Life's path is a teacher and on its trail we learn. From the humblest of beginnings we grow or pass our days within its fold. I was a child of the 60's, growing up in the dry stretch of grey which was and is Whyalla.
We were a family of five. Mum Shirley, Dad Ron, Deborah, Ronald Jnr. and Alan. In the seventies and eighties we became a family of seven with the late arrivals of our sisters Christine and Helen.
My earliest memories are of the saltbush and gum trees which once surrounded our house - that was before construction of the Whyalla Swimming Pool and the Westlands Shopping Center. Mum would take the old pram to the back and we would help her collect wood for the fireplace - how our legs would sting from the scratch of the bush. We always seemed to have sleepy lizards and the occasional blue tongue lurking in the deep confines of our garden. The half-finished cubby house was an adventure, so close to the banana tree my brothers and I used to play at Tarzan swinging from the huge leaves.
The B.H.P. and shipyards dominated the workforce. Our dads were company men; company men mostly lived in housing trust homes and worked overtime. Your mum stayed home and looked after the house, chatted with neighbors and grocery shopped.
We all know that Mr. Karavas the Greek man who was always old must be loaded but still he drove his beat up truck through Whyalla selling his hoard of vegetables. Of Doctor Muir who had married a much young woman (lucky devil thought the company men) who prescribed yoghurt for upset stomachs. The only married woman we knew who worked, apart from the Woollies vererans was Dot the Avon Lady. We used to gawk as the beehived, pastel suited and thickly made up woman swanned into our 6 by 4 lounge roomk in a cloud of perfume. Armed with brochures and tiny samples of essentials. We'd watch as mum would succumb to the pressure of this fragrant intruder and buy a perfume or lipstick from the catalogue. At mum's attempt to be a Watkins Lady - the new 'Avon' which didn't quite cut it. For years I had a treasure of tiny lipsticks to play with.
My parents were the first residents of James Street, bringing with them their first born a daughter. A shiny black number '19' graced our house - beautifully crafted by our Granddad Brush Puddy from a piece of B.H.P. steel. Images return of semi-detached orangey brick houses, wood and wire front fences with corrugated iron at the back; how the neighborhood mongrels hated the sound of the lightening flash of the branch running its course along those bumps. A maze of laneways separated us from the neighbors behind. Of old Laddie and old Tiger - when Laddie died poor Tiger snuck into his kennel and peacefully passed away.
I thought we had the nicest garden in the street and the reddest verandah - Dad always seemed to be painting it! Of the huge expanse of green grass, two foot deep held together in its wooden pit. The red and yellow rose bushes, beautifully presented in newspaper to a succession of class teachers. And mum's frangipani; God help us if we knocked off a fraction of an inch, she would have killed us. We liked to pull off the leaves to see the milk. It always seemed an ugly thing but as years pass I have now come to understand my mother's love for this grotesque but bewitchingly perfumed plant. The fruit trees proudly nurtured by dad, the juicy nectarines, abundant apricots, the orange tree that wouldn't grow, the fig tree that never reached the great height of Grandma Puddy's. And the almond tree; how I yearned for spring, the fragrance of almond blossom has always brought back to me the beautiful days of my childhood. I loved playing under this huge tree (was it so huge?) The drooping branches of tiny petals and buzzing bees so easily recalled. It was as if the glorious fragrance carried further the magic of my make believe. During the turbulent years of my teens this tree was often my salvation. It held the sweetest of memories.
The welcome smell of dinner as we reached the front door, how I loved the delicious lambs fry until I discovered its origin. When mum would pack away her apron and walk to the bus stop to pick up dad, sometimes with one of us tagging along. How dad always had enough coffee left in his thermos for us kids to share. Special food memories of crumpets crisply cooked on the electric heater so mum didn't miss any of the t.v. show (this was before commercial television) colored by the piece of blue cellophane that transformed our simple black and white. Lots of mashed potato, sometimes varied with chopped onion. Lemon cordial, a citrus delight. The sweet and sour pork that mum adapted from a Women's Weekly cooking class recipe index, adding the whole can of sweetened pineapple and juice - Alan's ended up behind the oven along with a few of his other dinners.
The summers were hot and dusty. The pool at the end of our street was the neighborhood meeting place. Barefoot, my brothers and I would walk the short trip to the pool; nimbly avoiding the four cornered jacks. Our multi-colored beach towels became turbans to protect our heads and shoulders from the searing sun. No such thing as sun block only suntan lotion - coconut oil fragranced the pool air. If the day were a scorcher, the pool would stay open till after dark. How exulted we were when we could go to the evening session, swimming under the stars in water warmed by the day's heat. Our walk home in the hushed night (still trying to avoid the four cornered jacks!) The sudden summer storm - the scent of sunscorched saltbush released by the spasm of waters touch filling the night air. Sultry nights we couldn't go, from opened windows we would lie in bed and be teased by the sounds of splashing and laugher echoing in the dark.
Our life revolved around weekend and holidays. School was a necessary evil. The memories of those days come very readily to mind. How true have my memories been?
Times were changing. Through the rose-colored glasses of our childhood we were blind to the impending gloom unfolding around us; of the young adults captured for posterity in the Whyalla News, their loyalty in white t-shirts emblazoned with "Save the Whyalla Shipyards". Of adult murmurings and their long faces. Still we were oblivious - adult business. Of the day when the last ship was to be launched from the Whyalla Shipyards.
The 'Iron Curtis' - how prophetic for our family to share the same surname of this ship. As we stood in the crowd (most of Whyalla seemed to be there) watching the ship slowly slip into the water everything sadly fell into place. From here my memories are fractured. The faded photo we have shows a scattering of people, I'd like to think that our dad had his last hurrah here. In front of his namesake he would have if not person in spirit stood proud.
