The pain rings a bell

The welts and bruises did hurt, whether it was one of my brothers or sisters testing how much, by poking at it, or, as people often do, by pushing it yourself to see how the injury is healing. I know I am not the only person who has done this. You have a sore, an injury or a bruise and you keep pressing it or touching it at intervals. Perhaps you are simply being scientific and operating with great foresight by conducting tests to understand your pain threshold? In the event that you may need to know how much pain you can take when you grow older. You may be wondering how much pain you could take if you were, say, to be….. planning on a life in the armed forces. You may be captured and questioned. So you should have some idea what you can tolerate. Or, you could be thinking of a career as an interrogator? How would a person choose that as a career path? Did they grow up in a completely stable environment and then the guidance office or school tests revealed they would be best suited to that line of work?

Pain is not a pleasant thing. Yet, at times, mild pain can be interesting. I have many times used pain transference when receiving needles from doctors or at the blood donation centre. Just as they are about to put the needle in on one arm, I pinch my nail of my forefinger into my thumb on the opposing hand. Now I know, since I donate plasma every couple of weeks, the needle will only hurt for a fraction of a second. But I prefer to inflict pain in my other hand at a level that is slightly higher than that caused by the needle. Is that bizarre? Or is it that I need to be in control of the pain distribution. I can’t help hurting my other hand rather than tolerate someone else causing me pain.

But in the case of the memory I am relating, someone else was about to cause me significant pain. This was what I was waiting for now, sitting in the bedroom. My father had yet again delayed his entry to the ‘holding cell’ (my room) by returning to the lounge room. Increasing my nervous tension. I of course, was also furiously rehearsing the dialogue I anticipated would occur. To provide the definitive explanation of the sequence of events, which had led to my younger brothers injuries. The reason behind the incident (see blog 28/03/2012) would have to be outlined. The decisions and actions I took (as I related throughout April’s blog) would have to be outlined. The resulting outcome would have to be explained. In fact, if I accurately recalled previous narratives to my father before receiving other punishments (something that I had a lot of experience at), I would have about…..  5.8 seconds to explain all this, before the first blow connected.

(Continued tomorrow)

Ringing out the dread.

So right then my father was assisting the then current telephone company to earn a little more (actually I think the government owned it then…. Oh yes, there was a time when governments owned pretty much all of the ‘essential’ services. That was why they were called ‘essential’. Everyone needed them), as I waited in the room to hear (and probably feel for some time to come) the outcome of his consideration, of my actions, leading to my brother’s serious injuries. Then the steps came back down the hall and I prepared myself for the worst. But yet again punishment was delayed as my father went back into the sitting room (or lounge, depending on that cultural heritage issue).

This was becoming very cruel. Let us be honest, mental anguish is an internationally recognised form of torture. Even the Americans used it… Even the Inquisition used it! (see blog 9^th May 2012). It was used very effectively in a favourite old movie I had watched and enjoyed, starring the young Michael Cain, The Ipcress File, a 1965 British espionage film based on Len Deighton's 1962 novel. In the film, all sorts of emotional and physical tortures, were being considered, and used, to brainwash and change the thinking of other people. I always remember the sense of being trapped in the room and tortured, as was the main character. And here I was, Life imitating Art? So the anxious feelings compounded and I stressed, awaiting my expected punishment, which would now be drawn out even more. Some one was enjoying this. Probably my other younger brother and at least two of my older sisters, I doubt the youngest sister or my youngest brother would be fully aware what was going on. I doubt my younger brother Rhys would be too happy either, though if lucky, he was unconscious again and wouldn’t be feeling too much. Certainly not as much as I would be feeling very, very shortly.

It is kind of strange when you are expecting a punishment, particularly a physical punishment. You don’t want it, and definitely don’t want it to hurt. But, you know it will and you also wish (if you have been physically punished before) that it was over, so you could just put up with the pain (not forgetting the crying and sometimes screaming that went with it). If it could just be put behind you (or on the behind, if you were getting just a simple punishment), and you could get on with the recovery. Not that there would be a lot of sympathy but the other children would always be curious as to what form the punishment took, and generally, want to see any marks that were not directly visible. Because quite often, even if simply getting a few whacks with the belt, the odd shot could sometimes drop a little down the leg and leave an impressionable welt that the others could see. And often wanted to poke at to see if it still hurt.

(Continued tomorrow)

Now we are ringing true 

It certainly was however a more personal service. (we learnt more about the ‘personal’ lives of others because of the ‘service’) but seriously, sometimes the caller knew the operator at the exchange and they would conduct a brief chat. A catch up on the family and events, prior to requesting the number they wanted. Or, on over-hearing something very significant, I recall an operator once calling our house and asking my mother to attend a neighbours place, as the neighbour was going to receive some tragic news and the operator knew someone should be there for them. That was when the telephone company cared. It was definitely warmer than the constant repeating of words and requests required today by the automated answering services (How many ways are there to say “Problem with my bill”…. Only to be transferred to your ‘statement balance?’)

