The Sausage Tree

by Rosalie Medcraft

  Stacking that wood was not easy; our poor hands used to get very sore from handling the green sappy wood. We didn’t have to stack the loads as they came, but we were expected to keep at it and stack a little each day. There must have been about twenty ton, because there was always at least twenty loads. With our imaginations running at full speed ahead we made the most of the piles of wood. There is a real art in stacking wood properly, and so that the wood we stacked didn’t fall down we built a square stack at each end. Sometimes we built a hollow square big enough to hide in, which was handy when we played hide and seek with the neighbouring children. They never did find that secret hidey-hole.

  Playing on the woodheap was made to last as long as possible and as we stacked wood from the dumped pile, one of us would be over in the middle throwing wood out to make a big hole which was turned into an imaginary bus with flat pieces of wood positioned for the passenger seats, and long thin bits for the gear stick and hand brake. The steering wheel was imaginary but there was nothing imaginary about the loud buzz-buzzing noises we made as our bus laboured up the hills on the way to the beach or town. There were six or seven of us all imagining our rickety woodpile bus was real. We would be coasting the dusty country roads exploring where we had never been in real life, as happy as can be for hours, stopping to pick up passengers no matter whether they were real or imaginary.

  We had seen many pictures of the row upon row, acre after acre of the beautifully scented, purple flowers which grew at the North Lilydale lavender farm. Our magic woodheap bus transported us there as, carried by the soft summer breeze, the lingering scent of the lavender drifted from the rolling hills over the town. Regrettably, we would soon be brought back to reality by Mum calling out, “Someone bring me some wood for the stove”.

  Six pieces of mill waste formed our wickets for cricket and one especially selected piece was used as our bat after we shaped the handle by using Dad’s axe. We always managed to have a soft ball to play with. Hitting the ball over the fence was four runs, across the road six, and on the roof out. Retrieving the ball from the roof was a breeze as one of our more daring pastimes was a game we called “keep the pot boiling”.

  To play this game we ran around to the back of the house to where Dad had built the “copper shed” alcove, scrambled up onto the roof, ran across to the side of the house and jumped off. Once on the ground we had to run back to the start and climb back up so that someone was always on the roof ready to jump. We only played “keep the pot boiling” after school on the days that Mum went to town. Through more good luck than good management no-one was ever hurt, not even a small sprain. The unlucky part was when we were seen by Old Mother Brooks, who would knock-knock on her kitchen window—we knew that another hiding was imminent, but the next time Mum went to town we would be on the roof again. We often wished that the knock-knocking on the window would cause it to break and one day we were thrilled to bits when the pane of glass cracked from top to bottom.

  With our overworked imaginations we found it very easy to amuse ourselves in our own backyard where Mum could hear us and know what we were up to. We thought we had invented a game played in the long grass but later found out that our ancestors had used this method to help them catch game and that their children had used it in the same way as we did. At the time we could not see why Dad “went off” at us when he found out what we had been playing. Looking back, we were probably very lucky that someone didn’t break a leg.

  Before Dad made all the big backyard into garden, the grass grew long and thick and when it was nearly dry we would grab two handfuls of it and tie it into a knot, making what we called grass traps. Next we would climb the back fence into the paddock and do the same there. The real trick was to get someone to chase us, usually not too hard to do as we were very good at annoying other kids. We would run through the yard, jump over the grass traps, climb the back fence and run like the wind still dodging traps. Our poor victims, thinking they were gaining on us, would suddenly disappear from sight. A surprised face would appear above the grass. The best time of day for this game was just on dusk when it was nearly impossible to see where the grass was tied. Sometimes the trick backfired on us as we would forget where all the traps were set and we were the ones on the ground. We really were terrible kids and, just maybe, we sometimes deserved that castor oil.

  10

  Highlights of our year

  Every Sunday morning we went to Sunday school. Dad didn’t believe in anyone sleeping late so we were always up at the usual time. By eight o’clock we would be sitting down having breakfast, which on Sundays was a boiled or fried egg and toast made in front of the fire in the stove. Weekdays we had Weet-Bix or porridge. After breakfast we dressed in our very best dress, hats, shoes and socks that were kept only for Sunday School and town. There was always the same instructions: “Don’t talk to the larrikins on the corner”. The larrikins were a group of young local boys who sat on the verandah or leaned against the verandah posts of the shop every Sunday morning. They were quite harmless but we had to pretend that they weren’t there.

  Our Sunday school days are vividly remembered as are the teachers who were also church elders. One teacher, Mrs Power, also played the church organ. On Sundays the elderly lady always wore a black hat with a very long hat-pin stuck through it and a long black dress which swept to the ground. She dressed in the same manner, except for the hat, during the week when she worked in the general store which was owned by her family. Barbara and Rosalie would often go into the shop just to stare at Mrs Power’s head. One day when they could no longer contain their curiosity they went home and asked Mum how Mrs Power covered up the hole in her head; they couldn’t see one even though she didn’t have much hair. Mum was quite stumped. “What hole in her head?” she asked. “The one she sticks the pin through that keeps her hat on” was the reply. The twins were quite serious, but Mum chuckled about it for days afterwards.

