Well, thanks to (and for) your encouragement, I shall wrap up some more Bowden St Memories.
Mrs Winterbottom, yes. It's just the name that grabs me. What's more, across the street in no special order were Mr Chin, Mr and Mrs Woodhouse, Mrs Rottenberry (I'm not making this up, you know) and Mrs Hood and son Graeme. Don't they all sound like characters from a Roald Dahl kids’ story?
Mr Chin, opposite Nona and Grandfather, had a circular lawn. He also had a self powered mower with roller, the sort that you saw on bowling greens. He had it tied to a long rope which he wound round a stake dead in the middle of the lawn and, believe it or not, he'd start up the mower and it would gradually travel in a spiral from the edge to the centre of the lawn as the rope curled round the stake while he sat in the shade and read.
The Woodhouse's son was Kevin, a few years older than me. His favourite thing was to get out his collection of National Geographics and show me pictures of bare-breasted dusky maidens. He even had a magnifying glass. I was particularly uninterested, but thought it polite to feign interest. It was something for confession, too.
In the afternoons, esp Friday, I'd have to "do the messages". Mum would write up a shopping list and I would go up across Victoria Rd to the corner shop run by Mrs Scott and her adult daughter (Helen? Dorothy?) Usually I was allowed to add a McNiven's ice cream cone to the list, at a cost of threepence halfpenny (4c to the youngies). Then to the other corner, to Mr Hall the butcher. He already had Mum's weekend leg of lamb wrapped up and also Nona's rolled roast beef tied in string, wrapped in butcher's paper with Mrs Burns (her name was Byrne, but he never got that) written on it. And he'd always say when I asked, "Aah, Mrs Burns, the lady with the one top lip". I didn't get it for ages.
On the subject of weird names, next to the butcher's shop lived the Crusts. June Crust was a school chum of Nanette, my older sister. I remember very little of Nanette at this time, strangely - she was seven years older than me - but I do remember her taking me on my first day of school at St Charles Borremeo, Ryde - the Mercy nuns (oxymoron). I started school at four years and four months and was forever after the youngest in the class.
Our family doctor, a little way up Victoria Rd, was Dr Wherrett. I was generally pretty healthy but I do remember, around the age of six, being rushed off to Camperdown Hospital in the middle of the night with croup. I was in hospital for a few days and have never spent a night in hospital since - touch wood. A little further up from the doctor were Ryde Police Station and Courthouse, where I'd go with Mum to pick up the monthly ration coupons for butter, sugar and such like - this was only just post WWII.
More soon
Huggy
Yes, folks, your family folk historian is back, thanks to your positive response. Just a couple of Ryde stories before we move on.
I lived in Ryde from three years of age to eleven. When I was eight or nine, it was, of course, time for me to become an altar boy. I trained with others at St Charles Borromeo, where I also went to primary school. I can't remember who trained us (was it Fr Munday?) but I used to ride to church on my Malvern Star. (Dad had taught me to ride a bike back in Bowden St. He held on to the back of the saddle as I pedalled down the street - it was only when I looked around to find he wasn't there any more that I fell off! After that, things were fine.)
I remember my first performance on the altar. It was a weekday morning and the other altar boy hadn't turned up. I had to do everything. Worse still, Mass was being said by the parish priest, Fr Phillip Reeves, a thoroughly tough old crank. After communion I was down turning the altar rail cloths back and shouting responses to the priest. The boarders from Holy Cross College found this very amusing.
As I say, Fr Reeves was a total tyrant. As were the only other parish priests of my "Catholic" years - Charlie Smith in Goolmangar (a total nutter) and Bill Power at Strathfield, among other things a great apostle of the corrupt US-supported regime in South Vietnam. None of them would lead a young person to believe that Jesus was meek and mild or might, indeed, "suffer the little children". Nowadays I realise that they all three were severely in need of psychiatric help, but that didn't help back then.