The telephone has connected us to each other all over the globe. I remember years ago the thrill of an international call. You rang the operator. They took the details. Then you hung up. After a short, or sometimes longer wait, the phone rang and you would be talking to someone directly in another country! Sometimes you even got connected to the person you wanted to speak to (I guess that hasn’t changed then?) But hearing the distant echoic sounds of an international operator. There was variation in accents and sound, but it was still understandable. You had to possess very particular language skills then, to be on the international desk. Unlike, today. Perhaps that is the current problem when we get diverted to a call centre, which I know (for us) is seldom in Australia, and if it is, it is usually operated by people with English as a third language. I can’t complain, I speak English and mess around with a few others, but could not hold a conversation in any but English. (Sounds like I could work at a call centre answering calls for anyone then?)

It was considered essential to be understood back then. The telephone company was highly regarded by its users. The employees were appreciated and respected in the community. Today, it is the telephone companies that receive more formal complaints and reports on customer dissatisfaction that any other business enterprise. Even more than local government and the tax department, and that is saying something. In a world where people all too readily complain about issues, I constantly here the words, ‘My telephone company”… before a short, or lengthy diatribe on its, costs, faults, service and people. There is massive dissatisfaction out there for what is now one of the worlds biggest businesses. Yet, I know most technicians who work for them, go out of their way to do their best for you. So why are we so let down after that? Why have they lost that real personal caring business ethic? Oh, yes. Profit margins. When it is necessary to forsake the respect, for the dollar. And of course, blame it on the shareholders, not the management. Now it sounds like they are ‘ringing’ (the cash register) true, rather than us phoning home.

(Continued tomorrow)

Ringing Through

It was amazing. I can honestly say I have seen many changes of the phone system, even in my short life. From the operator, who sat at a small country exchange, waiting to ‘plug you in’ to another line, through to the mass of dozens of operators connecting local and international calls. Then, seeing the passing of that service, to the ‘automated’ exchange. And then later still, to the electronic terminal versions of today's exchanges. These while sophisticated, lack something of the excitement of the old exchanges. I recall watching the skinny technicians (they had to be) who back then, had to squeeze between the rows of jumping, clicking and rattling spindles. Which would jump up and down as each dialled number was received from the rotary dial of the domestic or business phone. The unit, once it had received all the digits, would end up in a particular formation and that would then translate into another electrical impulse, which would connect with another exchange somewhere else. The technicians were busy ensuring any damaged or jammed spindle was freed as quickly as possible. A single stuck spindle could block hundreds of potential calls. They bravely reached their narrow fingers between the bouncing spindles and cogs in a carefully choreographed dance avoiding the threatening danger (not always) of the rattling metal parts. It was a bit like the chimney sweeps of old Victorian London. They had to be small and thin to fit down the chimneys, just so, the technicians in the automated exchanges. They were all thin and agile to fit between the crowded banks of telephony units.

And it seems, people just accepted these changes to the system. Many I am sure regretted the loss of the ‘exchange lady’ The times when you picked up the phone and literally wound a crank. Paused and waited for a voice to say “Palmerston Exchange. How may I direct your call?” It was a thrill I remember from one or two opportunities when young, talking to the operator. An echoing distant sounding voice that always spoke the very clearest of English. I was told they had to pass certain standards back then. Tests to make sure their diction was clear and vocabulary was accurate (how times change). Mind you, they soon called back to report to your parents if you had rung them while mother was ‘out in the yard’ and you just kept saying “hello”. They would call back, providing you hung up the phone ear piece. Then there were the old party lines for some of the more remote farms. When particular rings would identify which farm the call was for. Once it stopped, it wasn’t that unusual for others to pick up their receiver and listen in on the calls ‘down the line’. I suppose it was the first form of trash ‘media’ entertainment? As the gossip, from overhead calls, would be relayed by the person listening in, to others gathered around the phone. Sometimes it was as entertaining as the radio.

(Continued tomorrow)

To die… or di-al?

There was a definite hush throughout the house. I waited nervously in my bedroom. I heard the door of the lounge open again and even on the thin carpet the sound of my fathers steps. My fear tightened my entire body. I tensed as I heard his steps walking down the hall…. Away from my room? What? Maybe he was going to select something special from his room to administer my expected punishment with. Maybe he was going to his room to complete some warm-ups. Then I heard him pick up the telephone we had in the hall near my parents room and dial.

This was when telephones dialled. That is where the word ‘dialled’ came from. Unlike todays’ use of the telephone and what people do to make a call. Today, it probably could be called ‘pushing’ or ‘punching’ (probably more in keeping with the rise in violence of today’s society as well?) Dialling, was when the telephone front had a disc with ten holes arranged around the edge of three quarters of the disc. You put the finger in the hole for the number you wanted of the sequence and rotated the metal (and later plastic) disc around until it reached a stop point. Then once stopped, you removed your finger and the disc returned to its starting position with a ‘whirring’ and ‘clicking’ sound. This meant the number in the sequence would be sent through to the exchange. You then repeated the sequence until all six numbers (as we had back then) would be sent through and the connection made. Due to the arrangement around the dial each number caused a different variation of mechanical clicks which converted to electrical signal for the telephone system.

