Eunice

By Eunice Neale

I was born in Ceduna in 1940 and raised on a farm on edge of Nullabor Plains in remote South Australia. My paternal and maternal grandparents pioneered much of the lands around us which is still owned and farmed by our families.

I was a shy well behaved girl as all children were expected to be in those days... seen but not heard... until I went to boarding school and saw a different way of life; a life I longed for; a life full of fun and laughter.

Slowly as I grew, through many trials an tribulations I unwittingly 'emerged'... whether it be for the good or the bad... you be the judge... but I don't care...I will happily leave this earth and RIP.

These were the days of the general opinion that... women were put on this earth to support and pamper men!

My parents, descendants from British ancestry, were strict Methodists, teetotalers, hard workers, affluent and influential.
I was expected to be seen and not heard and follow the example of my parents, aunties and cousins, of whom I was the youngest by 10 years or more. They were Queen Victoria's protégé and doing her proud.

I was groomed to marry a farmer... to the only child of a neighbouring farmer... to conveniently merge farmland properties.

This book covers my first 20 years 1940 to 1960.
There was no electricity, water or telephones in our remote area; indeed only the well off could afford such luxuries even in the cities.
We managed very well without these services never feeling deprived.
We felt fortunate to have a weekly mail delivery, incoming one day outgoing the next day.

Country life in those days was tough rough and lonely but no-one complained... it was the way of life.
Everyone just 'got on with it' accepting their 'lot in life'.

I lived through World War 11; Live horse power, steam trains, nuclear weapons testing at Maralinga; Daisy Bates living nearby with the natives; neighbouring natives with no white fella rights; punishment an eye for an eye, murder was execution; Sunday a day of rest and devotions, no shops open, no sports social or competition played, we attended church. Computers, robots, mobile phones and IT devices absolutely unthinkable and unimaginable.
We did have a very nice long drop dunny dad built, in the paddock a way from the house which we were proud of..

In this book I unreservedly spill my gutz of my feelings and thoughts.
As I lived through my younger years I dared not voice an opinion as a child.
As a teenager I didn't feel I had a voice.
My survival was natural instinct and a heap of luck.

It was as it was in those days. It was the accepted way of life. We new no different.

I'm sure many older readers will associate themselves to Eunice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eunice Neale
• Release date: Aug 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005435783

Eunice Neale

I was born in Ceduna in 1940 and raised on a farm on the edge of Nullabor Plains in remote South Australia. My paternal and maternal grandparents pioneered much of the lands around us which is still owned by our families.I was a shy well behaved girl as all children were expected to be in those days...seen but not heard...until I went to boarding school and saw there was a different way of life; a life I longed for; a life full of fun and laughter.Slowly as I made my way in life through many trials and tribulations I unwittingly transformed into a competent, capable, outspoken successful business woman in the days when the general belief was women were put on this earth to support and pamper men.I had been groomed to marry a farmer.....a neighboring farmer to conveniently merge farmland properties.Fortunately, as innocent as I was, I had other ideas....and escaped to an unknown world.Follow this world in my three part autobiography soon available from Smashwords.Book 1. EUNICE. 1940 to 1960. My first twenty years. Isolated, protected, suppressed.Book 2. EMERGENCE OF EUNICE. 1960 to 1990. Title says it all....through the era's of . woman's liberation, equality of the sexes and swinging sixties.Book 3. EUNICE EMERGED. 1990 to 2020. My second life in a whole new world of technology.I am still alive, fit and healthy and continue to enjoy my hobbies:-Sewing - I never buy clothes, I can have what I want... I make them... so why not?Squash- I still play competitively... it keeps my body and mind active and alert.Socialising with Red Hat groups... woman over 50 who don't want the world to pass them by, we wear red hats and purple frocks in social groups, we don't go un-noticed.......and my new hobby... writing.I figure as I am an Octogenarian I have the liberty to truthfully document my years on this earth... years that were so different from today.I particularly wanted to document the way of life lived in the mid 20th century to answer many questions from my grandchildren for their descendants.