But now a happier story. I was in third class, seven years old, and sat next to Colleen Flynn, the most beautiful being I had ever seen in my life. At playtime the boys would play Cowboys and Indians over the gravestones and the girls would retreat to the holes in the privet to play House. (NOT Doctors and Nurses, we knew nothing about that stuff - just imaginary tea parties.) Of course, you're way ahead of me, I played with the girls. One day they dared me to kiss Colleen and I did, discreetly on the cheek. I had never felt anything so soft and sweet in all my life, and if I close my eyes I can feel it even now, almost 60 years later. She lived at 17 Sherwin St, Henley, an address I have never written down, but never forgotten. Many years later, when I was teaching at St Pat's, I saw on the class roll that a pupil lived at 15 Sherwin St. I asked if the Flynns still lived next door (I didn't tell him why!) and they did. But Colleen was married with children and lived somewhere else. I wonder where she is now.
Love a bit of whimsy
Huggy
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
A TICKET TO RYDE
As the resident family philosopher, my brother Robert is now soundly entrenched in that role, I thought I might take on the mantle of family historian. My approach will be an account of my personal experiences, as they relate to the family history. Life with the O'Keefes through my eyes. Bear with me.
In 1944, after his effort for the war ended, Dad, who had been working in Melbourne pulling apart enemy vehicles (so I believe), packed the family - Mum, Dad, sister Nanette, brother John and me, a babe in arms - into Lydia, the 1926 Dodge four cylinder canvas top that he had bought for 15 pounds (petrol was scarce) (number plate PW984) and we set off for Sydney. I was two years old and Robert was embryonic.
Of course, I don't remember any of this. I'm smart, but not that smart. What I do remember - my first memory - is the smell of rotting cabbage and the smart style of navy nylon stockings. I shall explain.In Sydney, Dad found a flat in the St James Building (now called Stanley Units at the corner of Yurong and Stanley Sts, East Sydney), where Mum’s sister Bonnie already lived and we moved in - the then family (Robert arrived in Oct 1945) plus Nona and Grandfather, Mum's parents. (Had they come down from Murwillumbah? - I don't know.)
Our flat was at the back of the building, so it was closer to use the goods (i.e., garbage) lift, with its clanky iron-mesh door. That's where three year old me often found myself with Nona, she impeccably dressed with her long blue rinsed hair twisted up into a plait on the top of her head - like a blueberry Danish - and the aforementioned straight-seamed nylons, and me inhaling both the scent of her perfume and the stench of rotting garbage.
But it wasn't long before we moved out to a semi-detached cottage in Ryde. Bowden St was (and, let's face it, still is) half way between Top Ryde and West Ryde station, and ran off Victoria Rd (are you still with me?). No 73 was at the top of the street, only a vacant block separating it from Victoria Rd.Now, let me run you down the hill and tell you about the families and houses on our side of the street. Next door (No 71) was Mrs Winterbottom (more about these names later), then at 69 were Auntie Mary (Dad's sister) and Uncle Frank. Come to think of it, that's probably how Dad found the place. At 67 were a Scottish family, the Gordon's, with their son Jimmy, somewhere about the age of me and Robert.Time for a major confession.
One day, Robert and I thought it would be fun (OK, Robert, it was all my idea) to play a prank on Jimmy. I peed into a DA bottle (you youngies call them long necks) and we told him it was beer. He fell for it, we went screaming off down the hill and he never spoke to us again. Oh, come on, officer, I was only eight years old!To continue, at 65 were the witch and her husband. The Millses were great gardeners and had even taken over their bit of nature strip and planted shrubs in a circular bed with flagstone edging. Woe betide any child (or adult) who set foot on that sacred patch while Mrs M was at watch behind the curtains. The big challenge was to run down from the top of the hill and leap over the flower bed and scamper so you didn't get caught. Another reason I had for hating her was that she christened me Boofhead (see Oz comic character of that time). By the way, I'm reminded of the great billycart ride in Clive James' Unreliable Memoirs - have you read it?