This was still at the time when the telephone exchange was mechanical, having moved on from the banks of operators who I used to see when working as a telegram delivery boy (more in a later blog). The new mechanical system, one of which I also got to see up close, was probably even noisier than the room the phone operators used to sit in. It was a large room rattling and clicking, as rows and banks of thousands of individual phone receiver units were positioned in place. There were miles of different coloured electrical cables coming in at one end and exiting at another. Inside each of these units contained nine spindles with the nine different sized ‘cogs’. Now think about the operation of the spindle. Nine different sized cogs giving ten variations times nine? But there were only six numbers, so…. someone was thinking ahead. Someone had set up a system for the future. Planning for about a trillion numbers (10x10 to the power of ten isn’t it? While I love some things about numbers, Maths wasn’t my strongest point…. What was?

(Continued tomorrow)

Fire was power

So with that coal delivered, it was a sign that cosy winter fires were on the near horizon. There is something innately satisfying about sitting in front of an actual open fire that cannot be achieved with an electric heater. It may well be a natural part of our genetic memory (yes, I do believe there is such a thing), of the time our ancestors survived through brutal winters prior to the domestic dwellings, only by possessing the power of fire. The power of such a possession must surely have been an essential component to controlling any group of individuals (probably equal to protecting their mate from being taken by another clan). And it introduced another role, which required particular rituals to achieve and maintain, to the organization of any group.

Consider the ritual problem known by any of you who have ever gone camping (without a camp stove). From the careful preparation of the fireplace with rocks or such, to protect the fire from draughts that may extinguish it, and the protection of the various wood matter, both the kindling (fire-starter source timber) and the wood to maintain the actual fire once started. It all had to be kept dry and protected from the elements. There were specific ways to make fires. In snow you would never build a fire under a snow-laden tree. On an open flat prairie you would never build a fire without a protective surround. All of these required learned knowledge and developed particular skills and rituals to be ‘The keeper of the flame’. Some of our ancestors obviously excelled at this and so their tribes and clans survived through the harsh unprotected winters. Fire was also an important part of the Australian landscapes natural survival. Many plant and tree seeds are dispersed through the affect of heat on their casings. Natural scrub fires and grass fires actually cause the spread and development of many plants in the Australian bush. The local inhabitants obviously used this at times to their benefit. Sometimes, just to kill and cook food in one go.

Today, just as when we were young, a bright fire will emotionally delight us. Whether it is in a room (soon to build up a good ‘fug’- see May 21^st blog), or outdoors in the bush or mountains. When the temperature was low and the wind and rain blew outside, coming into a fire-warmed room after walking home from school or sitting around a blazing campfire (not the smokey, spluttering type of the start up breakfast fire in the bush), fire evokes very specific memories and feelings. You can watch the pretty colours of the flames or look for shapes in the glowing embers. I’m sure many will remember when young, of the moment of drifting off to a small nap in front of the crackling blazing fire. Only to jump awake startled and ‘primitively’ aware (the old caveman instinct) at the unexpected sound of a burnt through log dropping or shifting in the fire. Sending the glowing sparks of floating timber embers up the chimney or up into the night sky if you were out camping.

(Continued tomorrow)

The headlight effect?

There I was in the bedroom waiting for my father to come in. Currently I believed him to be talking with my mother in the lounge. I say believed, as I had been waiting in the room for a few hours by now and since his arrival home I had been straining to hear his movements through the closed bedroom door. My brothers, with whom I usually shared the room with, probably went outside to the yard to hide somewhere out of sight. The other family members appear to have ‘gone to ground’. Little doubt where would that phrase have originated? Presumably evolved from a hunting phrase. And I presume (I won’t assume – we all know what that means), it was to do with the prey disappearing into their various burrows and caves, hopefully out of reach of their pursuer. That would make it a very appropriate phrase to use at this point in time in relation to the other family members. I meanwhile was sitting like a trapped rabbit. In a place, with the exception of the high rear window, that had only one way in or out.

As I sat like a terrified rabbit, straining to hear the approach of the ‘killer’ hound (Yes, the role about to be played out by my father). I can only imagine how such a creature must feel. I have since seen many animals ‘caught in the headlights’. Their eyes appearing enormously wide, as the increased adrenaline suddenly races through their system. Dilating the pupils of their eyes, causing palpitations of arrhythmia to produce a fight or flight response essential to survival. But most just simply stay rooted to the spot. Until the beast descends or the vehicle collides with, or, in some fortunate cases passes right over, the petrified animal. In my case however I was stuck. There was no opportunity for flight. It was simply a matter of waiting for the axe to fall. Although I didn’t really think he would use an axe. He probably had one in the small shed, but since we weren’t allowed to use the tools, at that point in time I didn’t think I could verify the existence of one. I learned later there was one.

Although as we lived in town and did have a couple of real fireplaces, one in the lounge and there was another in my older sisters room. While we were not required to cut our own timber for the fire, we must have needed an axe to cut timber for kindling from the split log pieces delivered with the coal. I remember the Hessian bags of cut logs, which were purchased from the back of the flatbed truck as winter arrived. The bags of coal and timber carried by a genuine coal man down the side of the house to the shed. The coal man, a very big man I recall, wore one of the traditional leather head and back covers to ease the pressure of the lumpy coal in the sacks he carted around all day on his deliveries.