Book preview

The Forties

Chapter 1

First Memories

Peek-a-Boo" my Aunty Agnes humorously said from behind the kitchen table leg. She was at my eye level as she played with me under the sturdy wooden table with solid square legs, large enough for me to hide behind. I tried to crawl away from her and hide behind another leg and `peek-a-boo’ her. I had never known such fun and was loving this special attention paid to me.

All my Aunties were sober minded prim and ultra-proper ladies; I had never seen them in such a frivolous mood. I especially remember this time even though the frivolity didn’t last long; too soon I was dismissed and as usual expected to be seen and not heard.

Where is mummy? I wanted to know.

Mummy is busy!

Busy alright; next time I saw mummy she was nursing something in a bundle wrapped in a white woollen shawl. On peering into the bundle I saw this doll, just like my Betty a celluloid life sized baby doll I treasured.

Mummy has a doll too I thought.

Then it moved and made noises, to my disgust I realised this doll was not like Betty... this one was real; it was my new brother Roger born September 23rd. 1943.

I was born Eunice Winifred Freeman 11th February 1940 at Ceduna Hospital situated in Murat Bay on the far west coast of South Australia’s Eyre Peninsular, the firstborn child of Cliff and Ivy Freeman. Mum stayed with friends in Ceduna for two weeks before my expected arrival as our farm was too far from the hospital; it was a two hour drive west of Ceduna along the narrow corrugated unsealed Eyre Highway and mum didn’t want any mishaps along this isolated road while she was in labour.

The Second World War had been declared. I remember Dad dressing in khaki clothes, very different to his usual clothes and wearing a funny hat tucked up one side with a fan like badge pinned on it; with rifle in hand he somberly bid mum farewell, seemingly ignoring me and disappeared into the night. He was always there again in the morning, so I didn’t think too much about it.

When we heard aeroplanes flying overhead, I felt the fear in mum and dad as they closely monitored every plane. Mum quickly camouflaged us; we didn’t move until the plane had disappeared. This was quite a feat because our farm homestead stood out like a beacon in the cleared paddocks with not a tree or bush in sight in the near flat terrain of our property. War was never discussed at home, well not in my hearing, so I never understood the implications of the war or the connection to the aeroplanes that flew over us.

Mum and dad never discussed in front of me anything that was a cause of concern. I grew up in a wonderful safe environment in a blissful world.

Mum’s proverb Ignorance is bliss. What you don’t know won’t worry you.

Ration coupons were needed for petrol, clothes and certain foods, those with cars transported those without a car, sharing the coupons. I remember tea being a problem for most people, but it didn’t worry mum and dad, they drank their tea very weak consequently their allocated rations were ample. Mum was not extravagant, so we never went without anything; she was also an excellent organiser so was able to adequately manage with our share of rations usually giving our surplus to others. That was my only memories of the war.

We lived on a wheat and sheep farm called `Windy Ridge’ on Eyre Highway 52 km west of Ceduna, and 16 km east of Penong, on the edge of the Nullarbor Plain in South Australia. The terrain of this part of Australia was low sweeping hills, originally covered by sparse scrub no higher than four meters. This scrub was slowly being cleared to make way for crops to be planted. The climate was harsh, very harsh. Summer days hovered around 100 deg (37deg. C) and higher with unpleasant north winds prevailing most of the season, blowing dust off the scorched bare lands and into homes, dust was everywhere, everything was covered in dust. Winter was bitterly cold, the chill south winds directly from the South Pole across the Southern Ocean chilled us to the bone and on clear nights when the stars brightly shone the frost was biting. Autumn and spring gave a reprieve to these harsh conditions. We accepted the harshness of the climate and reveled in the occasional perfect day and the most glorious sunrises and sunsets.

