A True Australian Outback Story

By Colin Barnes

Colin Barnes traces the life of his father, Ronald Barnes, from his modest beginnings on a property about three miles west of a little town in New South Wales called Peak Hill, to a lovely coastal spot called Kings Point near Ulladulla, New South Wales. He also shares memories from his mother, Margaret Barnes.
The book—filled with an assortment of family photos—is sad, happy, curious, and funny with a little adventure thrown in. As you read, you’ll learn what it was like growing up in the Australian outback from the 1930s to the 1960s.
Eventually, the author’s parents left the bush and moved to the city. After a lifetime of hard work, they finally were able to enjoy a comfortable retirement.
This family history will leave you reflecting on how a positive attitude, perseverance, and an attitude of gratitude can lead to living the life you always wanted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Oct 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798765244456

Colin Barnes

Colin Barnes wrote this book based on memories that his father, Ronald J. Barnes, had put down about his life. His father started writing after he retired, and his son decided to preserve his life story and legacy, starting from modest beginnings in Peak Hill, New South Wales, Australia. He also consulted his mother, Margaret H. Barnes, who also shared her memories and added to the story.

Book preview

MY FIRST MEMORIES

I was born on Sunday, June 1, 1930, at the private hospital in Peak Hill, New South Wales. It was run by a nurse by the name of Sister Alberts (not that I can remember; it is what I was told). The first memory that comes into focus is when I was three years old, in a cot near a window with one of those childhood illnesses, perhaps chickenpox or measles. Anyway, looking out the window was Mum (Ethel), and she was excited about something.

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My father, Albert,

ready for lodge.

Then this car came up the road, all black and shiny. Mum ran outside to meet this car, and Dad (Albert) was driving. Dad had just bought an Austin 20 Tourer.

This car had everything. Two dickie seats folded down from the back of the front seats; these seated two kids if needed. A folding partition came across the front of the back seat to keep the wind from the people seated in the rear when the roof was folded down. The partition had two glass windows in it. I do remember the registration number was RA198. That is all I remember about the car.

My brother Bert (fourteen months older) and I would go to church on Sundays. We would sit in the back of this car with Mum, and Grandfather Joe sat in the front with Dad. Grandfather always chewed tobacco, and he would often spit juice out into the air. The game we had to play was when he did this was to yell, Duck! as some of the juice would fly back and land inside the car. This was just fun for us. Even Mum enjoyed it. The stains of the tobacco were still there when the car was sold in the 1950s.

Bert and I used to play at things that we thought were constructive maintenance. I suppose we followed the workers around the farm and had a fair idea what had to be done.

I will name a few of these constructive jobs we thought were going to be helpful. One of these was painting the headlights of the car with stove Blackitt. Blackitt was the name of the polish to blacken the fuel stove in the kitchen. Anyway, we did a great job of painting those headlights. When Dad went to go to lodge that night, no lights! After some fuse checking and so forth, Dad removed the glass to check the bulbs. Then there came a great thunder of cuss words—some I had never heard before—from the garage. Mum was aware that we were in for a good whacking so she hid us in the pantry under some potato bags, and Dad left in a stinking temper. I do believe he would have drawn blood if Mum had not done what she did. After Dad returned from lodge, we were already in bed asleep.

Next morning, I think Dad must have seen it in a different light. He just gave us a deadly look and a few words of warning.

Another time we were playing around someone’s motorbike. I think it was Frank Farey’s bike. We filled the tank with water plus some gravel and sticks. Dad had a laugh, but Frank was not very happy. Dad had a sense of humour only if it happened to someone else.

I knew Dad was always happy when the rain gauge was full, so one day when it rained, I filled the gauge to the top under the tap, and then I took it to Dad, waiting for the show of delight. Well, that was not to be; just the opposite. I rest my case.

Another maintenance job was to paint our pedal cars with Blackitt. However, to do it in comfort, we did it on Mum and Dad’s bed. Big mistake! The can tipped over, spilling the paint, and it soaked through the bed onto the floor. Now it was Mum’s turn to let forth the punishment.

After a good whacking with the strap, we both were sat down and given a handkerchief to blow our noses and wipe our tears. Bert, being older, must have resented being strapped because he tore the hankie up, and this did not go over well. Mum put him in the pantry.

All was quiet for some time in the pantry. Mum eventually went to check on him, only to find that he had thrown all the turkey and hen eggs all over the place. These eggs were Mum’s bread and butter. Turkeys were bred for Christmas sale and hen eggs were for cooking. Another good strapping did not make Bert repent; the more you beat up on him, the harder he came back. Shaming him, if you could, may have been better. We will never know.