(Continued tomorrow)

Space the final frontier

The now familiar phrase has become a part of the language since the renowned cult show Star Trek® (not, I dream of Jeannie®) first aired in the U.S.A. in 1966.  It was later seen by many of we overseas viewers, fascinated with space, in the following decade. Back then it probably took at least five years to even be broadcast in New Zealand (if it was allowed and met the government controlled media standards), compared to the incredible ‘Fast tracked from the US’ where the overseas screening is seen in Australia the following day that it was seen in the USA. The simple phrase and indeed the individual word ‘Space’ reflected the thought that I felt many times, living in the slightly crowded bedroom of four boys. “Space”. The word went straight to my core. Not the thought of ejecting my brothers into space (although I can’t deny that idea hadn’t passed through my mind on the odd occasion), but, the very idea of having an area larger than a couple of meters to spread out into. To put my things. To be able to put something down and not have it shifted or moved. To be able to leave something unattended and know that a curious younger brother won’t play, squash or break it.

It was clear ‘space’ was not going to happen for me for a long time. There was always the thought that one of my older sisters would move out and I would ‘inherit’ one of their rooms. But no, only one did, and the other three ended up with the other two rooms and they stayed. So there we were, in our early years, the boys all sharing the long end room at the back of the house. We had the odd break with a school camp, or the very occasional trip away. We built things, we played games and we sometimes studied (certainly not as much as we should have). Every now and then a serious illness would reduce our number by one or sometimes two for a few days, but we were seldom alone in the room. Except perhaps, when we were going to receive a serious punishment.

There you are. You were probably wondering when I was going to get back the awaited punishment. The finale to the kite and injured brother story begun back in March. Well, I guess we have arrived there again. Just to recap. My brother, having suffered a serious impact injury, from a thrown wooden stilt (thrown by me while trying to free a tree-stuck kite), to his head. Resulting in loss of his consciousness and a major slicing of his scalp.  And me carrying him home in fear for his, and my life (knowing I was in real trouble for causing this accident), through the back street from the park as he bled profusely in my arms. He was taken off to the hospital in an ambulance. I was sent to my room to wait for the return home of my father.

(continued tomorrow)

Mess or Creative development?

Paper, blocks, Mecanno®, pens etc, in use, but left on the floor of the limited space created a constant impression of mess. Other items that may have been found on our floor included small character toys or other small toys we may have had. If you think about the amount of ‘bits’ that four different aged boys could have. Put it into one space and give them a couple of days. It wasn’t hard to make a ‘mess’ and have mother (teeth grinding in frustration) say “clean up this mess’. But we were so often engaged in creative building and advanced design thoughts, for which the creating of took some time, sometimes days, occasionally weeks. I can’t say I ever heard my mother say, “Please re-organise this creative centre more effectively to improve your creative interests and productivity”. No, it was always referred to simply as, ‘a mess’. And it did sometimes look bad. However I always think of a ‘mess’ as that point where in a room where many, many things are, you do not know exactly where something specific is. And I don’t simply mean hoarding. You have to be able to walk into the room (if considered a mess) and find the item exactly.

I do remember as the oldest boy in this slighted crowded condition, of trying to build a model aeroplane from a balsa wood kit. This was the older style of balsa wood model making. You had to pin the plan, which was quite large (about six A3 sized sheets) out on a board. Then you had to cut and position, by pinning, each individual part to the each specific place on the design plan. Once in the correct position and secured, you had to glue the parts to the connecting frame lengths before positioning the skins onto the plane. Prior to painting. Think how many parts. How many small pieces and how long it would take to just cut them out (and sand them smooth for a clean glue able surface).

So picture having all the small amounts and pieces of a Sopwith Camel (a world war one bi-plane) cut out, on the only desk in the room. All these pieces, on a board or, still in the box, before being pinned to the board, when there were several younger people present. Each of them showed great interest in the model making, wanting to ‘have a go’. All wanted to have a try at the cutting, or sticking together of pieces with the balsa cement, that very high acetate smelling glue which required the window to be left open, to prevent gassing all of the persons sleeping in the room. Sometimes they ‘had a go’ when I wasn’t even there. Requiring, after initially ranting and raving about interfering younger brothers, more time to repair, re cut or to carefully separate incorrectly glued pieces correctly. Lookout if the board was knocked over. A project like that required an enormous amount of time to complete and generated quite a mess and realisation that space was important to each individual.

(Continued tomorrow)

Construction Zone Ahead

So admittedly the room could smell a bit sometime. But what could we do? We aired it, we cleaned it (when pushed). We tried to keep it clean, sort of. Sometimes things got a bit spread out on the floor, particularly small plastic blocks. Later Lego® took control of this type of toy, not that the blocks we had didn’t work. We could build anything with them. Admittedly we were a little focused on rockets and spaceships as were any children of that era, or castles and battles. We became very proficient at building with those. Designing impenetrable fortresses that could be staunchly defended by the variety of wooden and plastic figures we possessed. We didn’t have all the little specific lego® men as kids do today. Dressed in their very specific role defined uniforms and with their essentially specific tools and accessories. We made it up. A piece of attached string to represent a hose for supplying water/fuel or to act as a flame-thrower. Attaching a small block, with plasticine, to the figure, to be the backpack or oxygen supply. Our imaginations identified any sort of block, piece or item onto a figure to carry out our imaginations purpose. So we mixed and mingled our few figurines without any bias. We used the characters as they were, to work together. Not so much as a multi-cultural group but mixed in together to play whatever role we wanted them to. And they did. Without the flashing lights or batteries (or political correctness).