Uncle Cyril, Aunty Vera, and their children, my cousins Iris, Ruby and Keith, lived on the adjoining farm `Model farm’. These two farms were originally one farm. My grandfather Thomas Freeman pioneered that land in 1893. He and grandma had seven children, though I only ever knew Uncle Stan, Uncle Cyril, Aunty Ruby and my dad Cliff the youngest. Grandma nursed their three daughters Effie, Estelle and Dolly who all died of tuberculosis before I was born, Grandma died of the same disease in 1941 on 11th. February, the day I turned one.

Uncle Stan didn’t like farming, so Grandfather Freeman gave him his share of the farm in cash and divided the farm itself in half for Uncle Cyril and dad. When Uncle Cyril married Vera Bratten, grandpa and grandma retired from farming and moved to Adelaide leaving Cyril and dad a farm each. The newlyweds moved into the original farm homestead and farmed that half of the property. Dad still being single with no home on his farm lived with uncle and aunty while working his own lands.

In 1927 dad and mum married, they moved into a new `modern’ substantial four roomed mud and stone home they built on dad’s half of the farm. It was built in a carefully chosen low lying area in the center of the property to maximise water catchment for the home and garden and out of view from the highway. The stones were picked off the farm paddocks which helped the paddocks to be cleared suitable for cropping. The house was built with 50cm thick cement walls twelve foot (nearly 4 metre) high ceilings surrounded by a veranda around three sides. This was designed to keep out the fierce summer sun and heat. There was no electricity supply west of Ceduna so all work was manually laboured. Dad and mum both worked for many years establishing their prosperous farm.

These two farms and our home are still lived in today, owned and successfully farmed by great grandchildren of Thomas Freeman.

All the implement and animal sheds were originally made from natural resources off the farm. The walls of the three sided sheds were made of tree trunks buried in the ground, the height cut to the same lengths, boughs from the broom bush trees were piled over the top of the wall structures providing a shady roof. In those days broom bush and mallee trees though stunted because of the low rainfall were growing all over the lands east of the Nullarbor Plains and needed to be cleared for wheat and oats crops so the felled trees were used to build farm sheds. These crude structures lasted for many years having only been replaced by my brother since he took over the farm in 1969.

Grandpa Freeman was a good farmer and well-respected prospering in the years of good rainfalls and preparing for the drought years which inevitably followed. He and grandma retired to a lovely home they bought in the new suburb of Toorak Gardens in Adelaide South Australia and remained there for the rest of their lives.

Uncle Stan invested his share of the money in the motor industry, establishing the successful Freeman Motors in Adelaide. His insistence and advise ensured dad always had `the latest’ suitable vehicle. Freemans were noted for their posh cars. In 1938 when the hard-top Vauxhall sedan was introduced to Australia, acting on Uncle Stan’s advice, dad bought one from him. We kept this car until 1948 when the first Holden was introduced. Although mum didn’t want to change cars, Uncle Stan made an offer dad couldn’t refuse thus dad bought the very first model Holden ever made, the FX. Uncle Stan was a shrewd business man offering dad and mum a good deal because he wanted to promote Holden all over South Australia, is was a great opportunity for him, us promoting this new design car in the far west of Eyre Peninsular in South Australia. I remember feeling important driving around in such a lovely modern luxury car with everybody oohing and arring while asking lots of questions. The promotional investment must have worked because many new Holden FX’s were bought locally and in fact all over Australia resulting in Uncle Stan’s Freeman Motors becoming one of the most successful motor businesses in South Australia, never the less mum was rather skeptical about this new model car and kept saying this isn’t half as strong as the Vauxhall it will be on the rubbish heap long before the Vauxhall.

I thought this new car was the most beautiful looking car I loved its new long sleek shape. I relished the admiring and envious looks we attracted as we drove by.

