Crossed My Mind: A Boy in Hurstville

By Fred Hewison

These are Fred Hewisons random memories of his boyhood years while growing up in the Sydney suburb of Hurstville.

Born in 1933 in the same house that he subsequently occupied for the next fifty five years, he has produced an amusing and sometimes nostalgic selection of reminiscences of those things that he and his best mates did when they were boys Any person of similar vintage would remember the marbles, street cricket, and bonfire nights, but only the select few might recall the exciting times and the mischievous behaviour that sometimes occurred in the old Civic Picture Theatre when the lights were out during Saturday matinees. This book contains much more, including a few additional historical facts surrounding the district in which the author grew up.

Those who were not a product of the locations described in this book but were of a similar generation should still relate to the memories of the authors childhood. There was no television or computeronly the radio and its serials to thrill you, but that didnt matter, since a kid had little time to spare after school, with all the footie and cricket in the paddocks and then there was the homework to attend to before bedtime.

Not everything was pleasant, since insubordination was generally rewarded with some form of punishmentwhether it was the cane at school or the stick at the hands of your parents. In most cases, however, it was both expected and deserved, and it served to enhance a lads respect for the deliverer.

Whether it provides amusement, a walk down memory lane, or a revelation for the younger generation, this book might be worth reading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Feb 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781452513324

Fred Hewison

FRED HEWISON was born in Hurstville, south of Sydney, in 1933 and was educated at Kogarah Intermediate High School before becoming a survey draughtsman with the Sydney Water Board. After a lengthy service, he retired and now lives with his wife, Margaret, on the far north coast of New South Wales at Tweed Heads, where he combines a lifelong passion of landscape painting with playing golf and beach walking.

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Copyright © 2014 Fred Hewison.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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ISBN: 978-1-4525-1331-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-1332-4 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 2/24/2014

CONTENTS

WRITER’S NOTE

PREFACE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

AFTERWORD

IN LOVING MEMORY OF MY PARENTS

"Question not, but live and labour

Till yon goal be won,

Helping every feeble neighbour,

Seeking help from none.

Life is mostly froth and bubble,

Two things stand like stone.

Kindness in another’s trouble,

Courage in your own."

Adam Lindsay Gordon

WRITER’S NOTE

I truly appreciated the patience exhibited by Margaret, during the course of my writing of Crossed My Mind. She put up with my many vanishing acts, when suddenly memories occurred to me that necessitated urgent documentation, lest they were forgotten, or even may someday become a mistaken assumption of a delusionary present. Such could be a real problem when reaching my stage of life. Yet, if I am to pay that price for old age, then it may not be so bad!

F. H.

PREFACE

T o be candid, I never really intended putting together a book about my boyhood days, but with the purchase of a modern thing called a computer, I started creating a few memories in print, and since the years are flying by at an alarming speed, I continued recording more echoes of my tender years when finding my feet in the suburb of Hurstville, about eighty years ago, and so my project tended to gather impetus.

This then, became my end result.

Perhaps with the seemingly escalating swiftness of passing years, I had been led to think that some things that occurred were much more exciting than actually was the case. But after some thought, I think now that perhaps our lives were actually exciting and while we tend to forget their joy, our sudden memories don’t exaggerate them all that much, but only serve to remind us to appreciate our past. If that is the case, if only from a personal viewpoint, it is most important that I have documented those days when life was so very uncomplicated, because as certain as God made little apples, one day no person will know about the early days in which I lived. My generation and I will be long gone, but if there is another world, I will think I was lucky beyond my powers of description. But, of course I know there will always be others who will reminisce similarly too.

If I attempted to answer more specifically as to why I might have projected my thoughts towards documenting my growing up in Hurstville, many nostalgic reasons would emerge. Cricket and footie in the open paddocks, bonfire nights, flying kites and playing marbles - all with good mates - was a sure recipe for fun, spiced with an acceptable share of naughtiness. One thing, though – we were accountable to the authoritative demands of our parents, and while we may have had at times reflected and even spoke with bravado on wild thoughts of rebellion, it was never more than that – just an idea. We had obligations and respect for our parents, and if at times we thought we had been a little over-disciplined, it usually transpired that any decisive actions, whether rightly or wrongly administered, were overwhelmingly dispensed for our own good. At least, that’s how it was in my case, and I’m sure my brother, who sadly died during the writing of my manuscript, would have agreed, as would most who shared my childhood era.

There is little doubt that the things which my brother and I and our mates got up to, drew a fine line twixt good conduct and that which may have been regarded as unacceptable in those years of my childhood, but I suspect that the latter would be adjudged as harmless exuberance by current standards.

I readily confess to writing my book in an undisciplined, or even annoyingly disorganised fashion, because that’s how my distant memories presented themselves to me. Yet conveniently, some provided catalysts for long forgotten flashes of other adventures that served to supplement my book. To be totally honest though, even if it was a devious plan, it made things a bit easier.