The floor could also contain the many small pieces of Meccano®, the genuine Meccano® that is. Original green, red and plain metal pieces and hundreds of very small nuts, washers, pins and bolts. My brother (2 years younger than me) and I, had been given this as a birthday present when we had lived in Castle Street, Dunedin, New Zealand (another house which is no longer there – more on that in a later blog.).

We were delighted. It was all second hand, but that was irrelevant at the time (more on that later too). It was the genuine Meccano® with which the world of conceptual engineering was opened to us. It was given to us in a big wooden half case. The nuts, bolts, pins and washers were separated off inside the wooden box, inside a couple of tins. There were many lengths of straight pieces with various holes, the small hole edged plates and base plates. It was wonderful and did entertain us for many hours. However, any construction site, requires many areas of items spread around to be able to start building. Therefore, areas of the floor needed to have some things lying on them and that included plates, lengths, wheels. They could not be kept in a box when trying to build with them. You needed to see to create. Well, when building we did some planning on paper as well, which meant that several sheets of paper (and the pens and such) would also be on the floor.

(continued tomorrow)

What the Fug?

You could imagine what a room sometimes smelt like when there were four young boys in it. There were windows at one end and halfway up the side of the room, but to reach the side windows you had to reach in from under the top bunk to the catches behind the curtain. So sometimes it was easier just to open the end window only. In a town where winter was winter, when it involved frosty mornings, cold rain, wet fogs, occasionally snow, and sleet (that’s snowy rain for those in the tropics). Sometimes during winter you wouldn’t open the window for a few days, and, it was easy for a decent fug to build up.

‘Fug’. Doesn’t it have really terrific sensory connotations? Fog. Muggy. Fumes. Thick. I’ve often used it believing it to mean all that, but, I have checked and it is listed in the dictionary. It’s a British, informal word for; stuffy atmosphere in a poorly ventilated space (or in our world, a room with four boys living in it). Now, given the simple problem say of a wet day or two, of wet shoes, that meant wet socks and wet socks in a warm room? Well, it doesn’t take long to build up a bit of a smell (the embryo fug (fuggis minoris?). Now multiply that by four and probably over two days at least you build up a slightly bigger fug (Fuggis Middlis). Add to that four beds slept in. Under blankets (it was cold remember), and then thrown back to ventilate into the room of damp clothes and wet socks. You start to have a pretty decent fug (fuggis completus) As the temperature cools and there may have been a heater allowed in the room (Our parents didn’t want us to freeze - but make sure it was never left on if there was no one in the room). So with the added heat, the fug gets stronger (fuggis majorus).

Look out if our mother put her head into our room and it had already gone critical. The rear windows would be thrown open. And the side window, regardless of how hard it may have been to reach, mother would get to it. Then regardless of the outside temperature, unless the rain/snow/sleet or hail came rushing in directly, the windows would be left open until we arrived home from school, dripping wet if the weather was such. Then it was a matter of clearing out the ‘ice cold’, but clear-aired room of all the damp clothing, socks and anything too smelly, before being allowed to close the window. It only took a short while before the ‘fuggis minorus’ would build up again. We didn’t mean to create the heavy smell, it just happened. And don’t forget most of our meals were ‘English’ fare. That’s right, corned beef and potatoes … and cabbage. Lets not go there. We don’t need to add any ‘speculation’ to the fuggy atmosphere.

(continued tomorrow)

Dishwashing: or how to prevent a divorce

But when we all pitched in with the dish washing, despite the initial moans and whingers such as “I did them last night”. “Again!”. “It’s not fair!” we usually got well into them and the games almost made them fun. I can only feel sorry for the kids who grew up with automatic dishwashers. The communication and language skills they have missed out on is a tragedy (haha).

Actually there was a statistic that 60% of all divorces since 1995 had automatic dishwashers in the house. Why should that statistic matter? Now take it that the information took a year of collection (probably only during a major census), another year of analysis and then random interpretation, The statistic must have been relevant for a year or so around 2000. The statistic has however a reconcilable (and almost believable) basis. If you think for a moment that if a house has an automatic dishwasher, then there will be less time taken up with washing dishes, and it can mean one of two things. That the parents who might normally have done the washing up (together perhaps?), might spend the time talking about the day. Or, while they had the children do the washing up, they could discuss the day. The important factor was that either way they could have had some alone time, outside of the bedroom. That was the extremely important part. Time to discuss issues etc. With a dishwasher, that time, that ‘alone time’ away from the ears of the children, ended up being in the bedroom. The worst place to ever discuss any serious issues. In the words of Pepe le Phew®, (and other great romantics)“It is the place only for romance, n’est pas?”

Hence the eventual build up and tension of issues leading to divorce.

Apart from the dishes, (we never had an automatic dishwasher) as with any family, there was also the basic ongoing requests of my mother and father, to clean our room, which became demands, which became arguments and sometimes became further deposits in the fair/fete box if not done. It was always difficult to clean the room, because sharing a room with three other brothers and managing to get us all to put things away would have been a minor miracle (and I mean that in every sense of the word). That we managed to keep it even slightly tidy was amazing. Our room was a narrow long room with two bunk beds and a wardrobe, a few crate boxes of toys and a small desk. If just a few toys were out on the floor it would instantly appear messy. Add to that, clothes, school books and school bags, filling the rest of the space The room was ‘chokkas’ as we used to say.