Dad with his new Vauxhall 1938

Chapter 2

Life on the Farm

Our farm was so remote there was no electricity water or telephone connections, these services stopped at Ceduna thirty-eight miles east along the dirt track of Eyre Highway which continued to West Australia through the Nullarbor Plains. Our farm, as all properties west of Ceduna had to be self-sustainable. We produced wheat, oats and sheep. The horse stables were quite extensive. Horses were a major part of farm life using teams of four or six to pull the farm machinery. After the war in the 1940’s dad and mum bought a mechanical tractor, but mum wouldn’t let dad sell the horses because she was sure petrol rationing would return, as occurred during the war, rendering the tractors and cars useless without unlimited fuel, so for many years mum insisted on maintaining the horses. Wool was one of our farm’s main products, dad carried as many sheep as the property could sustain. Sheep not only provided wool to sell but provided us with our main meat. We had mutton chops for breakfast, roast, or cold mutton at the midday meal and usually mutton roast or chops at the evening meal virtually every day. Occasionally as a treat we had sausages mum bought on rare trips to Ceduna; they were a special treat. Dad slaughtered sheep on the farm, mutton being our staple diet, before the whole carcass was consumed he slaughtered another, consequently we always had an endless supply of fresh mutton. Mum was a good judge of meat, she often commented on its quality sometimes saying, this is a tough one, you killed it to save its life?

Dad did choose the sheep to slaughter that didn’t produce the best wool or had become lame or fragile.

When Roger was old enough to slaughter sheep there was a distinct difference in the quality of our meat, he chose a young prime weather, delicious and tender.

Fish was a rare treat, mum and dad weren’t fishermen, we never ever owned a fishing line, but had fishermen friends in Ceduna who gave us fish, mainly King George whiting, in return for mutton and dairy produce. I looked forward to eating fish and was upset mum wouldn’t let them fillet the fish, she insisted too much was wasted. I desperately wished the fish were filleted because as much as I loved fish it was traumatic for me being careful of the bones which were a plenty. We always had a piece of bread on hand to eat when the inevitable happened, a bone stuck in our throat. The texture of the bread hopefully dislodged the bone!

Mum always kept a few milking cows which supplied our dairy foods, milk, cream, and butter which mum was a deft hand at making. Butter took much effort, the cream had to be vigorously stirred until it became thick then more vigorous stirring until the thickening mixture slowly turned into butter which mum expertly padded between special wooden butter paddles into one-pound rectangular shaped blocks. This lengthy process kept me amused for hours and if I hadn’t annoyed mum during the process, I was rewarded with a generous knob of delicious freshly made butter; and yes, it was delicious.

Occasionally when one of the cows was deemed not suitable for our needs dad killed it for beef. Slaughtering such a big beast was a major project, the meat was shared around the neighbourhood, there were no fridges (freezers weren’t even a dream then) to keep the meat cold, we had to rely on meat rooms built in shady areas. These large beasts were only slaughtered in winter enabling us to enjoy the luxury of beef longer than in the summer months when the heat limited preservation time. Our cattle were used mainly for dairy products, not beef cattle.

Mum milked the cows every twelve hours, in the morning, at daylight before anyone was awake, and in the evening before the evening meal. The milk was separated with a hand turned separator, separating the cream from the milk. We ate a lot of cream it was always on the table at every meal. Our staple food every meal including breakfast was bread jam and cream, usually homemade jam mum made with any fruit available, we liberally poured the fresh cream over the bread and jam, cream was also liberally poured on every desert mum cooked for the midday and evening meals, usually a pudding or pie. If anyone was still hungry after the meal there was always `the staple’ to finish up with.

Mum absolutely insisted we eat all the food that was put on our plate especially if we had helped ourselves, if there was a skerrick left she would admonish us and tell us to eat every morsel.

Your eyes are bigger than your body.

Waste not; Want not.