  The highlight of the Sunday school year was the anniversary which was held on the third Sunday of November every year and for this we all got new clothes. Mum must have saved up all year to be able to afford new outfits for us all, not just outer clothes but brand new underwear as well. As anniversary day came near we would be excited at the prospect of a visit to town to choose the material for our new dresses and to get new shoes and a hat.

  Going to town was a real treat as we also went to Granma’s for dinner when we went on the shopping excursions. As there was no way we could let her know we were coming, Mum said it wasn’t fair to expect Granma to feed so many extra people, so she always bought pies in town to take with us. This was another special treat for us as it was the only time we were lucky enough to have what we considered a luxury. Shopping day was always just one day in the August holidays and we kept our fingers crossed, hoping that Mum was well enough to cope with the long day in town.

  The adventure began when we caught the bus at eight o’clock in the morning and didn’t finish until we arrived home at six o’clock that evening. It was a very long and tiring day as we would have to be out of bed by six o’clock so that we would have plenty of time to do our chores.

  Town shopping days were eagerly looked forward to even though the ride to Launceston and back again was a horrible disaster for Valda and the twins. Travel sickness was a curse that had to be endured and coped with, with the cooperation of the bus driver. This was no modem passenger bus, it was always old; we thought it was made old and had never been new. There were long wooden seats right across the width of the bus in two or three rows where the passengers perched, dressed in their Sunday best, complete with hat and gloves for the trip to town. The passengers were usually women and to get to a seat one had to scramble over their feet.

  Behind the seats was a big empty space that was used to transport all manner of freight to and from town. It was the same bus that took our daffodils to the hospital. The freight would be anything from fencing wire and grain seed to motor oil or spare parts for machinery. The
driver would leave most of it at the corner for a farmer to pick up. Nothing was ever stolen and everyone seemed to know who owned what. There were hardly any motor cars then and it would have been impossible to carry it away. The bus also carried the flour for the bakery and groceries for the shop. The whole framed body of the bus was covered by a tarpaulin that let all the petrol fumes and dust off the road seep inside where everyone sat, and helped contribute to our travel sickness.

  The bus used to make a detour up and down our road and this saved us a walk to the comer and ensured that Mum had a seat right in the front next to the driver. Peter usually stood in front of Mum and was fascinated by the techniques of driving. At an early age he could identify the make and model of oncoming cars just by looking at them. The final point of departure from the town was the corner, but anyone could flag the bus down anywhere along the road. The driver always made sure that Valda and the twins sat near the door ready for a quick exit. That old bus groaned and shook along the road shaking everyone about and this, together with the petrol fumes, soon had us feeling sick. The winding road added to the dreaded sickness. Only ten minutes out of Lilydale the driver who was very sympathetic and knew our limitations, would call out, “Hang on until we reach the top of the hill, I can’t stop here”. A quick exit was needed at least four times before the outskirts of Launceston was reached where the hills and the bends in the road finished.

  The year 1948 saw the end of the old buses and a new passenger bus was bought by the other bus company. This bus deserved its nickname “the parlour coach” because of the new luxurious mode of travel.

  Once we reached Launceston the excitement of choosing our dress material soon caught up with us again. Mum would choose the type of material in her price range, but we had the joy of choosing the pattern and the colour which made us feel very proud and important. Choosing the style of the dresses was done at home where Mum had a big pile of old Ladies Home Journal magazines that had many pictures of ladies’ and children’s dresses. When we had each made our choice Mum would cut a pattern out of newspaper and then the big moment came, our dress would be cut out and the sewing began.

  Mum’s machine had a handle on the side and the eldest at home had to turn it at a nice steady even speed as Mum needed both hands free to guide the material to sew a straight seam. Around 1943 she bought a treadle model that made the job both quicker and easier. Because there were five dresses and an outfit for Peter to be made, the sewing had to start as soon as possible. Nearly always, Joan and Valda, stitched the gathered lace on by hand, sometimes finishing the job the night before the anniversary.

  The anniversary was a gala day and was very special, the church always packed to overflowing with extra chairs in the aisle and porch. For weeks Mrs Bardenhagen, who was a music teacher, coached us in singing special anniversary hymns. All the children, about thirty, formed a choir and much practising for perfection took place. The night before the great day we girls would have our hair washed and rolled into strips of rag we called wigs. They were uncomfortable but the end result of curly hair was worth every hour of torture during the night. On the great day we all sat in the choir stalls, the little children in front the big ones at the back and no-one could have been more proud of their new clothes than we were. There were also some adults in the choir and this gave us much needed confidence. We were very proud when we were chosen to sing solo and we would sing our little hearts out. Through singing at Sunday school and at concerts it was discovered that both Joan and Wilma had excellent singing voices.

