Rabbits to Lita: A Hop Down Memory Lane

By Helena F. Powell

Nostalgia was a friendly companion as I opened doors that led to the writing of this memoir. Brazilians have a wordsaudadeswhich wistfully speaks to a yearning for things past.
Begin anywhere, were the words of teacher Mims Cushing, in a memoir writing class at Ponte Vedra Library. A great jump-start and since 2002 nostalgia has partnered with the fun of describing experiences, family and friends.
Hindsight has shown me that a diversified background has helped me adapt to and appreciate new situations. Years ago, I often felt shy and different when asked where are you from? After a few mumbled words I volleyed the same question back so as not to begin the litany of my background. I now speak with an all-encompassing American accent, that only took hold in my 20s. I do revert to my original accent if I speak to a person with my British tones of yore.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 12, 2007
• ISBN: 9781450081436

Helena F. Powell

Helena Powell was born in Argentina, the daughter of an Australian father and a South African mother. She has lived in three Latin American countries and the United States, and now resides with her husband in Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida. She graduated from Ohio University with a degree in Fine Arts. Helena has a son, a daughter, and six grandchildren. Photo by Donald Powell includes Scout, a Rescued dog

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Copyright © 2007 by Helena F. Powell.

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4257-7857-6

Softcover 978-1-4257-7845-3

Ebook 978-1-4500-8143-6

Cover design by J. Mack Dent

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or 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.

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CONTENTS

Preface

1.      Dad, my Hero

2.      Mum, the Best Friend

3.      Far Away Abuelita

4.      Anita’s Role

5.      My First Years

6.      World War II in Sao Paulo

7.      Early School Days

8.      Boarding Away

9.      A proud day for Dad

10.      Dreams CAN Come True

11.      Australian Family Ties

12.      Southern Shock

13.      Vacations South of the Border

14.      Co-Ed Campus Life

15.      When Two Hearts Race, Both Win

16.      Army Life in Peacetime

17.      Boston on a ‘Shoe String’

18.      Motherhood’s Joy

19.      Early Champion Days

20.      Incredible Luck

21.      Dixieland Revisited

22.      New England’s Greenwich

23.      Another Ohio Town

24.      The Road to Don’s Retirement

25.      The Wonder that is America

26.      Sounds Above the Surf

27.      Nearby Sawgrass

*     *     *

28.      Some Brazilian History

29.      Who Was The First To Fly?

30.      Carnival

31.      Today’s Brazilian

32.      A view of Aussieland

I dedicate this book to the memory of my parents and to my family who show me happiness along the way.

PREFACE

Nostalgia was a friendly companion as I opened doors that led to the writing of this memoir. Brazilians have a word—saudades—which wistfully speaks to a yearning for things past.

‘Begin anywhere," were the words of teacher Mims Cushing, in a memoir writing class at Ponte Vedra Library. A great jump-start and since 2002 nostalgia has partnered with the fun of describing experiences, family and friends.

Hindsight has shown me that a diversified background has helped me adapt to and appreciate new situations. Years ago, I often felt shy and different when asked where are you from? After a few mumbled words I volleyed the same question back so as not to begin the litany of my background. I now speak with an all-encompassing American accent, that only took hold in my 20’s. I do revert to my original accent if I speak to a person with my British tones of yore.

I envy folk with deep roots planted in their home town. They live in a corner of the world where roads and places are always familiar. They haven’t dealt with myriad changes of addresses, different school cultures, and the saudades of separation from family and good friends. On the other hand, as I wrote, I better appreciated the excitement and variety of my ‘different’ life.

Today I feel safely anchored and fortunate to live in America, my country since 1990 which is also home to my husband, children and grandchildren.

1

DAD, MY HERO

Rabbits was Dad’s fond nickname for me that continued through out his lifetime. The wee animals were a nuisance in his native Australia. Roget’s Thesaurus lists joy as the antonym of nuisance. I like the connection. There was joy between us.

The third youngest of seven, Edwin Arthur Harry Fry was born in Adelaide, in 1899, to Mary Rosina Temple and William Henry Fry. Dad was proud of his English heritage. His family were Free Settlers, voluntary exiles from England.

The family’s necessarily thrifty life-style illustrated to this only child the meaning of true grit. Dad walked barefoot on the dirt road to school, carrying recycled shoes to preserve them for the next sibling. Meals were simple. The youngsters were expected to eat everything on their plates. When they didn’t, they met the same food at their next meal. Consequently, Dad only balked when he met a turnip.

Great distances separated us for much of Dad’s life, prompting Dear Rabbits letters before today’s instant messaging. He never said I love you, yet by gesture, by thoughtful act, by constant support and guidance, his love for me was ever present.

Only when I had children of my own did I realize the enormity of my father’s influence on me. He forever patiently steered me back on course, seldom raised his voice and showed me people-respect by example.

A working companion of Dad’s had shown him the damage too much liquour did to a human’s mind and body. By example, my parents’ evening’s ritual included one drink before dinner. Sunday’s lunch meal was the exception when a glass of red wine joined a more elaborate meal. At an early age, I too drank a wine glass filled with water and a tad of wine. Gradually, as I became older, more wine was added.

It is a pity his generation’s ingrained English reserve shielded me from many of life’s realities. I thus stumbled onto some growing up facts by observation and talk with friends. Always, however, there was a strong sense of right from wrong.