Hens had free range all over the farm ensuring we always had an ample supply of fresh eggs. Roosters provided fertile eggs enabling the continuation of the poultry stocks. There was usually a ‘clucky hen’ nesting on a batch of approximately 15 eggs. I loved it when they were due to hatch, watching their tiny beaks peck through the shell then slowly shedding the whole shell revealing themselves to the wide world as little wet ugly wobbly chicks, next day I found they were lovely fluffy energetic cute chickens. Mother hen usually looked after her new clutch, with assisted help from us feeding them special chicken feed. When the chickens had grown enough, they were put in a separate yard. As the chicks grew mum could tell their gender by the combs on the top of their heads, small combs were usually hens, they were saved for laying eggs, and if they didn’t produce eggs it was the cooking pot for them, large combed chicks were roosters. Choice roosters were saved for breeding , the remainder were fattened and used for the dinner table.

Dad had no fear of deadly snakes, wild beasts, raging bulls or anything really except clucky hens; he wouldn’t put his hand into the nest to lift a clucky hen off its brood. This amused me, I couldn’t believe my dad who I thought could conquer all was frightened of a clucky hen, why, even I wasn’t frightened to handle clucky hens from a young age.

I often wondered (years later) if it was dad’s way of distancing himself from chook yard duties.

Mum was expert at preparing a chook for the pot; firstly, a swift death was mandatory. The chook must be securely held by its legs with the wings firmly held to the legs all in one hand, the head of the chook was laid across a chopping block, a quick swift chop with the axe disposed of the head in an instant, the axe was immediately dropped using that hand to firmly hold the wings to the legs avoiding flapping wings that would cover you in blood if they were allowed to flap. The bird then hung upside down until all the blood had drained out. Immersion in boiling water loosened the feathers, after the feathers had been plucked the genital area was cut out, through this opening the innards of the chook were pulled out, by hand. To me all this was standard procedure.

I watch people nowadays recoil in horror when I tell them I will kill, pluck, clean and prepare for the pot any unwanted poultry they have and enjoy eating it.

All the smaller plucked feathers of the chook were washed and put in a hessian wheat bag to dry. When there was enough feathers mum sewed a bag cover of strong striped ticking fabric the size of a mattress or pillow, this bag was stuffed with the feathers and served as incredibly comfortable mattresses and pillows, in fact feather bedding was a luxury and only afforded by those with chooks and those prudent to save enough feathers to fill the bedding. I noticed mum was revered for her provisions of such a luxury as feather filled bedding. These mattresses needed plumping up daily so each night when you sank into the well fluffed feather mattress it snuggled luxuriously around you, ensuring a wonderfully comfortable sleep. When folks told mum she was lucky to have such luxury I heard her later telling dad, "they’ve got no gumption. Luck is another name for hard work."

Mum had a ritual with preparing the chook for the table, it cooked on the warmer part of the wood stove top for hours where it slowly simmered to produce the tastiest chook soup I have ever tasted. Mum honestly believed this ‘chook soup’ was a cure for all her ills, certainly after she had been sick or poorly a good helping of this chook soup quickly restored her to her usual assertive active self.

When mum was feeling sick and needed chook soup to help her recover, from her sick bed she gave strict instructions how it was to be made. Dad had to kill a chook, clean it and cut off the joints needed for the soup. Dad was not very deft at housework or cooking, so it was my job from an incredibly young age to make this soup. When friends and neighbours took ill mum hastily made a batch of her `special’ chook soup and took it to them, they also passionately believed it was a cure-all for most illnesses.

It is more blessed to give than receive says mum.

When a favour was returned to mum she said One good turn deserves another

The remainder of the chook including the remaining wing mum roasted in deep mutton fat and served with vegetables, she loved the chook wings, by cooking them separately, one in the soup and the other roasted on the chook she was sure to get to eat both wings.