  There was morning church from 11.00 to 12.30 when we would race home, change our clothes, have dinner, wash up and then change again to be ready and back at the church for the main part of the day at 3.00. The service lasted just over an hour and most of the time was taken up with the prize-giving, all of which were books. Everyone received a prize and some lucky ones got extra books for either good work, good behaviour or regular attendance. Then it was home again and after tea those who were over ten got to go to the evening service at 7.00 to sing again. The church would be full for each service, because on anniversary days the other churches would be closed, as on the day everyone went to the church that was celebrating its anniversary. We were certainly on show to all the local people and some of them only went to church when an anniversary was held. By bedtime we were exhausted, but very satisfied with our day and, most important to fall, happy with our books.

  Joan and Barbara still have all their Sunday school book prizes. Barbara also has a very special prize of a Bible for being the “most outstanding girl in the Sunday school”.

  After the excitement of the anniversary came the preparations for the Sunday school picnic that was held at the beach on the second Saturday in December. We tried so hard to be good at home because there was always the threat of not going on the picnic if we misbehaved. Emotional blackmail was a common occurrence and Mum used it daily for weeks before a special event. As the picnic gave us the only opportunity we had in our young lives to go to the beach, we tried extra hard not to annoy our parents.

  It didn’t matter that the smelly old bus took two hours to get there and two hours back again. Not even the knowledge that we would be horribly sick both ways could dampen our spirits. While we were being sick out the side of the bus, everyone else was singing and having a great time. Oh yes, the bus trip was fun! How the other children and adults must have dreaded seeing us waiting at the corner for the bus. We also knew that no matter how well we were covered up we would all be sun burnt and sore as well as sick.

  Because she was never really well Mum could not go with us, but she always gave us plenty of sandwiches and cake to add to the food that everyone else brought. There was a never ending supply of delicious raspberry water cordial which was a real luxury for us—something we had only on picnic days. In some mysterious way raspberry cordial has never tasted the same anywhere else. We had no bathers and the girls went into the water wearing an old dress and panties, while the boys had a spare shirt and shorts each. Because we only went near a lot of water once a year, we never learned to swim.

  On the morning of the picnic we would be quite dismayed if the sky was overcast, as on some occasions the outing had been cancelled because of inclement weather. We would all be looking towards the heavens because Mum would say “If there was enough blue sky to make a sailor’s outfit, the day would be fine”.

  Races were held on the beach on picnic days and the twins always won all the events they were in. When they were about twelve years old they were noticed by a man and his wife who were athletes. They asked all about the twins and subsequently visited Dad and Mum to ask if they could train them to run and maybe eventually run in the Olympics. They were very disappointed when Dad and Mum said a very definite “NO”. The twins often wonder how different their lives may have been had our parents said “YES”.

  There was another church activity that created excitement for all the children and involved everyone in town. This was the annual fair and concert held on the second Saturday in March. It was the fund-raising day that provided the extra money needed to fund the Sunday school prizes and the outing to the beach.

  For months the ladies of the church sewed and knitted all sorts of useful things for sale on the stalls. There was the cake stall that made one hungry just to look at it; a sweet stall complete with that old favourite, toffee apples; there was lemon twist toffee, baker’s toast that is also known as honeycomb—and lots more, too many to mention except for the coconut ice that Mum turned out as if her kitchen was a factory. There were vegetables and fruit, jams, pickles and chutneys. The lucky dip for the children was always affordable and so very popular. We children spent most of our money on lollies, fruit salad and biscuits. Dad used to say that it was no wonder we were skinny; we wore ourselves out carrying around all the food we ate! (We were so scrawny that Mum dosed us with Doctor Williams Pink Pills for Pale People.) The only fruit salad we ever tasted was covered with very thick dairy farm cream wh
ich was poured over the top. It cost sixpence a bowl and tasted wonderful.

  Then there was the afternoon tea room where you could get a plate with two sandwiches, a cake, and half a scone and a cup of tea. There was always someone having afternoon tea and the men and women could be assured of a good gossipy chat.

  The hall where all this went on was nearly opposite our house and we were always involved in the preparations for the fair and the concert that followed at night.

  On the day before the fair we would be right in the thick of the activities, helping in the general confusion created by men, women, children, trestle tables and crepe paper. We needed long, thin pliable pieces of timber to make archways over the front of the stalls that the men erected, so off to the mill we’d go to get just what was needed. The men hammered the slats in position and then we set to the serious business of decorating the stalls with rainbow colours of crepe paper and balloons. We vied with each other to see who could make the prettiest stall and we must have been a mixed blessing to the adults. All the activity began after school and had to be finished by 5.30 so that everyone could go home and have tea before the concert participants went back to the hall for a final rehearsal.

  When school started in the new year we began practising with Mrs Bardenhagen for the concert. She chose the items and then matched the children to them, and as she was well aware of their abilities, this wasn’t too hard a job. There was group singing, solos, action songs with colourful costumes that mothers somehow found the time to make, recitations and some really witty skits the adults wrote and acted. These were usually about people around town who always laughed at the way they were portrayed.