In an effort to prove to you that I am not perfect, I confess that I have no idea who lived at 63, so let's move on. No 61 housed the Hollands, a husband and wife team who drove their motorbikes around the Wheel of Death at the Royal Easter Show and other venues, no doubt. You'd occassionally hear the roar of motorbike engines late at night, especially as Easter approached.Now permit me to jump ahead. No 57 was a vacant block, which Dad purchased around 1949/50 and designed a house which we subsequently moved into on its completion. Brand new and fibro, probably riddled with asbestos, but nevertheless, the newest house on the street. After we moved in we met our neighbours at 59, Mr Thompson and Bill. To my childish mind they were ancient, but in hindsight perhaps 50ish and 30ish respectively. Mr Thompson was English (maybe Bill was) and every month he'd pass over the back fence the copies of Beano and other kids' comics that his family sent out from England. Nowadays I wonder if they were a gay couple. Of course, I knew nothing of gays - let alone sex - in those days and it certainly wasn't a topic of conversation at the O'Keefe dinner table (nothing much was). But these days I have many gay friends in a relationship with a similar age discrepancy (pace Mum and Dad) - I feel it may have something to do with father-son bonding and there's definitely a PhD in it. Anyway, they were very friendly (not too friendly, if you get my drift) and I loved the comics.
At 55 lived the Baarts. They were Dutch, so we didn't have much in common with them. Then at 53 came Nona and Grandfather. They rented a lovely old weatherboard house with a large back yard. Grandfather mowed the grass with a real scythe (think Grim Reaper, you youngies) and you'd think he'd done it with nail clippers.Next to them was vacant land and a gully, where we kids used to play our games (no Nintendo in those days, just Cops and Robbers) and that brings me to the end of our side of Bowden St.But there's lots more and some fun stories to share, so if you scream and shout, I'll tell you more next time.Funny, I can't remember why I've walked into the bathroom, but I'm crystal clear on son much of this. Oh, dear.
Hugh
As the resident family philosopher, my brother Robert is now soundly entrenched in that role, I thought I might take on the mantle of family historian. My approach will be an account of my personal experiences, as they relate to the family history. Life with the O'Keefes through my eyes. Bear with me.
In 1944, after his effort for the war ended, Dad, who had been working in Melbourne pulling apart enemy vehicles (so I believe), packed the family - Mum, Dad, sister Nanette, brother John and me, a babe in arms - into Lydia, the 1926 Dodge four cylinder canvas top that he had bought for 15 pounds (petrol was scarce) (number plate PW984) and we set off for Sydney. I was two years old and Robert was embryonic.
Of course, I don't remember any of this. I'm smart, but not that smart. What I do remember - my first memory - is the smell of rotting cabbage and the smart style of navy nylon stockings. I shall explain.In Sydney, Dad found a flat in the St James Building (now called Stanley Units at the corner of Yurong and Stanley Sts, East Sydney), where Mum’s sister Bonnie already lived and we moved in - the then family (Robert arrived in Oct 1945) plus Nona and Grandfather, Mum's parents. (Had they come down from Murwillumbah? - I don't know.)
Our flat was at the back of the building, so it was closer to use the goods (i.e., garbage) lift, with its clanky iron-mesh door. That's where three year old me often found myself with Nona, she impeccably dressed with her long blue rinsed hair twisted up into a plait on the top of her head - like a blueberry Danish - and the aforementioned straight-seamed nylons, and me inhaling both the scent of her perfume and the stench of rotting garbage.
But it wasn't long before we moved out to a semi-detached cottage in Ryde. Bowden St was (and, let's face it, still is) half way between Top Ryde and West Ryde station, and ran off Victoria Rd (are you still with me?). No 73 was at the top of the street, only a vacant block separating it from Victoria Rd.Now, let me run you down the hill and tell you about the families and houses on our side of the street. Next door (No 71) was Mrs Winterbottom (more about these names later), then at 69 were Auntie Mary (Dad's sister) and Uncle Frank. Come to think of it, that's probably how Dad found the place. At 67 were a Scottish family, the Gordon's, with their son Jimmy, somewhere about the age of me and Robert.Time for a major confession.
