This is the place where I collect stories from my childhood.
But first a quick overview.
I was born in Orange and lived at Mullion Creek until I was 16 when I finished school and headed off to Sydney to start a career in telecommunications as a Technician In Training (TIT) with the Post Master Generals Department (PMG).
All this was shared with my older brother and sister Keith and Anne and a younger sister Kathryn.
At Mullion Creek my parents Gordon and Muriel had an orchard of about 10 acres called Clydesdale where they grew apples and pears. It was a hard life particularly for our parents. Very hard work for very little return. As kids we had lots of fun while mum and dad toiled endlessly. To us it was all a game and Mullion Creek was a great place to grow up in the 1950's.
We were very innocent and naive, very much country kids.
At least half of the village of Mullion Creek was catholic so there were plenty of other kids available to go fishing, catching rabbits and generally mucking about with. We even associated with the dreaded protestants’.
Lots of good memories of my childhood at Mullion.
Clydesdale was a loving home where we were all encouraged to get an education and then a profession or a trade. After this we could return to the land if we wanted.
Mum and Dad quite correctly saw that education and qualifications were the tickets out from the tireless, back breaking and low wage struggle that severely limited their lives and the lives of their parents. This was their message and they were right. But we all soon learnt that there were many more interesting and easier ways to make a living. .
None of us went back to the land and we suspect that despite their message to get a qualification they secretly wished for one of us to return and take over the orchard.
Unfortunately my early childhood was marred by asthma. This defined my experience up to around 12 when I ‘grew out of it.’ A chiropractor may also have had a hand in my cure but this is debatable. The gorgeous Debbie, one of the state’s eminent physiotherapists, has taken me to task over this claim.
Having asthma meant I spent a lot of time being cared for by my mother. This included a long period when she had to inject me with a vaccine twice a day, many late nights watching me gasp for breath, continual trips to the doctor, regular percussion sessions to clear my lungs and making sure I took whatever medication I was on at the time.
When I did get better I repaid all this as any 12 year old would by being continually naughty and cheeky. I am surprised I am still alive but I do have the greatest respect for a mothers love. Its unconditional.
The other big influence in our lives at Mullion Creek was Catholicism. My mother was a devout catholic ( some would say chronically catholic) and my father naturally had converted in order to marry - he was also devout but well short of chronic.
As a child I was very close to my mum but her blind adherence to the catholic doctrine made it very hard as I grew up to maintain that closeness. My trade education based in science and emerging technology encouraged me to think outside the teachings of the church. I became exposed to many other philosophies and became engaged in the 60s and 70s and all that entailed, music, surf, girls, dope and politics.
The catholic belief system was quickly put aside.
I regret not being able to get past this belief difference with mum and it wasn’t until mum was very elderly that we again got to spend close time together.
By this stage talking and discussion were no longer possible. This was a blessing in disguise. I felt that we re-established that childhood maternal bond that was based on simply caring for each other. Our thoughts and beliefs were put aside and we could simple be there together. We had beautiful times at the hospital and the nursing home just sitting, not talking. I could do simple things like helping her eat, just hold her hand and feel that long lost closeness.
It was a beautiful time and there are feelings from this time I will not forget.
I am very thankful to have been able to re-establish this bond before mum died and repay in a very small way the debt I owe her.
As a child I was continually amazed by my father. An incredibly wise man with virtually no formal education. Dad could make or fix anything and between him and mum we were all installed with a strong do it yourself attitude.
A very unassuming man with a depth of wisdom that saw him regularly consulted by local powerbrokers on a wide range of local issues.
Dads other great characteristic was his ability to override his emotions and get on with the task at hand.
When I was about 8 I recall an afternoon on a late spring day and I was standing on the back veranda at Clydesdale with dad. We had just had afternoon smoko involving a cuppa and some of mums great slices. We were looking at the orchard in full bloom, the bees were humming and the air was full of the beautiful smell of apple blossom.
I knew dad was expecting a bumper crop and that this would provide the return that would hopefully repay the bank and hopefully put the bank account in the black. It was the first time I realised just how precarious is the life of a farmer.
Every thing depends on the next crop and the resulting benevolence of the bank. It’s a tough existence and it requires a certain stoic character to stump up again year after year. Bumper crops are few and far between
But as we looked out over dads tireless backbreaking work that was blossoming hope I could see the concern growing on his face. Because to the north from the darkening clouds rolling across the range we started to hear the ominous sound of hail thundering through the bush.
The darkening storm moved relentlessly towards the orchard and its delicate emerging crop. As we watched the hail storm ripped and tore through the orchard. The delicate petals flew amongst the ice in a horrible dance and we saw the crop destroyed before our eyes.
When the pandemonium finally ceased there was a quite moment of reflection as we look at mess and saw this years dream vaporise.
I reached out and touched my fathers hand and asked the obvious question “What do we do now dad? Without a tear in his eye and without emotion in his voice he simple looked at me a said “Well son we do it again” With that he stepped off the veranda and went back to the task at hand.
Such is the stoic nature of the man on the land, nature can cut his heart but while ever he stands he will carry on.
A very powerful memory,
My parents were powerful role models and provided us with an upbringing I believe was second to none.
Thanks mum and dad my debt is immense.