Was It Really Like That?: Volume 2: a Glimpse into the Later History of the Gammaldi Family the Migrant Story Continues

By Gino Gammaldi

This book gives a startling account of many aspects of the author's life and an insight into the life of a peasant family, who migrated to Australia in the mid 1950's, leaving everything behind to face an uncertain future in a strange and unfamiliar country on the far side of the world. There were no guarantees of rich rewards or promises of an easier life, just a sincere hope for a chance at a new start, especially for their children. There was anticipation and there was fear, but it was their hope and aspirations which sustained them and gave them courage. The experience was a daunting one for any migrant of those times, but the contributions made to Australian life must not go unnoticed. The changes were many, as were the trials and tribulations. This book also gives a `potted' insight into the author's early childhood and adulthood; his memoirs, a record of events of which he has a reasonably intimate knowledge being based upon personal observations and events. Gino also remembers all the good and fun times, and he portrays these beautifully and graphically through the many characters you will encounter in this book. He brings them to life and engages the reader, simply by the humour and by the special qualities that each one of these characters magnifies and how all of these experiences impacted on his own life. To some extent it's an autobiography of how all this impacted on him from boyhood and beyond shaping his life in ways he could not have imagined. A reflection on simpler times, coupled with the advances of technology, give an interesting and, perhaps, timely reminder of where we have been, where we are, and what could lie ahead for all of us at different stages of our own lives. The numerous old photos, cleverly scattered throughout this book, bring to life some of the realities of the times.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Sep 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796005936

Gino Gammaldi

Gino Gammaldi is married to Grace. They have 3 children and 6 grandchildren. He lives in Melbourne, Australia. He spent 26 years in Corporate Management. His education began in the Good Samaritan primary school (St Joseph – Korumburra) followed by secondary studies at St Patrick’s College in Sale, Victoria (as a boarder for 5 years) and at Taylors University Coaches in Melbourne. He has achieved qualifications from a number of tertiary institutions including Deakin University and Monash University. He also served 2 years as a National Serviceman in the Australian Army. Gino was inducted into the office of Justice of the Peace by His Excellency, the Governor in Council (Victoria) in 1999 and some years later was appointed a Commonwealth Celebrant by the Federal Attorney General of Australia. He is also the Chairman and Manager of an annual play in which he also has an acting role. Writing children books has become his passion, however, he also has commenced to write an adult novel and an account of early migrant life in Australia which features the experiences of his own family. Gino’s early childhood was on family farms in the district of Krowera, Victoria, Australia – a place which is little known but which holds fond memories for him.

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Copyright © 2019 by Gino Gammaldi. 800714

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.

This is a work of non-fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, family history or are used as fact based upon the author’s experiences, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Characters mentioned such as Joe Mary, Joe Margaret, Joe Italy, Our Joe, Pipen and others are not their real names.

Xlibris

1-800-455-039

www.xlibris.com.au

ISBN:   Softcover   978-1-7960-0516-5

   Hardcover   978-1-7960-0519-6

   EBook      978-1-7960-0593-6

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019911842

Rev. date: 09/03/2019

WAS

IT

REALLY

LIKE

THAT?

Full Colour Volume II

"A glimpse into the later history of

the Gammaldi family"

by

Gino Gammaldi

To all my family

Books by Gino Gammaldi

‘The Secret at St Mary’s

‘When Worlds Collide’

‘Friends’

‘Odyssey in Space’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Front cover design by Lisa Jane Gillard

Back cover design by Lisa Jane Gillard

Cover images from Gammaldi family archives

Photographs used in this book are from Gammaldi, Mastropietro, Giglio & Gillard personal archives

PREFACE

This is the second volume of the history of the Gammaldi family. Within these pages is contained memories which form part of a later time. The author reflects on many aspects of life and their impact on his own personal experiences. There are realities which cannot be ignored. These are moments which help to form the author’s beginning with marriage to Grace and the family and events that followed. Work becomes a key reflection in this part of the book as does his focus on the grandchildren and their parents. There is much on what motivates us to succeed and there is the all important mention of all immediate family members.