*

When World War I raged overseas, patriotism led my father to enlist in the Australian Navy. Still posted to Adelaide at war’s end, he realized, as his parents had, that he felt a wanderlust to see beyond his hometown. He read that The Chicago Portrait Company was recruiting salesmen to represent them worldwide. He was hired and learned his job on the back roads of Australia’s Queensland and New South Wales territories.

*

A Frenchman, Louis Daguerre, produced the first daguerreotype, which was a paper photograph made from a glass image. Early photography traveled to America in the person of photo-journalist Matthew Brady, who captured Civil War black and white pictures. Thus sophisticated cities were just beginning to learn about the new art form the Company featured in smaller towns.

The picture was either taken by a large folding, bellows camera steadied on a tripod, or retrieved from a group snapshot. Occasionally the subject was already in a coffin! The portrait was then enlarged, and sometimes colour enhanced with pastel chalks, at a headquartered photo workshop before being placed in a trademark rectangular frame, rounded at its top.

Fellow salesmen toured with Dad, in a caravan of open, canvas topped model-T Fords. They Forded in snazilly dressed coats, vests, hats, ties and sometimes boots. Dad’s six foot two frame, chestnut hair and expressive brown eyes must have impressed his clients, for business prospered.

Waterproof, leather suitcases, tethered by thick straps to the cars’ wide running boards, carried the merchandise. A wee mutt named Pete guarded Dad’s cases on the car he named Lizzie. In the mornings, canned foods were placed in the large radiators, ready for a lunch break in a shaded place.

*

Dad’s black paper, leather bound photo albums that depict rural scenes stand happily at attention in my home’s bookcase. White ink, below sepia photos, informs.

In Australia we view:

The Jenolan caves.

Koalas and kangaroos.

Eucalyptus oil being distilled from ‘gum’ trees.

A flowing artesian bore capable of pouring 700,000 gallons per day. A many chimneyed homestead—even today its grandeur makes an impression—balanced by a wee home made entirely of wood.

The albums portray the realization of Dad’s travel dreams. There are photos of Suva, Madagascar, and in Mauritius, an elaborate Chinese altar.

In South Africa diamonds are dug by hand; Dad rides in a rickshaw—a small cart pulled by a man. War dances, complete with painted faces, spears and grass skirts, are pictured in Basutoland and Zululand.

*

In Capetown, South Africa, Edwin required minor surgery at Somerset Hospital,where he was tenderly nursed by Rita Knight Webster. Rita was engaged to an Afrikaner, a Dutch South African. Soon she was wearing Dad’s pear shaped diamond engagement ring. Adios Dutchman, hello Aussie, who teased she only caught him because he was on his back.

Six weeks later the two Chums, as they from then on called each other, were married at Bedford’s Anglican Church on 21 December 1923.**1

Their honeymoon coincided with Dad’s next posting to England. Other assignments followed, including a return to South Africa and then Australia where Mum met Dad’s kin in Adelaide before moving on to Melbourne, Brisbane and Cairns. Two pets, said Dad’s white ink, below a photo of his Chum with a koala in her arms. Fiji was next where a photo depicts a local wedding and in Hawaii, Mum wore a lei, while swaying to hula sounds.

*

A more permanent transfer placed Dad in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where I was born. Some of his business included southern Brazil. He liked the Brazilian’s enthusiasm for life, their forgiving ways as he struggled with Portuguese. Unlike Mum, he had a facility for languages that my son and I have inherited.

Deciding it was time to settle in one place, Dad purchased the Company’s Brazilian operation, headquartered in Sao Paulo, naming it Artefina de Chicago Limitada—Chicago Fine Art, Limited.

Roads were poor and distances great, so Dad became airborne. I learned the satisfaction of responsibility when, as a young child, my father trusted me to ready his tan raincoat for a business trip with hand rolled wads of toilet paper plus an apple or two in its pockets. Sometimes, a gift wrapped Elgin watch honouring a salesman’s good work went into his Revelation suitcase. I can still see that leather case plastered with coloured stickers, its metal rungs ready to extend for further bulk.

Portrait orders rolled in. Dad perfected his Portuguese and expanded his work force so he could spend more time at home. My lifelong love of Brazil, its people and music was taking hold.

It was a treat to visit the Rua do Carmo downtown photographic workshop where artists retouched and sometimes colour enhanced portraits with thick chalks, the stubs of which I took home. One of Dad’s retouchers, Edgar Oehlmeyer, became a respected artist in Sao Paulo. His wedding present to me, oil painted on wood for better travel, is a bouquet of colourful flowers. Artefina days hug me when I pass it.

*

When a shipment of American Jeeps arrived Dad drove Mum and me down Avenida Europa at a fast and thrilling clip. The four wheel drive vehicles were just the thing for ping-pong roads in Brazil’s boonies.

*

Dad wasn’t a glib salesman. Prattling was not his style. He was forever observant, curious and patient. When he spoke, it was with quiet confidence and worth ‘a listen’ because he was an avid reader of history and current events.**2 Thin pink newspaper copies of Australia’s Advertiser joined England’s The Economist, America’s Time, and Sao Paulo’s Folha da Manha, Estado de Sao Paulo that