One day, Robert and I thought it would be fun (OK, Robert, it was all my idea) to play a prank on Jimmy. I peed into a DA bottle (you youngies call them long necks) and we told him it was beer. He fell for it, we went screaming off down the hill and he never spoke to us again. Oh, come on, officer, I was only eight years old!To continue, at 65 were the witch and her husband. The Millses were great gardeners and had even taken over their bit of nature strip and planted shrubs in a circular bed with flagstone edging. Woe betide any child (or adult) who set foot on that sacred patch while Mrs M was at watch behind the curtains. The big challenge was to run down from the top of the hill and leap over the flower bed and scamper so you didn't get caught. Another reason I had for hating her was that she christened me Boofhead (see Oz comic character of that time). By the way, I'm reminded of the great billycart ride in Clive James' Unreliable Memoirs - have you read it?
In an effort to prove to you that I am not perfect, I confess that I have no idea who lived at 63, so let's move on. No 61 housed the Hollands, a husband and wife team who drove their motorbikes around the Wheel of Death at the Royal Easter Show and other venues, no doubt. You'd occassionally hear the roar of motorbike engines late at night, especially as Easter approached.Now permit me to jump ahead. No 57 was a vacant block, which Dad purchased around 1949/50 and designed a house which we subsequently moved into on its completion. Brand new and fibro, probably riddled with asbestos, but nevertheless, the newest house on the street. After we moved in we met our neighbours at 59, Mr Thompson and Bill. To my childish mind they were ancient, but in hindsight perhaps 50ish and 30ish respectively. Mr Thompson was English (maybe Bill was) and every month he'd pass over the back fence the copies of Beano and other kids' comics that his family sent out from England. Nowadays I wonder if they were a gay couple. Of course, I knew nothing of gays - let alone sex - in those days and it certainly wasn't a topic of conversation at the O'Keefe dinner table (nothing much was). But these days I have many gay friends in a relationship with a similar age discrepancy (pace Mum and Dad) - I feel it may have something to do with father-son bonding and there's definitely a PhD in it. Anyway, they were very friendly (not too friendly, if you get my drift) and I loved the comics.
At 55 lived the Baarts. They were Dutch, so we didn't have much in common with them. Then at 53 came Nona and Grandfather. They rented a lovely old weatherboard house with a large back yard. Grandfather mowed the grass with a real scythe (think Grim Reaper, you youngies) and you'd think he'd done it with nail clippers.Next to them was vacant land and a gully, where we kids used to play our games (no Nintendo in those days, just Cops and Robbers) and that brings me to the end of our side of Bowden St.But there's lots more and some fun stories to share, so if you scream and shout, I'll tell you more next time.Funny, I can't remember why I've walked into the bathroom, but I'm crystal clear on son much of this. Oh, dear.
Hugh
GREETINGS
At last I have managed to set up a blogspot for myself (and for you) all by myself. I'm so proud. Over the next few weeks I'll transfer many of the stories of my life that I have been writing over the past couple of years. With any luck, I'll write some more as time goes by.
Meanwhile, I invite you to peruse, enjoy and, if you feel like it, comment on these stories. I look forward to your feedback.
Oh, one last thing: I have chosen the signature Huggy as this is what my old Sydney Grammar pupils christened me. No, not while I was teaching them, but much later when I began drinking with them. Maybe I'll expand on that one day.
Cheers
Huggy
Meanwhile, I invite you to peruse, enjoy and, if you feel like it, comment on these stories. I look forward to your feedback.
Oh, one last thing: I have chosen the signature Huggy as this is what my old Sydney Grammar pupils christened me. No, not while I was teaching them, but much later when I began drinking with them. Maybe I'll expand on that one day.
Cheers
Huggy
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