CONTENTS

DARE TO DREAM

SCHOOL IN MELBOURNE AND THE CARS

LEARNING TO DRIVE AND MY FIRST CAR

THE SWAGMAN (Domenico)

THE PONTIAC CAR ACCIDENT

THE MELBOURNE PRODUCE BUSINESS

THE RESTAURANT

MUM’S CHIPS

WHY WE MARRY THE PEOPLE WE DO

GRACE

SEARCHING FOR GRACE

THE AUSTRALIAN ARMY

BACK TO CIVILIAN LIFE

WHY WE MARRY THE PEOPLE WE DO (Part 2)

MARRIAGE AND OUR FIRST HOME

MUM & DAD

MUM & DAD 2

DAD AND THE GOAT

BELLA VISTA HOSTEL AND DEMENTIA

CHARACTER BUILDING

THE PARISH OF ST. MARY HELP OF CHRISTIANS

THE IN-LAWS

PASSION PLAY

THE CHANGES - THEIR IMPACT - WHAT THEN?

THE MEANING OF LIFE TO ME

ON DEATH

GOOD AND BAD

PERSONAL MOMENTS

LA BREVE STORIA IN ITALIANO

CONTRONE PEOPLE

GAMMALDI GENEALOGY CHART

GIUSEPPE GAMMALDI (Our Joe)

VINCENZO GAMMALDI

MARIA CUPPARI (nee Gammaldi)

MARGHERITA CIPRIOTI (nee Gammaldi)

FIORELLA CILIBERTI (nee Gammaldi)

ARCANGELO GAMMALDI (Arc)

GIOVANNI GAMMALDI

GESU MASTROPIETRO

THE GAMMALDI CLAN NOW

MY FAMILY

NEIGHBOURS

RELIGIOUS LIFE

IF YOU CAN DREAM

GRANDCHILDREN WRITINGS

WHAT WE CAN LEARN FROM OUR GRANDCHILDREN

ON REFLECTION

NELLA RIFLESSIONE

MUM ISMS

DAD ISMS

MOTIVATIONAL QUOTES

THE QUOTES

MY JOTTINGS

MANAGEMENT SPOOFS

THEN & NOW

THE IMPERSONATIONS

QUESTION EVERYTHING

THIS BOOK

EPILOGUE

DARE TO DREAM

Ask yourself - If you had the chance to change the world, would you?

Let us always remind ourselves that you don’t have to be great to start, but you have to start to be great. My parents took the first step towards change for everyone in our family. In the words of Rachel Roebuck-Howard……

Change .………………….. it’s pushing us from behind; it’s under our feet moving us daily; it’s in front of us always beckoning; it’s on both sides of us guiding us toward our calling. Who dares to sneer at another when they are in their transition of change? Don’t let it be you. Change is always, it’s forever; it’s infinite. Without change ... life would not exist.

So, do we dare to dream about what our lives could be like? My parents did. They had a belief, a trust, a spirituality conviction of what life could be like, and they followed their dream. So then it could be said, dreams are the illustrations from the book your soul is writing about you. I can hardly claim to be the greatest exponent of spiritual conviction by any means. However, I do believe in the passion which drives people to achieve something they believe in against what may seem insurmountable odds. Behind that passion often lies a power many of us do not understand but it is never the less something from which many find the inner strength often needed to do what must be done. The perception of oneness from many.

A systems approach begins when we see the world through another’s eyes and just as the sound of a forgotten musical instrument stirs hidden ancestral memories, so the authentic chords of youth and age resonate with the beginnings and the endings of a time which has been and is still to be:

My father, my mother, my siblings……………me……………. life.

Perhaps life could humourously be described in three ways:

Teenage: Is when we have time and energy but no money.

Working Age: Is when we have money and energy but no time.

Old age: Is when we have time and money but no energy.