Roast meat for the usual daily roast was put in a baking dish in the oven as soon as the breakfast toast was made. Continuous fire in the wood stove provided a continually heated oven ensuring the meat was well and truly cooked for the evening meal; even the toughest old chook and sheep dad killed to ‘save their lives’ was cooked for so long it fell to pieces after 8-10 hours of slow cooking.

In the late 1990’s when visiting my brother and his family on the farm he enlisted us to help with poultry culling. He had penned thirty chooks (especially bred `meat birds’) ready for the pot, with a single shot to the head they were painlessly dead, then loaded in the wheelbarrow, wheeled to the boiling gas copper, using a timer they were immersed for the appropriate time before holding them onto a ‘plucker’. The plucker an electric wheel with rubber flaps stripped most of the feathers from the carcass, when most of the feathers were plucked the chooks were laid on a table where all hands available pulled out any remaining feathers. Lastly the innards were pulled out which was second nature to me, I think Angie was rather surprised at my deftness of removing them, inch long fingernails and all.

The reward, lovely fresh free-range farm poultry tasting like most people have never been fortunate enough to taste. Finally, the dressed chooks were tied in pairs and strung over the hills hoist to dry out before cooking or freezing. Now-a-days we eat only `chickens’, to us a chicken was a baby chook not worth the effort of cleaning and cooking, the chooks we used for eating were as big as a turkey, plump and delicious.

Mum kept only one or two pigs, mainly for garbage disposal, she `rescued’ the runt (the weakest little piglet not able to get his share of nourishment) from litters born on neighboring farms and fattened them up. They were fed each day with food scraps, wheat and oats grains, separated milk from which the cream had been extracted. When mum ascertained the pig was ready for eating, she pestered dad to slaughter it. As usual it was a big issue to slaughter the bigger beasts. Professionally slaughtered the pig’s hair is scraped leaving the skin to form the rind and crackling, some neighbouring farmers slaughtered this way, but dad never had patience with what he considered unnecessary work, so he skun the pig as he did the sheep.

As always when a big beast was slaughtered it was shared around all the adjoining farms, each farmer took their turn to slaughter a big animal to be shared by all the neighbours. When a beast was slaughtered that was the only meat we ate until it was gone, there was no variety until that beast was eaten. Pork is a meat that cannot be eaten regularly for a long period, mum tried to intersperse it with mutton, but the problem of keeping meat especially in warm weather, was always an issue, salting (preserving it in a strong salt brine) added a few more days to its uncooked life.

I can remember the cool safes we had with wetted hessian cloth draped over them; it was an hourly chore in the hot summers to pour water over the top to keep the hessian sides wet. There was a lot of illness and death from food poisoning in the early days because of the inability to keep food cold enough for preservation.

I remember the great excitement in my early years when Kelvinator introduced a refrigerator generated by kerosene, we bought a kerosene fridge as soon as they were available. What a magical appliance this fridge was, it had a tiny two tray freezer section in a corner at the top. Such a treat, home-made ice-cream and ice blocks even though they took at least two days to set hard and then only in the cool weather when the fridge worked more efficiently. Fridges struggled during summer, not only from the summer heat but also being in the kitchen which constantly had a wood fire burning, our only means of cooking and providing all the household hot water in large kettles on the stove top.

Dad and mum were trend setters; they liked to have all the mod cons available. Water was the major issue. We had to catch all our household and stock water from the meagre rainfall. Average annual rainfall was supposedly 12 inches (300mm) but we were lucky if we got 8 inches (230mm). It was paramount to save every drop of rain we could. In every flat area where water lay a hole was dug, lined with a thick cement mixture and a brush roof laid over the top to avoid evaporation. These tanks provided water for the stock. With careful management we were never without water.

An underground tank with a solid covering was built near the house and all roof water was channeled into it, a high stand with a small tank atop was kept filled to provide pressured water to the house, very advanced as all our neighbours and friends had to go outside and hand pump the water up from their tanks into buckets and jugs for their household use.

