Chapter 15 Trips and Tantrums

                                                 Chapter 15   Trips and Tantrums

Winters in the Burnett were bitter, especially when the westerly winds blew. We learned at school the wind blew across the land from the west, causing it to be dry and cold, and in milder weather the trade winds blew from the south-east or north-east from across the sea. These ocean winds were warmer, and were the ones that brought the rain.

 It was not unusual for the taps to freeze up until ten or eleven in the morning in winter. Water left in the copper in the yard overnight from washing the day before, was often frozen solid by the morning. On arriving home from town, the first thing Mum did was light the wood stove to warm the kitchen.

 One day in winter when I was about five after one of these outings, I had on a pretty pink organdie dress with a fluffy gathered skirt and a big bow at the back, Mum sat me on a chair in front of the open fire to get warm. Suddenly, I thought of something I wanted to say and turned around to speak to her, the loose ends of the bow brushing the open firebox and picking up a spark from the crackling fire. It ignited the dress which burst into flames. Mum was close by and in an instant she had smothered the fire with her hands and had the dress off me in a flash. Neither of us was burned, but she made sure I never wore organdie again.

 Occasionally my aunt and uncle came to stay and Mum made a bed for me on the lumpy lounge, because they slept in my double bed. I was quite put out about it. I was warm  enough; Mum saw to that, but the wind whistled through the cracks between the slabs and made the whole house cold.When I walked on the linoleum my feet almost hurt with cold.

 One of the compensations in winter time was that the dairying only had to be done once a day because the cows produced less milk. So wintertime was the best time for a trip away, leaving the farm to a neighbour’s care.

 I turned six years old on our first big trip to Brisbane to visit my grandparents. Dad  put a mattress in the back of the1937 Ford utility for Larry and me to sleep on for the first few hours. We had 300 miles of rough narrow dirt road to travel, so we left at 2 AM to  get there in one day. The most frightening part was the winding, narrow and dangerous Binjour Plateau range. A  young motorbike rider had gone over the range on his bike some months before and was killed. It was a shock to everyone in the district. I overheard details of how he had been pinned to the ground by the bike and how the grass was torn away where he had tried to escape, and there was talk of burns on his body, probably from the exhaust, etc.

On the day of the trip we set off in the pitch dark of an early frosty morning, and I was fine travelling while I was asleep, cuddled up under blankets on the mattress in the back, but as daylight broke and Larry and I sat up, it wasn't long before I became carsick.

 Larry leaned over the side of the cabin, “Dad, Dad , you have to stop. Giddy’s carsick!” he yelled.

 After the third interruption to the trip, Dad’s disgust at the weakness of his offspring  bubbled over. “Aw, shit! Not again!” He didn’t go to church much, but he called on Jesus Christ frequently to explain why he had been so accursed–why he had been singled out for such aggravations as a car sick child!

I felt such guilt because I was causing this delay to the trip. Not only that, but I had to squash in between Mum and Dad in the front seat until the nausea abated. When I felt well I could get back in with Larry, but soon the sickness came on again. I'd hold out as long as possible, but sometimes was reduced to vomiting on the side of the road by the time I spoke up.

 When darkness fell I was allowed to sit in the front seat. About 8 p.m we drove over the hill into Chermside, and were greeted by a sea of city lights. We still had to travel to my Grandma's house at Tennyson on the other side of the city. At the time, Chermside was the outer-most suburb on the north side of Brisbane, and the tram terminus. The glorious sight of the lights took my  breath away.

From Chermside on through the city, Dad had to deal with tram lines and trams, and  once again he called on Jesus Christ to be accountable. Not used to driving in the city, he was tense and nervous, as evidenced by his frequent swearing and the jerking of his foot on and off the brake. No one else spoke during our city driving experiences. I swear I didn’t even breathe!

While we were staying with my grandmother, Dad decided to take us all one night to the pictures. I had on a pair of green woollen gloves. The traffic was heavy in the city, it was drizzling rain, and the lights were dazzling on the windscreen. I was upset because I was made to sit in the front on my mother's knee, and grandma sat in the middle.  I wanted to sit in the back with Larry. The back of the old Ford utility had large metal bulges or covers over the wheel sections, and Larry and I, when we travelled in the back, sat one on each side, leaning up against the relevant hub.

Suddenly Dad was blinded by lights coming straight for our car. He tried to dodge the on-coming vehicle without success. Quick-thinking Mum yelled at me to put my hands over my face, which I did, and a loud crunching noise followed. A large truck had hit our car, neatly removing the whole right side. Thank Heaven Dad didn’t have his arm out the window, and thank Heaven I was in the front and not the back.

Dad yelled frantically, "Are you all right, Boy?"

"Yes Dad, I'm okay!" Phew!