SCHOOL IN MELBOURNE AND THE CARS

Good School, Rich School; Bad School, Poor School; Good experience, bad experience

During the period 1966-1967, I attended school in Melbourne at George Taylor & Staff (University Coaches) and boarding at the Old Lincoln Inn, which was located in Rathdowne Street in Carlton, an inner Melbourne suburb. From there, it was an easy walk to school. The Hotel licensee was Carlo D’Alessandro, a great guy. He was the brother of my sister-in-law, Anna, who married my brother Vince. Carlo was a fun loving guy, who not only was a good businessman but also enjoyed the finer things in life. He was learned and well-traveled and always had time for me whenever I needed advice. He told me once I should think of him as a brother and I should consider the hotel as a second home. He even permitted me access into the kitchen, where breakfast could be had before going to school, without the supervision or presence of the chef. Well, it’s not every chef that allows the uninitiated (especially a kid) to have free reign of his domain. Carlo allowed me to make my own breakfast and to prepare sandwiches to take to school for lunch. My younger brother Arc was with me for a while during this time. This liberty of the kitchen continued for a short while, until the chef confronted Carlo, one day, and demanded the immediate cessation of breakfast made by the uninitiated. I happened to be within earshot of this tirade and kept well away while tempers flared. Carlo saw red and insisted that, as the owner of the hotel, it was he who set the rules, and if the chef didn’t like the arrangement, he could pack up his kitchen knives and leave. The chef stayed but under duress. Carlo called me aside later that day and told me what had happened. I didn’t mention to him I had overheard everything. He made it quite clear he had made a promise to my mother he would take care of me, and food would always be available to me.

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I remember going home to the farm one weekend; it was at a time of the year when mushrooms were plentiful. I thought it would be a nice gesture on my part to scour the paddocks and pick a bucketful for Carlo. The following day I gave Carlo the bucket full of freshly picked mushrooms. On seeing this, Carlo was so delighted, he took them immediately into the kitchen and cooked the whole batch in a large frypan. He was quite satisfied after having eaten the bulk of them and having imbibed half a bottle of red wine. It wasn’t until the next morning that Carlo was writhing in agony behind the saloon bar of the hotel, holding onto his stomach, and groaning like an injured animal. This wasn’t because the mushrooms were bad; it was the large quantity he had eaten to which his stomach was objecting.

Carlo introduced me to many of his friends. Two very memorable ones were Cristiano and Marcello. They hadn’t been in Australia for long. Both had jobs on the Ford Motor Company assembly line. They were probably about 6 years older than me; we got along very well. It was through them I learned a lot more about Italy than I ever knew and gained a better understanding of the language. There was also another avenue for learning Italian; this involved the Bonacci family. I’ll talk about them separately. Carlo was always the benevolent one, whether it had to do with good food, free entertainment in his bistro lounge, or even a night at the movies. I remember when the movie, ‘The Dirty Dozen’, first screened (1967).¹ Carlo was quick to rally a number of his close friends, me included, to give us all a treat by taking us to watch this much-acclaimed movie starring, among others: Lee Marvin as Major Reisman, Ernest Borgnine as General Worden, Charles Bronson, Clint Walker, and Trini Lopez. Now, I think the main attraction for Carlo was the fact Trini Lopez was in the picture in which he sang the song ‘Lemon Tree’.

At some point in the late 1960s, Carlo and his family relinquished their holdings at the Old Lincoln Inn Hotel and took up as a licensee at The Evelyn Hotel in East Brunswick, Melbourne, a very famous landmark then and still is for many budding and famous bands and singers. In later years, my youngest daughter, Lisa, and her husband, Tom Gillard, got to do a gig at the place; Lisa singing and Tom accompanying on the guitar. Sadly, Carlo passed away on 4 June 2013, aged 78. My wife, Grace, and I were privileged to be able to attend his funeral and to pay our last respects to a good man; one I’ll never forget.

School in Melbourne was a big learning curve for me. It was my first real experience living in a big city, and I was intent on making the most of this time. Study took up most of my time, but it gave me the chance to meet many overseas students as Taylor’s was an international school, which catered to many Asian students. I befriended many of them, and we established a great rapport, allowing us to share much of our own particular cultures. Yap, Yong and Anjing were close friends and together we would take excursions to outer suburbs and once even to the Harris Road farm. For a short period, I was lucky enough to be given the use of a car to drive until my younger brother Arc obtained his driving licence. This car was a Holden Torana and I was very loath to relinquish my hold on it when the day finally came to do so. I did have the Holden Torana for a while, but, eventually, this car ended up on the farm; more about this in the next chapter.