(Continued tomorrow)

Games played

Then, while we were doing the dishes on a good day, usually after a very happy meal, or festival celebration, we often improved ourselves or annoyed each other. Sometimes the arguments were not about who was doing what for the dish washing, but was over the spelling or sound of a word. There was a game we used to play where the dishwasher would say a word, and everyone had to take turns and say a word that rhymed. Of course, ‘Orange’ was not allowed. Neither was Caveat, Width or Vacuum. Mind you there was usually a laugh as someone tried to rhyme some words. For example Vacuum which doesn’t actually have a true rhyme, but one might try to just use the ending sound e.g. assume, balloon (nice try). That was usually allowed for the younger players only.

Another favourite was ‘I went to London.” The caller would start, “I went to London and with me I took my ….? The caller would insert a word e.g. “toothbrush”. The next person would say the same introduction. Say, toothbrush and then add another item. Slowly each player would add to the list but it must be said in order. As we got older and better at the game we added descriptions to the items. It would be limited to three words describing the item and the item itself. So as far as memory training went, it worked. The best I recall was 16 items with half of them involving at least three words each. It sounded something like this when it got to the fourth person for the third time.

“I went to London and with me I took my yellow handled toothbrush, my green coloured cardboard passport, my fascinating battery powered hairdryer, my extremely warm mohair jumper, my brightly coloured oilskin raincoat, my collapsible self-inflating dirigible, my fluorescent alligator rucksack,  my continuously rotating balancing monkey, my singularly vibrant portable stove, my exciting crimson umbrella, my viciously dangerous tarantula spider and my…..” to which they would add one more. Not only did it help the memory, but really increased the vocabulary and since you were trying to catch each other out, you became fairly imaginative in your items.

The main problem with this was it often dragged out the washing and drying of the dishes, as you stopped to count out each item on your fingers and the others watched to see if you would fail. Instead of 10 or fifteen minutes it could have taken us, the time would sometimes drag out a little. After a half hour or so a voice would usually call out from the lounge “Will you kids please hurry up and finish those dishes”. Or depending on the fun of the game we payed, at other times Father would come out and tell us to “Be quiet!” as he couldn’t hear the radio, or television.

(continued tomorrow)

Different jobs 

As young children there were not the opportunities to earn any money, but there was always plenty of things to do. It is probably thanks to several members of the family (my mother for working, or having to, as well as my older sisters), that not only did we learn to ‘do the dishes’ (that means washing AND drying, not loading an automatic dishwasher), we also learnt to cook. This has been a skill that has stayed with me for my life and, even today has been an enormous benefit in maintaining any independence. It has made a lot of people happy, and prior to the need for licences, even allowed me to walk in cold to a restaurant and hold down a job as a chef. (of sorts, but more on that in a later blog)

(And yes, I know by all these sidetrack stories (religion, Inquisition and toffee apples) and issues, I am delaying the end of the kite saga and the punishment I was to receive, but I can’t believe that any of you are only hanging out to hear of the suffering I went through. Doesn’t anyone care?)

It was always interesting in our house when it was time to do the dishes. There were often arguments over who would do what. There was of course the stacking of plates and pans, the washing, the drying and the putting away. The person who had to dry tended to have to be there the longest. The person stacking and putting away could be there at the start, then have a break and come back last. The person washing was generally first away from the sink. Of course they would often be called back to finish wiping down the bench (only on the side the plates and such were stacked on. The other side was the job of persons drying).

I often thought it was the stacking of dishes that was sometimes most important. Also scraping the plates after a roast sometimes had its’ bonuses (don’t tell me you never picked at a piece of crispy potato edge or skin from the roast that someone hadn’t eaten, when scraping the plates? mmmm).

However, as a result of the fluctuating times for the different duties, most of us wanted to wash, but that also depended on age and pain tolerance. For the large number of plates and pans we had, you needed to wash in ‘very’ hot soapy water. The sink I remember most was when I was around eight years of age, where the washing was a single sink for washing and rinsing. So if you filled the sink too full you couldn’t rinse the plates before drying. It was important when organising the space for washing, making sure you wouldn’t have to change the water and suds more than once. Making sure the glasses were first through. Even today I hear the voice of my mother, “Make sure you wash the glasses first in the hot clean water”. It worked. I still do.

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Going, going, gone!

It was not just the toffee apples that we provided (as I mentioned earlier) to the many school fairs and church fetes or bazaars. We gave up a lot of other things to the various drives. Books, comics, toys. You may not have realised it, but as the various fairs and fetes came around, lookout if your room was in a mess and despite several requests, lookout if you had failed to clean it up. Even when sharing with three brothers, the excuse “But I cleaned up my part” didn’t ‘cut a lot of mustard’(as the old saying went) with my parents. Or worse, if you had been misbehaving. A quick punishment was the removal of whatever you liked the most, had just bought or, sometimes wouldn’t share. You could see it swiftly deposited into the fair box (most unfair if you ask me). There was seldom, if ever an opportunity to get it back from the box before it would be sent off to whose ever school was next in line. I remember buying the same phantom comics three times. Once from a store, the second time from the fair, after they had generously been donated by my mother in a cleanup, then the third time when they were given to another fair and someone bought them before I could get there. I had to pay nearly full price to buy them off the person who had beaten me to the stall. Very expensive comics, which eventually went to another fair anyway. Not surprising my collection of Phantoms for the last 25 years is boxed and locked away.

