It's Not Who I Am

By Kylie Rae

My name is Kylie and I am a fifty eight year old woman. This is the story of my struggle within and with coping and my ultimate understanding which would sow the seeds for this book (there are some events/organisations and people that I have not mentioned for either my reasons or theirs). The first three and a half years of my life

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pen Culture Solutions
• Release date: Mar 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781638120186

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It’s Not Who I Am

Copyright © 2021 by Kylie Rae.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63812-017-9

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63812-018-6

All rights reserved. No part in this book may be produced and transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Published by Pen Culture Solutions 03/28/2021

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Friends are the people who stay with you no matter what, friends are the people who say, ‘It matters not who you were, it’s who you are that counts: and friends are those people who are just there for you.

My name is Kylie and I am a fifty-eight-year-old woman. This is the story of my inner struggle and my attempt to cope with it and my ultimate understanding, which sowed the seeds for this book (there are some events/organizations and people that I have not mentioned for either my reasons or theirs). The first three and a half years of my life is blank; I have no recollection of what may have gone on. In fact, my earliest childhood memory is when I am around four years old.

I was adopted, as was my sister and brother. I always thought that Iola (my sister) was adopted first. I found out years later that it was I that was adopted first, then Iola when I was around five years old, and then Glen a few years later. Mother and Father owned and operated a mixed farm, sheep, cattle, grain, and some pigs. It was five thousand-plus acres in area and was situated around sixteen kilometers west Warramboo, a small town in a large rural area of Eyre Peninsula, South Australia, Australia. The farm was named Linga Longa (stay awhile).

I remember cold winters and long hot dry summers with dust storms that were so thick it was lucky if you could see three feet in front of you, just endless amounts of red dust and then it would rain following the dust storm. These days, we still get the dust storms, not so much of the rain afterwards, unfortunately. I am not sure what age I was when we went to Adelaide to pick up our new brother Glen. He was around seven months older than myself; I remember it well, so I may have been seven or eight at the time.

I remember Dad employed aboriginals to pick stumps down the back block, and once a week or so, Dad would take supplies to them. Only one or two of them could speak English. They would stay down at one of the tank/trough areas (for stock). There, they would make their camp. One year, I feel it may have been one of the last times Dad employed them. They camped in the old garage at the old house. That year, they were employed to sew the grain bags up. This was before bulk handling. As I said, Dad would every so often take supplies to them, and sometimes they would not be there and Dad would say that they have gone walkabout and that they would be back. Sure enough, within a week or two, they would all return. We never had anything to do with them when we were kids.

Mother and Father employed a few married share-farmers over the years. One family I remember well: Kraftchecks (I hope I have spelt the name correct. My apologies if I have not.). They had escaped from an Eastern Bloc country that had fallen to Communism (Yugoslavia or Poland, not sure which). They had three children, a boy and two girls who were twins. They were on the farm for a few years. Also, there was a single farmhand also on a share (share being they received a share of what was sold during the year, be it grain or stock). He lived in a purpose-built single man’s hut and had his meals at the main house with us. Mother would years later turn the single man’s hut into a plant house. Mother also employed a live-in housekeeper to help her around the house.

I feel we had a couple of these over the years, but one especially I remember; her name was Sherrie (I hope I have spelt her name correctly). She had red hair. I liked her a lot. She was a couple of years older than Iola. I never really got into doing boy things; I had my Collie dog called Bobby and my little red pedal ute. I remember that. Bobby and I used to do all sorts of things. I even remember riding on his back when I was real young.

To me, Iola was always there, although I have spoken to her about this, and she said that when she was adopted, Bobby had only just died or died shortly after, she could not quite remember; it was a long time ago. Bobby was Mother’s dog. When I came along, he and I hit it off and he just became my dog. It’s strange; I can remember about two years with Bobby, yet I don’t remember him dying.

I was five or six when I felt I was not quite right somehow; I did not really know; I just felt different.

When we had the time, Glen and I would walk down to the front gate, perhaps eight or nine hundred meters from the homestead and go over the road into the scrub of Uncle Albert’s farm. He was Dad’s brother and owned the farm next to us. His house was about three kilometers by road and about two across country. Anyway, Glen and I would go over there and build treehouses and humpies and muck around there for hours, letting our imagination run wild; it was fun. Life went on.

We went to Warramboo Primary School (this school has since closed). I am not sure that the Kraftchecks children came with us to Warramboo. Mother or Father ran a school bus of sorts to Warramboo. Our car became the bus, firstly a Ford Custom line with roof racks to hold all the school bags. Now, I am not sure, as there were to be another two bus routes that were taken over the years and different children picked up along the way, so my recollection of who was on which route is a little shaky. The Warramboo route consisted of the Winters children of whom there were three, the Myers, and I am not sure how many we picked up, and the Pope children, who numbered two. Mother also taught sewing at Warramboo School.

I remember once we were coming back from dropping the Winters off. Mother was driving and we were probably about halfway home, and this roo jumped out and hit the car. Mother stopped and the roo was in some distress, and Mother said she could not leave it like that, so she got her penknife out of her handbag and slit its throat. What made this amazing was that the penknife, when opened, was only about eight centimeters or three and a quarter inches long, and that was including the handle. Mother made sure the roo did not suffer. My sister Iola has that knife now. That was in the Ford Custom line. It hit a rust spot on the car at the bottom of the door and pushed it in a little. Dad later sold the Custom line and came home with a new Holden EJ station wagon (Dad was not to own another Holden