General News
24 December, 2024
A CHRISTMAS STORY: Recollections of youth — By Brian Lennen
After a restless night’s sleep I headed off with Dad to the Preston Tram Depot, a 20 minute walk.
Once aboard the tram we watched the coming and going of the various commuters until we finally arrived at Spencer Street — an hours journey.
Once Dad purchased a ticket costing five shillings and six pence return, I boarded the Goulburn Flier.
We boarded a carriage where we found a seat (avoiding our back to the engine — an old travellers superstition).
The chosen seat was next to the window and all the plush leather seats were soon occupied by a young mother with a baby in arms and an extremely restless boy of three.
A country (elderly) couple occupied the remaining seats.
Once my bag had been put in the rack, Dad gave me a warm hug and my journey to Arcadia (the location of my grandparent’s farm) was to begin.
This could be seen as quite an adventure for a 10-year-old to take, but this was 1954, not today.
Soon the steam engine started to build up steam and then the stationmaster called out “all aboard!”, and the carriages shunted and then the train whistle let out several retorts and the journey was underway.
Once we navigated the busy railway yards the train started to sail along through the suburbs of Melbourne where everyone’s backyard was open to view. Impatient motorists waited at the closed gates (using human gate keepers). The train whistled a warning of its impending arrival as we sped past.
As I perused the panoramic scenes of country Victoria, the young lad became restless and proceeded to look out of the open window.
The country gentleman warned him not to put his head out the window because he could get ashes in his eyes.
This advice was ignored and immediately the soot hit his eye. The result was a screaming child and a distraught mum. Copious water was applied to his face which eventually curtailed his screams which were partially placated by a lollipop provided by the country lady.
Soon the train was zooming through the countryside passing signs stating how far you were from “Lipton’s tea”.
The few shillings in my pocket were jangling. I was anticipating my gourmet purchases at the Seymour station (the halfway mark).
The 20 minute stopover at the station involved buying a pie (believed to be a Gillies) and a custard tart, which were washed down by a “Cohns” bottle of sarsparilla. I was a contented young fellow.
My mind was now full of anticipation. A brief stop off at Murchison East heralded that the next stop was my destination, Arcadia.
The man lifted down my gladstone bag (containing my limited clothes of shorts, a pair of jeans, underwear, socks, soap and a toothbrush and comb). I had a collection of short stories by Charles Dickens and another by HG Wells.
As the train swept around a long bend the farm could be seen in the distance. Up ahead grandad and the station master were waiting on the platform.
Pa Pietro (my grandad) who had a permanent smile on his face, gave me a powerful embrace and we walked over to the general store where he bought me another bottle of sarsparilla and gave me a 10 shilling note for Christmas.
Under a peppercorn tree Johnny, the horse and gig, were tethered. His nose bag was removed and we boarded the gig. He knew his way and simply trotted down the road.
At the back paddock (full of a wheat crop) he paused and I opened and closed the gate and we headed along a clear area disturbing the quails that had nested there.
As we approached the homestead Chippy, my nana’s dog, came running towards us. She “zigged and zagged” through Johnny’s hooves much to his displeasure.
My grandma Rose was diminutive, barely five feet tall, and had survived the harshness of a farmer’s wife’s life.
She had borne 12 children (eight of whom survived) with limited medical assistance.
She called me Charlie after my Dad’s father and would smother me with care. Over the next month I would be her apprentice, especially helping with the Christmas preparations.
Chippy, an Australian terrier was devoted to my grandma, but also took on the responsibility of watching out for visitors. She rarely left my side.
As was an Italian tradition, a garland of garlic (fresh from the garden) was woven for the front and back doors to deter the devil.
Although as Chippy patrolled the verandah, it would be a foolish devil who ventured there.
Nona was remarkable. She had none of the modern appliances, no electricity, no refrigeration, a wood stove, no running water, no washing machine (simply a copper).
Despite the shortages she had a larder full of preserves — such as pickled olives, cucumbers, mushrooms, tomatoes, etc.
Her cellar (often shared with the odd snake) was full of recycled beer bottles full of “sugo” — tomato sauce essential for making her innumerable pastas with her handmade noodles.
She had milking ewes and used to make ricotta and unbelievable cheeses.
With all the family coming for Christmas she was busy preparing a feast for all. She bred turkeys, had a flock of geese, a chicken coop with innumerable layers, and a dam that was home for her muscovy ducks.
The task I disliked was plucking the poultry.
A day was spent making the Christmas puddings which once boiled were hung from the back verandah.
Although the farm house had only four bedrooms, for several days up to 30 people stayed. The sheds were cleaned out and straw beds were improvised. Even Johnny’s stable was used.
As more and more of the family arrived from various parts of the state, the excitement was overpowering.
Meanwhile, Nona toiled on. Her menu for the vast numbers consisted of an antipasto from her garden, chicken broth, hand made tortellini, a roast consisting of turkey, goose, chicken and duck; and fresh vegetables from the garden, such as potatoes, pumpkin, broad beans, broccoli, zucchini, onion, parsnip, cauliflower and beetroot.
After being salted with silver coins that had been scalded, the puddings were served with custard and cream.
Some of my illinformed cousins fished for the coins and ignored the delicious pudding.
Home made ginger beer was my favourite. Pa Pietro had barrels of light chianti (red wine) which he watered down.
Uncle Fury brought a couple of dozen Richmond lagers on a block of ice from the ice-works. These the men necked from the bottle.
After the women washed up and made pots of tea and coffee, an “impromptu” cricket match was organised.
I strived to impress my cousins but unfortunately dropped the catch that would have.
Pietro was a practising Christian and invited the parish priest to bless the family.
Dinner comprised of freshly baked bread covered with ricotta and sliced onion, garlic and tomato.
The dam was dragged and huge yabbies, mussels and murray crays were boiled on the open fire.
Alphonso and Grandad sang Italian folk songs as darkness descended on the farm and another Christmas passed.