In some cases I have gilded the lily just slightly, but all those incidents that befell us were the truth – yet perhaps the names of a couple of persons to whom I have referred, may have suffered from my spelling. Rest assured that their identities are, or were, sound.

There is one important apology I must offer to any person kind enough to read my story, and who is quite unfamiliar with those streets and localities to which I often refer. Since Hurstville is now a large, thriving metropolis – and actually a city – nine miles south of Sydney, I reckoned that if any persons chose to read my book, the reader would most likely be familiar with those localities described within. Again, I apologise to anyone who may thus find themselves disadvantaged, and yet I hopefully trust that my adventures alone, might be sufficiently interesting, amusing or typical of the times in such a way that the reader will be sufficiently compensated.

Having said that, I feel sufficiently absolved, from an admission that I don’t pretend to possess any real qualities in the art of writing stories, yet I trust that some of my memories might massage the echoes of the past in the minds of those who share my vintage, or else enlighten those sprightly enough to think we oldies may have never enjoyed the unbridled joys of a very seldom misspent youth.

F.H.

CHAPTER 1

I was born on Anzac Day of 1933 in Carinya , at number sixteen Edith Street, Hurstville - the home in which I dwelt for the next fifty-five years. I was the second child - my brother Bill being the first - of Ruby Ethel (nee Rampling) and Frederick Sydney Hewison who were married at exactly 5 p.m. in the Holy Trinity Church, Dulwich Hill on July 21 st , 1928.

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In my more mature years, when I was expected to comprehend such whispered matters as child birth, my dear Aunt Jess, who was my mother’s youngest sister and who also subsequently assumed the status of my godmother, enthusiastically described some details relating to my emergence.

My mother was in a state of extreme discomfort at my imminent arrival, and although as a matter of conscience, I never wanted to know this, my dear aunt throughout her many years continued to stress this point. Almost as often was it reinforced with the unintentionally accusatory remark, you certainly gave your mother a terrible time as I strove to bravely cope with these awful facts, as only a boy born in Hurstville could. There were times when I almost thought it was my fault and my father was innocent.

Aunt Jess said she assisted our family practitioner, Doctor Shute, and as a St John’s Ambulance lady of high ranking, I suppose she helped in no small way. This then would confirm her oft times contention that she was the very first person to know I was a boy – which didn’t take me all that long to realise for myself. Then after that to my utter amazement, I discovered there was an alternative and perhaps even others about which one seldom speaks.

I never found out, nor in fact did I ever ask where Dad was when all this chaos was going on, but having known his usually gentle nature and love for my mother, he would not have been far away.

Doctor Shute conducted his medical practice from his residence on the northeastern corner of The Avenue and Queens Road, before moving his practice to Woniora Road in South Hurstville. It seems then, that his position as an alderman with Hurstville Municipal Council from 1934 until 1939, narrowly avoided the responsibilities that befell him on the occasion of my arrival. Not that it mattered, though, for my aunt would have done the job splendidly, I think.

In my wrinkled, howling state, I was placed upon a cedar chest, and this was well known and spoken about quite often in our house. But the point, I suppose, is that at that time home births were not too unusual. At least, I suppose they were not.

As long as I remember, only once briefly did the chest leave its position behind our bedroom door. I speak in the plural because our house having only two bedrooms, my brother and I had to share one room. Even though the chest may have been handy at the time of my arrival in allowing my mother to regain her breath, it seemed that the main purpose of the chest during my early years, was to store stacks of sheet music and also various forms of ammunition that my father had accumulated during his early service with The Church Lads Brigade, in which he held the rank of major – a commission he received in 1915. Why an organisation should have borne arms and dressed like combat troops in the name of Christianity is anyone’s guess? Perhaps, though, it was only of a symbolic nature.

The combination of the contents of the chest could have understandably led a person to assume that a musically minded terrorist inhabited our house. Amongst the ammunition, which included live rounds in a variety of calibres, was an old gunpowder horn from which Dad would sometimes sprinkle a trail of the gunpowder from our fowl yard near the lavatory, all the way to the back steps. He would then set it alight for our amusement, and I reckon for his too. Perhaps we were impressed by the hissing, snaking trail that headed our way and died at our feet, but I don’t think it surpassed the satisfaction that Dad might have felt in having a reasonable excuse for experimenting with the gunpowder he had horded for so long. It was all very harmless and far less dangerous than using it for the purpose it was intended - that being for the arming of an ancient muzzle-loading gun that our father kept hidden behind his bedroom wardrobe.