Every drop of water after use was carried onto the garden. We all had a wash in the bowl in the same water every evening before dark, I made sure I was first and started with the clean water, then mum washed Roger, then herself and dad last because he was always filthy from the paddocks and last to get home.

Baths were a weekly event, always on Saturdays ready for Sunday the day of rest and going to church. Oh it was so good to feel and smell clean. Having the first bath with clean water had its downfall, I was only allowed a skerrick and tried in vain to sneak more than my allocated one inch (2cms) of water into the bath, though with only one kettle of hot water allowed not much cold water was practical. Turn that tap off; I know what you are up to, I have eyes in the back of my head.

I swear mum did have eyes in the back of her head because she knew my every move. By the time dad had his bath with the hot water that was added for each person I felt he had a luxury bath in adequate water. I did envy the amount of water he bathed in even though it was a murky dirty brown.

Hot water and all modes of cooking and heating were provided by wood fires in large kitchens the hub of every home. The main room in our home was the kitchen, a large room, the kitchen area along one wall, a dresser holding kitchen china, cutlery, condiments etc. on the adjacent wall, the large fireplace with a Metters No 3 wood burning stove installed in a huge fireplace on the opposite wall, along the remaining wall stood dad’s writing desk and a freestanding wireless set displayed in its elaborate wooden cabinet.

A large wooden table took pride in the centre of the room, with matching ribbon back chairs placed neatly around the room; the table always had a vase of fresh flowers placed on a crisp starched doily on its centre. It now amases me how mum managed to grow such lovely blooms all year round in the dry harsh conditions.

Mostly the wooden kitchen chairs were used for sitting and socialising, though we had a cushion covered wooden rocking chair strategically placed in front of the wireless, this chair was the pride of the house, I loved to sit in it gently rocking while I listened to music on the radio. Mum and dad of course always had priority but luckily for me they were usually too busy to just sit and relax. The only thing they listened to on the radio was the news. Meal times were usually eaten during the news broadcast and always around the kitchen table, so I probably spent more time in the rocking chair than anyone, even so I remember dad contentedly relaxing in this rocking chair especially on Sundays the day of rest. I was not allowed to turn the radio on unless I had permission, which wasn’t readily granted. During the day there was only one radio station we could clearly receive, a regional ABC station our lifeline to news of the world. In the evenings, a few extra stations could be received spasmodically. As I got older, I loved to listen to the ‘Hit Parades’ but I was rarely allowed to.

Dad had installed a windmill near the house for `free light’. When it was windy it was my job to turn on the windmill or as we called it the `free light’, this provided 32 voltage power which was stored in batteries, these batteries didn’t hold a charge for very long, but with careful usage was adequate for lights. The house was wired for 32-volt lighting, very up market and modern. In later years mum had a 32-volt iron also very modern; it consumed more power than the storage batteries could hold, so the modern iron could only be used on very windy days using direct current from the wind.

Dad replenishing our wood supply. Our home in the

background. Note ‘free light’ on left. and overhead tank.

Ironing was a major chore until synthetic fabrics were invented in the ‘fifties’. All outer clothes and petticoats were made of cotton, linen, calico and wool. Wool had to be dry cleaned, the other natural fibres were starched to enhance the fabric and resist dirt and stains. Ironing of these starched garments needed much skill and time, it was a tedious chore; the stiff garments were sprayed with water then rolled up to allow the dampness to spread evenly through the clothes rendering them pliable, usually done well before ironing. A hot iron was used to iron as well as dry the clothes into a crisp dry smooth finish. All housewives and house maids dreaded ironing; me too.

The irons in those days were crude to say the least. I remember Aunties Agnes and Ethel’s irons were heavy black and hollow, under the hinged handle the hollow space was filled with hot coals which heated the iron base, much care had to be taken to avoid sparks flying out and burning a hole in the garments being ironed which despite the amount of care taken the inevitable did occur, wayward sparks leaving holes in the garments. Ironing with these coal irons were a huge source of stress for my five older female cousins who had no other means of ironing.