Bert had a funny sense of humour. One evening meal around the kitchen table, there were about eight to ten people. Some blow-ins off the road and share farmers were the common settings. Mum was a very good cook so it was always hard for these people to leave. Anyway, during this particular meal, I was down at one end of the table, and Bert was at the other. Bert was using the butter, and I said, Would you throw down the butter to me? Good as his word, he threw the butter, hitting me on the head. He laughed, thinking it was a great joke. I don’t recall any reprimand.

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Me, Bert, Valerie, and Shirley.

Going to school on the first day was a learning curve for me. Bertie had been going for a year so Dad and Mum must have thought that I was safe with him. I was given a new twenty-inch-wheel bike and sent off with a packed lunch. When I started school, I had no idea about the three Rs (reading, writing, and arithmetic) so I found the going hard. Reading was done in parrot fashion and the times table the same, as was my first fight on this first day at school.

The school bully was someone I tried to avoid, but he caught me after school down the lane. I was surrounded by yelling kids so I just closed my eyes and laid in. Looking back, I think having to survive beatings from Bertie made this a breeze. After my onslaught, I opened my eyes to see this kid on his back. I then took off to Grandma’s full pelt. She lived up the street in town, and we always left our bikes and horse there. It was a safe place. I do not remember having another scrap for several years. Where Bert was that day, I don’t know, but after that, I made sure we left school together.

Another time at school, we were in the weather shed with the teacher doing art or woodwork. I went around the back of the shed to get a drink at the tank. Bad mistake. A lad by the name of Snooksy, who was always pushing me about and wanting to fight, was there also. While he was thumping into me, Bert arrived on the spot, taking my place. However, he was not receiving; he was dishing it out. So I took off again, leaving Bert to finish the job.

I found out afterwards that Snow Chapel, the teacher, had heard the ruckus, seen what was going on, and said to Bert, Your brother is copping a hiding. That’s when Bert arrived. After we all arrived back to the shed, Snooksy was pretty beat up (bloody nose, fat lip, etc.). The teacher said nothing; we just carried on. No one messed with us after that. Even the school bullies went quiet for some time.

Another thing that was going on was someone was stealing our fruit from our bags, which we hung in the hallway outside the classroom. So we came up with an idea of putting ink into an orange. This did the trick; the kid was black with ink on hands and face, so Bert took care of him as well. One day, two big lads picked on Bert on our way home from school. They thought maybe the two of them could do the job, but how wrong they were! There were about two hits on the first lad, and the second thought it better to hide behind an electric light pole. Bert hit that pole, and I swear the pole moved. Now with a badly broken hand, Bertie set about finishing the job.

One teacher had it in for Bert, always picking on him and blaming him for things that he never did. At the school, there were always two classes in the same room. Bert was a year ahead of me but in the same room, so I could see what was going on.

On one occasion, someone carved a B on a desk. This teacher picked out Bertie as the culprit, and he was kept after school until he said he did it. I stayed with him, but he never did say he did it.

I remember it was dark when we got home that day, and Dad wanted to go up immediately to sort this teacher out. Fortunately, Mum calmed him down, and she went up the next day and sorted him out. By that time, someone must have told the teacher who had carved the B, but he never said sorry to us.

When Bert turned fourteen on the seventh of April, he told Dad he was not going back to school. Dad said, You are going.

Bert replied, If I go back, I am going to punch out the teacher.

Dad knew that would happen, so he said, OK, stay home.

By this time, my sister Valerie was now going to school, so we all went in a horse and sulky.

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We won a prize at a fancy dress. Left to right: me,

Vi Porter, Bert, and Ivena Shreeve.

CHRISTMAS TIME

Our Christmas days were some of the best times in my life.

Every Christmas all the families would get together taking it in turns. Kitto’s one year, Shreeve’s the next. They were Dad’s two sisters. I used to stuff myself on plum pudding to see how many threepence or sixpences I could collect, and each family in turn would make the hop beer.

It was our turn to have Christmas and make the beer on this special Christmas. The hop beer would be made a few months before Christmas in a very large earthen vat, non-alcoholic as all the relatives were wowsers. They would not swear, dance, or drink.

On this Christmas, Frank Farey was working for Dad, and he said he was going to liven up this Christmas. What he did was put a bottle or two of spirit in the hop beer. It sure did the trick; everyone after a few hop beers was in a great mood. I had never seen all the family enjoy the day so much.