Much of the little things we valued, we had bought ourselves with the small amounts of money from various jobs we offered to do for people we got to know in the community. Lets face it, things were fairly limited on the spare cash front in our house. Receiving an ice cream when out was a special, very special occasion. Generally we would ask once for something, be told “No”, then, if we felt particularly foolish, we would ask again. To be told “No, and don’t ask me again”. Then if we were really foolish that day, we might ask “Why?” Never a wise move. The next reply usually came in two parts. One part was a very clear instruction to us, the other part a very decisive action on our parents part (just don't call it a slap, smack or belting).

With our sweat, our hard earned meagre dollars slowly accumulated till we had enough to buy the treat we had wanted. Yes, whatever money we managed to get usually went into treating ourselves straightaway, not into saving for the future. That may have been a better idea. A few cents here and there didn’t get much but, it could have accumulated. But it was also interesting when I look back on the wide variety of different jobs I took part in. Some successfully. Some enthusiastically. Some poorly.

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Batter-ry and theft...

Arriving home with the steaming packages, now damp and the newsprint rubbed and smudged against the clothing worn, the ‘dividing of the fishes and the chips’ would take place (did you notice the attempted religious connection?). My mother would direct the dividing of the fish and chips into equal portions (or autocratically by age and size). I remember over the several years my family lived in the area, on more than one occasion, when, upon opening those packages, my mother would immediately be on the phone to ‘the Dutchman’ if the size of the fish fillets did not meet her approval. In those days, all fish was battered or grilled only. So a good fluffy batter could easily hide an undersized fillet. But, not from my mother. There was certainly a dangerous tone when she felt her money was not being fairly collected for goods.

It was no cheap meal and she always insisted on getting good value, or, she would take the business elsewhere. And ten pieces of fish and serves of chips was a good weekly business. But every so often ‘the Dutchman’ would err and provide us with an undersized piece of flake (Shark) or two. Then it was withdrawal of our custom to another shop if the original phone call failed to reach an apology. Even if the nearest other fish and chip shop was a further two miles cycling, making for a longer walk, but it was the kids doing the cycling or the extra walking, so waiting for an apology, our mother could certainly take her time. We did change once, for some weeks, until my mother got a phoned apology from ‘the Dutchman’. It wasn’t so much from guilt for the provided pieces, but more from caving in to the look she gave him each time she walked past his store. We would end up back where we had been with the multiple packages from ‘the Dutchman’, until the next underestimation of size and customer dissatisfaction could raise its head.

So generally with no space in the kitchen and to make use of time, fish and chips were the order on a toffee apple making night. And when you realise because of the age spread of the children, attending over at least four different schools, and with the church, we annually would spend at least eight Fridays out of the fifty-two making toffee apples. Yes, that’s about 1 in 6 Fridays.

Now, in relation to the burning and searing of flesh, as mentioned earlier, given that at least three people would receive burns of one level or another (generally nothing worse than a first degree) during the toffee process, whether from hot stove top, hot saucepans, hotter toffee, cooling toffee, or hot taps. The family could expect to average 24 burns over a year while making toffee apples. How did that hold up to the Inquisition?

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No space for dinner 

With four pans in action, cooking in a timed sequence, about 100 toffee apples could be covered in a half hour. Then, once covered in the hot toffee, the apples had to harden, before they could be cellophane plastic wrapped and put into the box for the fete or fair. That took around another half hour, So making several hundred toffee apples took well into the night. That was, if all went to schedule. The process took up time and space. Since the table was covered, half in butter to prevent the hot toffee from sticking to it, and the other half in wrapping plastic and utensils, there wasn’t much space for making dinner for everyone. 

We still had to make sure everyone had dinner, which if we did in that kitchen, would take some of the pans and elements out of production and tie up the room for an hour at least. So, if we were lucky, some Friday nights when we were in toffee apple production, became ‘chip night’. It was real ‘treat of the week’. Fish and chips covered with vinegar (this was apparently a throw back to the English heritage of my mother).

Our ‘local’ fish and chip shop was run by a Dutchman, a thin balding man, and his family, who seemed to work all hours. He opened in the mornings around 10am (we could see him from the school grounds of the primary school I attended at the time), and I know he was often working till late into the night. He would be preparing the battered fish for the evenings orders. The first dip and par cooking of the battered fish, before putting it into the cool room. There was always someone in the shop for whom he was making an order for his fish and chips. The store was around a mile from where we lived, so if the order was placed on the telephone, by the time one of us with a bike had cycled down the valley, the packages were usually just about ready. Except for close to holiday weekends. Then it seemed twice as many people wanted fish and chips. If the bicycles were out of action (as was often the case), we always seemed to have a puncture in one tyre or another. (Back then the tyres were very thin. No such thing as BMX or off road like today’s bikes). If the bikes were out it meant a walk about 15 mins each way, and in a cold and wet Dunedin winter, there was nothing quite as cosy as walking home with the packages of newspaper (they always used to be wrapped in newspaper in those days) containing the fish and chips tucked inside you raincoat, warming all around the chest, regardless of the weather.

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Hubble Bubble.....