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School in Melbourne (circa late 1960s): The serious and the light-hearted

Images source: Gammaldi collection

LEARNING TO DRIVE

AND MY FIRST CAR

The best way to learn anything is to do it

It was during my first year at school in Melbourne I decided to learn to drive. A friend of my sister Fiorella’s husband was going to be my instructor. The arrangement was he would pick me up from school twice a week at lunchtime. He would then give me my one hour practice session around the Melbourne city streets. This continued until he deemed I was ready for my driving test. Although I was excited about learning to drive a car, I was a bit apprehensive about learning to do so in a heavily congested major city. My instructor quickly allayed any of my fears. Through some questioning about any prior driving experience, he discovered I could drive a tractor. This, to him, seemed to be sufficient grounds for me to have confidence. However, I was a bit concerned about his assumption that driving a tractor around farm paddocks was little different to driving a car around city streets. On the farm, all I had to worry about was the unlikely encounter with a farm animal, a creek or a fence. But, it didn’t take me long to become comfortable in his car and I was soon able to negotiate even the most narrow and busiest of streets quite well. Apart from some very minor close call with other cars and traffic lights, my driver training went relatively smooth and my instructor seemed pleased.

It took me some time to study all of my theory questions in between school breaks. Soon I was ready; at least I thought I was. To give myself every chance of success, I decided to attempt my driving test at the Loch police station. This was very close to where the farms were located, and Mum and Dad and others were still living on the farms. There was a condition to be met to be permitted to undertake the driving test at Loch. One had to be residing in the district. I wasn’t going to have any problem with this. After all, many before me, who were just friends of the family and whose English was poor, came from Melbourne to be tested at Loch. My parents would attest to my residency status on the farms. They would also supply the local policeman with a suitable quantity of farm produce to sweeten the arrangement and to go easy with me on the testing. How could the policeman refuse? I’m sure, at times, he must have been curious as to how many people really lived on our farms.

The first part of my testing was the theory. I had learned every question, so I was very confident. This all changed when I sat down at the policeman’s desk. He was on the opposite side with the test questions in hand and looking very stern. Joe Mary (Joe Cuppari) sat next to me. It was his car we would be using for the actual driving test. I wondered whether Joe Mary had given this policeman enough peas and potatoes. I was asked five questions and answered only three correctly. His gaze penetrated my face with the intensity of a laser beam. I had the feeling I should quit right then and come back another day. After what seemed an eternity, the policeman grabbed his hat off the desk, stood up, and ordered that we follow him to the car.

By then, I was a nervous wreck. This didn’t seem to be any easier than going for the test at one of the city police stations. I was familiar with Joe Mary’s car. I had driven it a few times. The practical test shouldn’t be a problem, I thought. But, there was an impediment that immediately became obvious to me. The car had to be reversed out of the policeman’s driveway. Reversing wasn’t one of my best manoeuvres. I sat at the wheel, Joe Mary beside me, the policeman in the back seat. If the floor could have swallowed me up, I would have considered myself to have been truly blessed. The policeman gave me the instruction to drive. I had to remember all of the preliminary checkings to be done before the car was put into reverse gear – check mirrors, left foot on the clutch, right foot on the brake, hands at the nine O’clock and three O’clock positions. Gently I started to move. I’m not sure why, but for some reason, I over accelerated. The car sped out of the driveway much too fast. If that wasn’t bad enough, I didn’t stop at the road to check for traffic. Instead, I continued across the road, swung the car around to face in the direction of intended travel, and that’s when I hit the brakes hard.