Uncle Bill climbed up onto the top of the wood heap and thought he was the biggest rooster there. While flapping his arms, he jumped off the heap and fell onto the axe, cutting his leg pretty bad. I don’t think he felt any pain. All he did was laugh.

They all said they had the best Christmas ever. I do not think anyone ever woke to why it was so, but they often spoke about it.

Another Christmas we were to go to Shreeve’s for Christmas. We piled onto the Republic truck with Dad, Mum, and Shirley in the front. Bert was on the back on one side sitting on the floor, and I was on the other. Valerie would not sit on the floor as she wanted a seat, so Dad put a cane chair in the middle. Off we went, and we came to the shearing shed. There were two ways to go. Dad was heading in one direction, and then he suddenly changed his mind. Val was sitting on this chair reading a book when we suddenly changed direction. I just saw Val and the chair fly over the top of me. Val never received any serious injuries, but she did fall on her head. If this affected her in later life, I do not know.

On another Christmas, and this was before Bert and I started school, we were playing in the woolshed and noticed a couple of crates under a tarp, and being like most boys, we had to see what was in the crates. How we got the end undone I cannot recall, but we did, and inside were two pedal cars. We removed them and rode them around the shed, and when we had enough, we carefully put them back, replaced the lid, and covered them again.

We must have done this for several months, not knowing whom they were for. Bert had the idea they were for the Fardy kids, our next-door neighbours, so we would have our fun before they were delivered. It was not until Christmas morning that we got a surprise to see two half-worn-out pedal cars. We had to own up about the cars as Dad was in a stew about the company sending him used cars. We did put a few dints on them, but Dad then saw the humour in the whole thing. I do not know what the Fardys got, but it was not pedal cars.

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Me and Bert with our Christmas pedal cars.

OUR NEXT-DOOR

NEIGHBOURS

Another story about the Fardy boys, which included Bert and me.

The Fardy boys were our age and lived about half a mile across the way. We would sometimes go to their place, or they would come across to us. We got on well together and got up to a lot of things that boys do that are not approved of by our parents.

When we went to the Fardys’ place, we sometimes stayed for lunch. They were struggling people but very kind-hearted and we would be given bread and dripping for lunch. Dripping is the fat from a lamb roast with some salt added. We had not eaten anything like it before and enjoyed the taste.

When Mum heard about us enjoying bread and dripping, she was horrified that we enjoyed this sort of food. When the Fardy boys stayed for lunch at home, they were only given the best of food, which was always on the table at Barnesdale.

On one occasion, it had rained and the creek was in flood. We were playing with a pair of sulky wheels, which Dad had in the shed. We rolled these wheels over to the creek bank. Sitting on the axle for a ride down the bank, we took off at a great speed; we never gave it a thought how we would stop. Going at full pelt, we entered the flooded creek then disappeared into the main channel. We were swept off down the stream. Fortunately we could all swim, but somehow, I ended at the bottom of the pack, and every time I tried to reach the surface, I was rolled under. I was just about done when I felt some reeds on my left and grabbed them, which helped me come to the surface by pulling myself out of the water. The other boys were nowhere to be seen.

I was sitting on the bank thinking of what to do when they came running around the bend looking for me. They let out a yell at seeing me. Now what to tell Dad about the wheels? And how were we going to get dry? Bert came up with a great idea of rolling in the chaff in the shed. This would dry us out. This we did, not that it worked. We looked like we were tarred and feathered. Then Mum called us up for lunch, but the Fardy boys would not come with us as they knew what was in store.

When Mum saw us, she never asked why we were wet and covered in chaff. She just got us to go take our clothes of and stand in the bathtub. Next Mum arrived with a large bucket of cold water. Dousing us in ice-cold water, we let out a yell. Mum could not stop laughing, and if she knew what we had done, it may have been another story. Dad was not happy with the story that we were playing with the wheels. We never ever told them the true story.

The Fardy boys were our best mates; we rode to school with them and got into all sorts of things together. They went to the convent school, and we went to the public school. At odd times the public boys clashed with the tykes, as they were called. There were always clashes after school, and we used to join in most times. When the Fardy boys were involved, we would make ourselves scarce, meeting up on the road home.

Patrick was my age and we hung out a lot. One day Pat was driving a mob of sheep to the sale yard on the way to school, which was not very far. I rode with him some of the way. I was on my bike. Pat was on the family horse.

What happened after I left no one seemed to know. It seems Pat was riding hard, and the horse went under a low-hanging tree, catching Pat around the neck. A farmer nearby found