games –and
of course Santa used to arrive and distribute presents to all the children. The
Russells, with their family of five often found enough room in the back of
their big Chevie car for me to come along with them. What a fun day for a 8 or 9 year old. Such joy.
Such play. Such a fullness of
child happiness.
Not to be outdone - the
railway works also had their annual Christmas Picnic. They were always held over the
There were the standard
running races at these events. Then the
sack races. The egg & spoon
races. The 3-legged races. Whenever my self-consciousness allowed I
would enter what I could. Never won
anything – but then usually only ran in a couple of events, due to being to
embarrassed to try some.
The highlights of any of
our own family picnics, of which we did have a few, including the railway
picnic, was the salivating standard picnic food Mum used to bake. It comprised of the good old New Zealand
Bacon & Egg Pie. Real bacon and egg
– with lashings of bacon and whole eggs.
None of this beaten up egg stuff - real and whole eggs. Then there was the better than standard New
Zealand Apple Shortcake. Have never been
able to quite replicate the pastry Mother made for this. Just yummy.
Of course the picnics did also comprise of the standard lettuce salads
with the homemade vinegar mayonnaise and tinned beetroot, but they were not
even worth bothering about - just give me a piece of the Bacon & Egg pie
and Apple Shortcake. No wonder I had a
weight problem as a youngster.
The other picnics we had
tended to be either with the Cook Family –being Dad's younger and older
brothers and sisters and families –or with family friends –the Troups, the
Colletts and latterly including the Roundtrees.
The former and latter having also been previous Taumarunui railway
residents. The Colletts being another
railway family who lived in the next street around from
And there it ends ... to be continued.....