Nobody spoke. There were no compulsory seat belts back then. The car had come to a halt in the culvert on the side of the road. Joe Mary was holding tightly onto his door handle with a look of sweaty consternation on his face. I think he was probably more concerned about his car. I was afraid to look in the back seat. When I did, the policeman was not sitting up. He was lying across the length of the back seat. Before I could make my escape, he bellowed to me to drive on and to stop at the main intersection of South Gippsland Highway and Loch-Krowera Road. I thought this to be rather pointless because I was sure I had failed my test. Perhaps, he wanted to experience fully the extent of the roller coaster ride to which I might subject him. After some basic turns, stops, starts, and gear changes (I forgot to mention the car was a manual), we ended up back at the policeman’s driveway. With an agitated voice, he told me to park on the road and not to enter his driveway. He then completely surprised me by telling me I had passed the theory and the practical tests. There must have been enough peas and potatoes after all. But, before letting me go, he warned I should not drive anywhere near a built-up area until I had many more driving hours right there in the countryside. What an episode it was in my life. Naturally, when speaking of this with my family, I ensured the version they got was one that had me passing my test with flying colours. I thought it was the Napoleonic thing to do!

Well, my parents had waited for a long time for one of us younger kids to obtain a driver’s licence. This way, they wouldn’t have to rely so much on others. They decided to buy a car. They didn’t drive, and my two younger brothers didn’t have a driver’s licence as yet, so I had to have ownership of the car. It was a green, 1967 two door Holden Torana.

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A great little car, which was ever so practical for me, and the catalyst for many friendships during my school years in the city of Melbourne. That car became a part of me and everything I did until my brother Arc managed to obtain his driver’s licence, and the car was relocated to the Harris Road farm as previously mentioned. What a bummer! It was like losing a vital body part. I suppose I shouldn’t really have complained. It was good while it lasted, and besides, I was at that school to focus on study, not on sight-seeing etc.

To some degree, I do believe in the adage ‘good things come to those who wait’.² As it turned out, my eldest brother (Our Joe) surprised everyone, not just family, but his employees and friends, as well, when one early morning, something quite unexpected happened at his store in Peel Street, North Melbourne. I remember this very clearly. It was one of those mornings when I had been asked to help out in the produce store before going to classes. It would have been around 5.30am, and dawn was just breaking. In the distance, we could see approaching the kind of car none of us had seen before. Everyone became transfixed as if they had seen some kind of inexplicable apparition. As the car came closer ever so slowly, the full impact of its lines and beauty quickly became apparent to all of us standing there with Google eyes and drooped jaws. We were all admiring this car, and we wondered to whom it could possibly belong. Who could have the kind of money needed to splurge on such a car? Who would have the temerity to so blatantly flaunt such a display of wealth in a working-class community? Surely, it must be going to some unknown person of great status. The car was a brand new green 1967 Pontiac Pariesenne, and it certainly created a statement.

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Imagine the surprise of everyone there when the car pulled up in front of my brother Joe’s store. The driver was from the dealership. He was well-dressed and stepped out of the car with all the aplomb of a chauffeur. He proceeded into the store, approached my brother, shook his hand, and handed him a set of keys with a congratulatory salute. He then casually walked away. For a time, nobody spoke. This was the ‘ticket’ I had been waiting for. All I could think about, after having regained some composure, was how I was going to get to drive this amazing car and how I was going to make a statement for myself. Yes, I do believe in the old saying that good things come to those who wait, but, most people don’t know the full quote which is, good things come to those who wait but only the things left by those who hustle. That’s right. That’s another lesson I’ve learned in life; we’re supposed to hustle for what we want. Not rushing into a decision, a project, an endeavour is often important, but this must be balanced against the possibility of losing an opportunity which otherwise might be a long time coming again, if at all. As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait long!

THE SWAGMAN (Domenico)

Perhaps Australia’s best known song begins Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong. In my studies of Australian History back in those school days, I learned that the idea of the swagman was deeply embedded in Australian mythology. In very simple terms, the term swagman seemed to have emerged during the 1850s Australian gold rushes and referred to an itinerant bush worker who walked from place to place looking for work. Or, in the case of prospectors, the next gold strike. Yes, a truly iconic Australian figure is the swagman or tramp.

So, here I must make mention of our own genuine swagman.³ That’s right, we actually had such a person in our district of Krowera. His name was Domenico, and he lived just halfway up the hill on the Wonthaggi Road in Loch Village, South Gippsland. Loch Village is only about ten kilometres from the Harris Road farm. He lived in a very basic, ultra small lean-to, which he had fabricated out of branches and other foliage gathered from the surrounding bushes. From what I could see, it would offer little if no protection from the elements, but obviously, this wasn’t a problem for Domenico.