It was always expected for everyone to be well dressed in immaculately starched crease free clothes but most imperative when ‘going out’; a good impression was an absolute must. I must point out, to allow this expectation to be achieved usually only one best outfit was owned; much care was taken when wearing this outfit thus allowing it to be worn many times before it needed laundering.

I remember mum having a spirit iron, an iron with a small pressure tank attached to the back of the handle. The tank was filled with methylated spirits, set alight and kept burning from air pumped into the pressure tank allowing the flame to keep the iron hot. This iron wasn’t used very often, I think mum had a few scares with it, she always made me stand right away when she was lighting it. I felt anxieties from her when she used it.

The main iron mum used even after she bought the electric 32 volt was a pott iron (invented by Mrs. Pott) we had two of these heavy pott iron bases which lived on the Metters stove top always hot from early in the morning until the embers died out after our evening meal; consequently the irons were always ready to use eliminating lengthy and dangerous ironing preparations. A firm clip on handle was easily attached to the iron bases, two bases allowed continuous ironing providing the fire in the stove was burning adequately. I became quite professional at putting the right amount of wood in the stove to produce the right temperate to heat the irons. A few mishaps when the irons were too hot, scorching and ruining some garments soon taught me. I often complained to mum about the inadequacy of the irons; she admonished, "A good workman never blames his tools.

I accepted these pott irons and used them as long as I can remember, in later years they were an excellent tool for my dressmaking, always on the stove ready for whenever I needed them. When I moved away from the farm, I really missed the convenience and economy of the pot irons.

A wood fired copper was used to heat the water in winter when a kettle full wasn’t enough for our weekly baths on Saturday mornings. Monday the copper was also used for heating the water for the weekly clothes wash, and boiling of the clothes. White cotton articles were boiled in the copper in soapy water, the mode of laundering whites. All bed linen and most of our underwear made of cotton was white and were boiled.

I can remember mum having a crude type of washing machine with a handle which we had to pump up and down by hand to create a wash cycle, when the clothes were pummeled to cleanliness they were fed by hand into a wringer between two rubber rollers to squeeze the water from them, this wringer was turned by hand. Wash day was an all-day chore, always on a Monday. I hated Mondays.

Such great joy when Simpson invented a 32volt washing machine and mum had one delivered, but it could only be used on windy days when the wind was strong enough to provide enough direct power to operate the washing machine.

Rayburn invented a slow combustion stove which we immediately had installed. Although it took longer to heat up in the morning it didn’t use as much wood so less work; and it didn’t project as much heat as the Metters, so a cooler house was greatly appreciated in summer. In winter we’d leave the oven and fire doors open allowing the heat to keep the kitchen warm. This Rayburn was a great boon to our out back country living because it heated water in pipes installed behind the stove and provided hot water stored in a 60 gallon tank. This was plumbed to the kitchen laundry and bathroom, what a luxury. I visualised having luxurious hot baths daily…wrong… water was so scarce mum made sure I only used my allocated one inch of water, but it was easier now to have more frequent baths, and occasionally when we had good rains and the tanks were overflowing I conned mum into letting me have baths more often and in deeper water.

Our toilet, lavatory or lav as we called it was very posh for a country ‘dunny’. It was built by dad, an iron and timber construction with a cute hip roof. The ill-fitting door was made of wood which only occasionally I could get closed, on the occasions I was able to close it I did my job as quick as I could all the while fearing I wouldn’t be able to get the door open again, this regularly happened and I had to yell out to mum or dad to come and open it. I was frightened visitors may walk in on me, how embarrassing that would have been. No-one ever did.

Our lav had the longest drop, dad dug a very deep hole which enabled the ‘doings’ to drop a long way from the seat, the deeper the hole the longer was the life of the toilet, because when it became too full the structure was moved