When trying to recall the earliest days in my life when growing up in Hurstville, I seem to remember some things that may have merely been the product of imagination, or in some cases, nightmares that might have become imprinted in my mind to the point where I was thoroughly convinced they actually happened. Perhaps then, it was only imagination that led me to believe that I was seen sitting on a pot near our back door when the girl who lived across the road called to deliver a message to my mother. If it was a real incident, then it could be understood that I was shocked and mortified by her whoop of laughter as she held her nose and fled as if her life was threatened. If it really happened – and I know it did – I would like to think that I was of a sufficiently young age to have been put in this position – particularly when our lavatory was way down in the backyard, next to the gate to the chook pen, and in which case I may have not yet commenced walking but was too heavy to be carried - a sort of state of stagnation. This theory had never previously occurred to me and after so many years of anguish, I suddenly feel better. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now to confess that the girl was Patricia Simpson.

The embarrassment temporarily abated, but returned with a vengeance in the later years as I grew up and gradually realised that the girl had nice features, yet little compassion. She was about ten years older than I and it was simply that any stammering conversation I attempted was always met with a minimal reply, accompanied by a sort of knowing smirk, but my extraordinary resilience held me together through the tough years. Had a less attractive girl, or anyone else for that matter caught me sitting on a pot, I would have still been mortified.

There are many other things that I remember that were not so bad. For instance, I remember being embraced by my mother as she sat on our old rocking chair in the lounge room, following a moment of distress when she had quite unintentionally struck me with a shoe she had thrown in my general direction through utter exasperation, resulting from my badgering her incessantly about something that was surely of no importance. The missile struck me on a leg and drew blood and although I must have been only three or four years old, I still remember my mother’s shock and the tears that coursed down her face as she tended the insignificant wound, then the crooning of her apologies as she nursed me in the rocking chair. It was my fault and even then I knew it. Perhaps, these days such actions would be branded as inappropriate, yet we now live in a society abounding in violence, yet not constrained by multitudes of many ineffective laws.

At this stage – and probably again at a later time – I must say that my mother was a beautiful person, and this opinion was never diminished by a good belting that I frequently received – almost always for things I thought were a bit undeserved. On the other hand, my father was an absolute softy who only struck me once, and that was for an offence that was thoroughly deserved, although he was not to know that I didn’t comprehend the meaning of a remark I made that would have initiated a similar reaction from me had I been grown-up. Of course, I never took a hiding lying down and always retaliated by swearing - well outside the limits of my parent’s hearing.

The marvelous thing about Mum and Dad’s relationship was that never in my experience, did I ever hear words between them that might have been spoken in anger. There must have been, of course, but I never heard them.

My brother Bill was two and a half years older than I, and when considering the fairly minimal difference in our ages, it would seem that we should have had an extremely close relationship as boys, but we did not seem to enjoy it to the degree that I would have wished at times. Perhaps though, I was expecting too much and I reckon on that score, my brother would agree. But this is a fairly common trait where siblings often find a closer friendship with their mates, notwithstanding the fact that blood is thicker than water when the chips are down. There is one thing of which I am certain – I never saw Bill cop a hiding from our mother to the degree that I did – if at all! I never resented it and perhaps he had already passed his training period and I never noticed, but it didn’t matter because it was usually worth a smack to enjoy oneself. He was still a party to our many adventures in which he always played a prominent role.

I was fortunate in having a fair share of good mates, but as is the case with most kids, there was always bound to be one or maybe two who were pretty special. In my case, one in particular, was a kid by the name of John MacGregor, who lived down at the bottom of our street. Since there were only about half a dozen houses in Edith Street when I first became aware of his existence, it was logical that his family and ours became close friends. Indeed, our mutual friendship was of such a degree that whenever the season arrived, Mrs MacGregor would appear on our front verandah, laden with bags of delicious figs, or better still, dozens of over-ripe sloppy, dribbling persimmons that we devoured with great delight. These offerings were the product of the trees that grew in the big backyard of the family’s lovely old homestead-style house at the corner of Louis Terrace. I must have known John, or Macca, as he was more commonly referred to, at a very early age, because I still possess a photograph depicting my brother and me, posing in the manner of a couple of angelic innocents – the point being that I was obviously about five years old and the picture happened to be taken in the MacGregor’s lounge room.

We were hastily dispatched there when Mrs Mac informed our mother that a roving photographer of some repute was doing the rounds in our street. The fact that we were photographed at Macca’s house would indicate that he had already been processed and it therefore suited the fellow to use the same venue.

On wet days, we would play cricket with a tennis ball on Macca’s big verandah or even spin a few 78’s on an old windup gramophone in his lounge room. When we grew older, the old mechanical gramophone only held our interests from its antiquity viewpoint; as such fine old providers of music had succumbed to the more sophisticated radiograms and record players. In any case the headless panel pins, nails and resharpened styluses didn’t do justice to the delivery of our favourite singers, bands and records, whose qualities were not enhanced by the awful, increasingly wavering sound, when either of us were too lazy to attend the crank handle in time.