Everyone knew him, but he was a friend to nobody. Often, he could be seen wandering the area in his torn and daggy clothes that had seen better days and a bundle of stuff at the end of a thick stick, which he carried on his shoulder. His clothes were torn and disheveled, and on his feet, he wore an old pair of hobnailed boots with no laces. His face and hands were shiny with many layers of dirt caked on him because of a lack of any regular ablutions. I’m not sure how, but I did discover he was of Italian descent, and this fact about Domenico intrigued me. It was unknown among our immediate friends that any person of European descent could be reduced to such squalor, and I wondered what tragic circumstances befell Domenico to reduce him to this state. I know one thing. It did shock me, and I think I gained a greater resolve to avoid ever having to live such a life. I was in my teenage years at that time, and often, when I chanced to be in Loch Village, I would walk halfway up that hill just to see if our jolly swagman was home. But, I always hoped he wouldn’t be home, as to confront him would have been very awkward for a diffident kid like me. I was happy just to peek inside his humble abode where only a few discarded items lay on the grassy floor.

I imagined Domenico traveling the tracks and roads across Gippsland, a lonely man picking up part-time or seasonal work wherever he could get this. I heard farmers talking about how when times got tough it was an unwritten rule that a farmer would give Domenico a feed in return for splitting a load of wood or drawing water up from a well. With all his belongings strapped to his back or carried on a stick across his shoulders, I reckon Domenico lived hand to mouth, walking and searching for his next meal. There was no good shelter from the rain or the heat or the flies. It was a tough life and not meant for the faint-hearted. He could be gone from his hut in Loch Village for a few days, but, would always return. What makes this story a bit odd is that it was widely believed this particular swaggie was rich. Perhaps he was, but nobody ever really knew the truth. Regardless of his unfortunate disposition, often drivers would stop and offer him a ride if they saw him walking. Curiously, he would always refuse their offer. Perhaps, he was just as diffident as I was or had a healthy mistrust of other people. Having said this, there was one person from whom he would accept a ride. It was John Arestia, one of our Baker Road farm neighbours. He had obviously gained Domenico’s trust and so acquired the somewhat dubious reputation of being the only person to have been successful in getting to know a little bit more than others about Domenico, our local swagman. During those long years, Domenico humped his swag along the familiar roads, living off the scraps he found that had been dumped from passing cars and the discarded belongings of motorists such as an old blanket, a half-empty coke bottle, a few loose coins or even some old boots. As I said, he did not hitchhike; he mostly stuck to wherever the roads would take him, not bothering anybody and, as far as anybody knew, he did not draw any form of pension payment. On occasion, motorists would stop when they saw him plodding along the road and donate a few bits and pieces from their car. I saw him one time as I was driving down that hill. He got up from where he was sitting on the grass, threw his bundle over his shoulder and began walking along the highway once more. I slowed down and followed him from a distance. Less than 50 metres down the road he found what seemed to be a 2 Shilling (20cents) coin wedged in the grass; an insignificant amount of money to most, but a lifeline for Domenico the swaggie.

From time to time, I did feel that it would be interesting to go trecking, to see the country as swagmen once saw it. In case you wonder, I was able to walk long distances back then and even when I was working in the Corporate world for years I would be up early and run 12 kilometers each morning. That’s right, don’t be surprised. On weekends I would extend my runs to 20 kilometers. I had stamina. I can survive in the bush to some degree, although I know that life might be unpleasant in cold or wet weather; I know how to build a camp, to create a proper fire, to boil a billy, eeven to cook damper. Remember, I was in the Australian Army for two years.

I would make some concessions to modernity. I would want to carry a camera and my writing logs; you might have guessed I like to write. Some waterproofing gear would be handy and I would probably require a pack instead of the rolled-up blanket or swag.

Why didn’t I do it and, why don’t I do it now for a while to get away from the hustle and bustle? Well, apart from work issues, I’m not sure that it’s possible anymore. Even fourty years ago you could stop by a creek on the side of the road, light a fire and create a camp. You could tramp through the bush and create a camp there. Today,