It took us a while to settle into such an undeveloped area, but the family really blossomed. Mum was full on keeping all our hungry mouths filled, and Dad got up early, had breakfast and walked the quarter mile up to the bus stop to go to work.
I remember lying in bed before it was light and hearing the horse drawn milk cart clanking up the road, delivering us our daily eight pints of milk. The slow shuffling of the horses hooves on the sandy road, his occasional snorts, and the instructions from the milk man to stop or move on, made a peaceful, predictable start to the day. I would hear him pick up all the bottles between his fingers and they would clank together before he put them in a neat row in Dad's specially built letterbox with a tray in front. If the horse dropped a pile of manure, it would be picked up early by an enthusiastic gardener for their roses.
Our bread was also delivered in a red motorised van that opened at the back. Our bread man was dark haired, with his hair greased back neatly, and full of personality. He would come up the path to the front door with a cheery voice and a large rectangular cane basket over his arm, filled with golden, crisp high top loaves. We were good customers.
As there were so many in our street, we kids ran wild. We got home from school, had something to eat and drink, and rushed back to meet our friends. Mostly we all got on pretty well, making special friends with those our own age. I had Margaret over the road, one of five children like us, with English parents - a gentle, softly spoken mother, and a roly poly dad, who loved fine music. I remember him firmly shutting himself in the lounge room with his expensive state of the art stereo, to put his feet up and turn the music up loud.
It did help me in my appreciation for classical music, and Margaret and I would dress up and dance to Swan Lake, pretending to be famous ballerinas. I thought Margaret was very fortunate when she began ballet lessons, as my parents weren't into fussing over our blossoming ambitions.
.........................................................
Beaumaris being so undeveloped and just out of the sand dunes, there were bull ants galore.
I remember sitting on a nest of these huge biting ants, and how Dad rubbed bracken fern on the stinging lumps. I'm not sure it worked, but they assured us it did.
We did get back at them, and petrol was sometimes poured down the nearest holes to kill the nests. I do also remember one time catching a lot of ants and dropping them into a tin of boiling water over a small fire we lit. Bull Ant Stew!
We didn't taste it, but those poor ants copped it............
"With a set of formidable jaws, and growing to around 25mm long, bull ants have the respect of most. The weapon these ants use both to defend themselves and to subdue prey, is a venomous sting in their abdomen. Any threat to the nest will result in a large number of ants pouring out to attack any intruder.
As ferocious as they may seem, the adult bull ants actually feed upon nectar and plant juices. Bull ants generally nest deep within the soil, with usually only a few hundred workers protecting the queen, keeping her protected well below ground."
1 comment:
"As there were so many in our street, we kids ran wild. We got home from school, had something to eat and drink, and rushed back to meet our friends."
Yes, that was my primary years experience too.
"be home by dark" was the only rule really.
Post a Comment