As far as we were concerned – as were most people – the entertainment at home was provided through our old wireless set and we never expected or wanted anything better, although we did have a newfangled thing called a radiogram given to us at some later stage. It was a Stromberg Carlson in a posh walnut cabinet and judging by its performance, the donors had not been overly generous. It had the habit of releasing a whole load of stacked records onto the pickup arm that was still skittering around the end of the one revolving on the turntable. This misfortune contributed to the poor condition of the collection that was somewhat supplemented from a quantity of really ancient records that Bill and I smuggled from our old Uncle Tommy Jardine’s gramophone cabinet, when visiting his farm at Inverell on our school holidays.

As for Uncle Tommy, I might explain that Dad was a very proud and senior railway employee and therefore received a first class pass for train travel twice a year. And that being the case we were almost obliged to take advantage of the questionable hospitality offered by old, strange Uncle Tommy, who was really our mother’s uncle. Had the decision been mine to make, I would not have gone within cooee of the eccentric man. Anyway, although I suspected that Dad might have secretly shared my feelings, I know that his love of rail travel and his high regard for the service in which he was employed, would have more than overcome any forebodings about the visit.

When my brother and I were not playing in the paddocks after school, we spent plenty of our time next to the wireless, listening to such serials as First Light Fraser and "Search for the Golden Boomerang". "Doctor Mac" was another, which came on later in the evening and was sponsored by Bonnington’s Irish Moss, a cough mixture as claimed, could indeed have been concocted by the Irish, if one could judge the product by its taste or lack of remedial qualities. Anyway, it is hard to believe that real Irish moss, better known to others smarter than me, as a type of red algae or Chondrus crispus, could have accomplished anything. Yet it was popular, but it’s main, and perhaps sole competitor was a rather violent and much maligned potion known as Buckley’s Canadiol Mixture.

Doctor Mac’s wife was Ettie and his car, which was quaintly called Rattling Salvation, was aptly named because it sounded like a tractor and yet it always transported the good doctor to a seriously ill person in time to save his or her life.

Mrs ‘obbs was another serial in which her husband Alf and his mate Dickie Bart were unforgettable characters. But the best show of all, particularly on a wet night and huddled around our lounge room fireplace, was the Witches Tales. Not much else could be as frightening as that show, particularly for a kid of my impressionable years. It was all about the supernatural and no doubt would be laughed at these days. But far from invoking a jovial disposition, in my case I found the stories stimulatingly scary and worthy of discussion at school next day.

Other radio shows were the Lux and Macquarie Radio Theatre plays that were presented on Sunday nights on radio 2GB and 2UW. They were of equal quality with both featuring the cream of Australia’s talented actors and actresses. I now know that their casts included such wonderful thespians as Neva Carr-Glynn, Ruth Cracknell, Lyndall Barbour and Richard Parry. Both productions were played before live audiences and sometimes the queen of radio, Gwen Meridith, wrote the scripts for the Lux plays as she also did for Blue Hills. Mostly, though, the productions were based on Broadway and West End plays, such as Dark Angel, The Scarlet Pimpernel and Dark Victory. Apparently Cecil B. de Mille launched the inaugural Lux Radio Theatre production in a relay from America in 1939, in which Harry Dearth was the producer. The Macquarie Radio Theatre lost nothing by comparison and produced such plays as The Laughing Woman, Such Men Are Dangerous and Mrs Miniver.

In other times, there was Colgate-Palmolive’s Calling the Stars which was compered by Jack Davey and featured a segment called McCackie Mansion, that starred Roy Rene who spluttered endless rude innuendos in his role of Mo. I also think that Hal Lashwood and the front stalls audience, were the recipients of most of the vapour that Mo projected in generous quantities. He seemed to engender riotous laughter from the live audience with his coarse remarks, such as Don’t come the raw prawn, You little trimmer and ‘Fair suck of the sav. Probably the most rewarding reaction he received from the audience was when he assaulted his co-star, Harry Griffiths with a simulated slap across the face with the accompanying remark of Cop this young Harry."

Such humour would seem corny these days, but with the absence of television, imagination was one’s best friend.

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Most boys had hobbies, which often meant constructing things like model aeroplanes, kites and imaginative objects from meccano sets. I was no different except in my case I don’t remember any of my rubber band powered planes ever-surviving even one flight, before crashing into the clothes line or the fowl house or landing on our roof. It was disappointing, since those things took many hours to build, with bits of balsa, tissue paper, Tarzan’s Grip and the technical process of stretching the fuselage covering by applying dope, which was a fluid that shrunk the paper.

I had a bit more success in making a crystal set radio or two and this