Had I been in the back we would have sat one on each side. None of us knew which side Larry was on.

Once again however, Dad showed naiveté. The truck driver, under the influence of alcohol, pleaded with him not to report it to the police, making all sorts of promises to fix his car and pay all expenses etc. He gave Dad a false name and address, supposedly where he could be contacted the next day. Of course Dad never found him.
 
A few days later Mum, Larry and I returned to Green Springs on the train, while Dad remained in Brisbane to see about fixing the car. Two weeks later Mum contacted him by telephone making her feelings obvious and within days he was back on the farm too.

The next trip we made was to Bundaberg, about 120 miles east, where Dad’s sister and her husband lived. Part way over the hilly Mt Perry Road, the Ford broke down, and at a garage later in Bundaberg it was discovered that somebody, probably a mechanic in Assville, had installed a Chev cluster gear and it kept breaking a tooth which had caused the breakdown. As it was such an old vehicle, my father decided to buy a new car, and he chose an Austin Somerset A40 sedan. He really wanted a Holden, which was the car everybody was buying at the time, and less money, but there were none available on the spot and he would have needed the car to get home again. Not only that, but Dad was such an impatient man that once he’d made up his mind on something he couldn't rest until it happened. He made the choice between the Austin and a Mayflower, a squarish-looking, black sedan. 

The Austin was the first sedan car we had owned, and I thought this was the most wonderful thing I had ever been in because I got to sit in the back seat, which was so close to the front seat But still I could not travel far without getting carsick, and I would have to get into the front seat until the sickness left me. Travelling on rough, dusty roads probably made the car sickness worse. Still, the promotion to a sedan car was joy indeed. Sadly, this little car, proved to be an endless thorn in my father’s side. 

His constant lament, "You've only got to spit out the window and the bloody thing will stop!" was repeated often.

In the middle of any stretches of water, he would end up vainly trying to restart the stalled engine. Unsuccessful, out he’d get with a piece of cloth, after he’d removed his shoes and socks and rolled up his pants, and dry the distributor. This scenario was repeated so often that he kept a piece of rag in the car especially for the purpose. 

 Valiantly we foraged on, and Dad planned a trip to Brisbane, as usual to visit Grandma Jorgensen. Larry stayed home to manage the farm. This time Dad packed a box of day-old chicks for his mother and they were on the floor in front of the back seat. His habit of driving faster than necessary often caused him to brake too quickly, and some hours into the trip, as we rounded a bend, we suddenly came upon a water-filled culvert caused by recent rain. The car slid to a sudden stop and I flew forward, jamming my foot into the middle of the box of chickens!  (No seat belts!) It seemed Jesus Christ had again slipped up, and Dad called loudly for an explanation!

 On ordinary day-trips out to Assville, if Mum and I were with Dad, he'd always say, "I'll have to go to the pub and cash a cheque for change." Mum and I walked up and down the street for hours, nearly mad with boredom, while we waited for Dad to ‘get change.’ 

 He loved to yarn, and he bent the ears of any unsuspecting patrons for as long as they could stand it. To salve his conscience he brought out two tall glasses of cold double sars (sarsaparilla) to the car for Mum and me, especially if the weather was hot.  At the top of the town in a side street, there was a small weatherboard ‘house’ belonging to the QCWA which, for the convenience of travellers, was never locked. Mum took me there to get drinks of water and use the toilet, which of course was an earth closet in the backyard. Later on when she had another baby, she would take us there to change his nappy and perhaps give him his formula.

Unfortunately, Dad's temper led to violent rows, especially if he'd been to town drinking. Sometimes the cause was one of his schemes that he’d dreamed up for making money on the farm. Mum was super cautious and usually threw cold water on the ideas, especially if Dad was showing signs of drunkeness.

 “Aw, Jesus! Disaster Annie strikes again!” he would throw back sarcastically, as he stomped off to sulk.

His bad temper didn't always need alcohol to fuel it into fire. I’ve seen him become so beside himself with rage, he’d dance back from the engine he was working on like a boxer, lean back to get maximum leverage, and then hurl the offending spanner or whatever tool he was using, as far away as he could. There he’d be hours later after he had calmed down, searching through the long grass and weeds for the discarded tool.

One time he was working on an engine just out in front of the house, and it burst into flames. 

He screamed out to Mum, "Bring water, Peg. Bring water!"

 Mum ran out of the house to see what was happening and when she saw the fire she bent down and scooped up a handful of sand and threw it on the fire, effectively smothering it. Dad nearly threw a fit!

 Spluttering and blaspheming he yelled, "Jesus Peg!  Look what you've done! You’ve ruined my bloody engine!"

Mum calmly replied, "Well you wanted the fire out, didn't you?"