Once the apples were washed, hand dried, stacked, impaled onto sticks and set aside, the production of the toffee would begin. I am sure it was as much a matter of safety, by trying to get as many of the younger children out of the way in the small kitchen, as it was of purpose. The smaller children were fine at the preparation work, but they would be in the way when the actual cooking was going. The promise of a cooled fork of toffee later (a fork dipped into toffee mix then dropped into cold water to test the setting of the toffee), would often allow a slight clearing of the kitchen as the older children and mother prepared the vast batches of cooked sugar, cochineal (the bright red food colour), hot water and a dash of vinegar. These ingredients cooked properly together and tested, would create the crunchy hard red coating around the apple. 

Once the cooking started, the kitchen was a dangerous place to be. When the various pots and pans on the old plate stove were in full production and the heat in the kitchen was getting serious (if you can’t take the heat get out of the kitchen… or if you were one of the younger ones “GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN!). Bags of sugar poured into our largest saucepans, to be stirred till they melted and with the right combination of colour, and application of bindings would form a bubbling hot, very dangerous mixture. This needed to simmer before being suitable to dip an apple. My mother and older sisters (forming the ‘coven’ of supervising witches – “We found a witch, we found a witch” as my brother and I used to say (another Monty Python favourite - but that will be talked about in another blog).

Speaking of witches, I wouldn’t doubt that some form of the Inquisition (although not originally purposed to finding witches I must add) would have included some form of burning of flesh. Either with heating irons, not the shirt iron type of course, although that could have been interesting. Imagine the Dominicans holding the heated iron against the sinner’s flesh, to have to stop and ask for a ‘hot’ one. But if I remember my history of inventions, the shirt type iron didn’t come along until mid 17^th Century and even then it was a bucket pan that held hot coals. So, either a metal (branding type) iron to sear the flesh, or, boiling pitch (hot bubbling tar), to pour over the skin of those under religious interrogation. I mention this as part four of the process of toffee apples is the dipping the apple on a stick (holding the stick end of course) into the bubbling toffee and draining it slightly before placing it (stick up), on a butter greased table top of our kitchen Formica table. This part of the process was where the most flesh was burned or seared or scalded.

(continued tomorrow)

There are many ways to make a Toffee Apple

There are several steps to producing excellent toffee apples (by the hundreds) apart from the manufacture of the toffee itself. The collection of at least 5 boxes of apples (about 800 apples) from…. The shop across the road, since we didn’t have a car, it was always the easiest arrangement. I had also spent some time there after school, packing groceries for delivery, when I was older. He charged a little more than the vegetable shop we usually shopped at, but not having a car, at least we could carry them across the road to home. Once home, they had to be sorted. Any severely bruised or holey apples would have to be put aside. You certainly couldn’t sell a toffee apple with a worm preserved inside it? Or could you. ‘Toffee apple surprise’ maybe? So they were sorted. Then one or two of use were assigned the task of washing the apples. This was to ensure we would wash of any potential sprays, bugs or harmful bird droppings as sometimes occurred. The washing was just in water, but you couldn’t rub the apples too hard or you would bruise them. Due to the large number of apples we had to prepare one box at a time and repack ready for stage two.

Once again we introduce a painful experience in helping the church (or school). What is it with religion and suffering? What is it that all toffee apples have? Don’t say toffee, that’s a given. That’s right, another devious device, probably used by the Dominican priests of the Spanish Inquisition to inflict suffering on the unholy. I am talking about the stick! The simple sharp pointy ended stick. Each and every toffee apple needed one and, no doubt as would have happened to some ‘heathens’ and those being investigated, each and every one would be impaled, only as far as the centre of the core. We became fairly skilled at naturally measuring and impaling to the centre of the apple, without going all the way through. You had too. Too far and you impaled your hand. Lesson learned more than once. Too short, and the apple would fall off in the toffee dipping stage. That was not a popular moment for the person manipulating the bubbling pot of hot toffee. And you would soon hear about it as blame would quickly be apportioned to the responsible party if this occurred.

Lets face it, you took the pointy stick and pushed it into the apple and sat it back in another box to await its liquid toffee covering. End of phase two. Over time, the cost of the wooden pointy stick meant we were forced to change to the cheaper flat wooden ice-block stick. The shorter, flatter (and far more prone to snap in half if your impaling was a little off-centre) ice block or ice lolly stick, depending on your heritage. Many times we were forced to lift sharp splinters of snapped wooden sticks from our hands and massage the centre of the palm which rapidly became very sore and bruised from pushing in the several hundred impalings. The Dominicans would have been proud of our impaling statistics.

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How you remember some people

It may be I am probably being a little unkind to some of the 'Church Widows". Every now and then, they did shine valiantly for their efforts. The amount of energy some of these elderly women expended in pursuit of the various committees could have powered the national grid. And probably had left some over to export. My mother, despite her constant scrutiny as a parent of such a wild and unruly throng (compared to some of the average children’s behaviour today, I think we were really pretty good kids), did often attempt to curry favour with some of them. My mother being at heart a good woman, they at heart (and in their minds) powerful women. Certainly mother would be enrolled every fete to take care of the manufacture of the traditional toffee apples. Of course when I say our mother, it meant that all of us family members… well, the children at least were drafted into working on the mass production of several hundred bright red toffee apples in the space of a day and a half and all at the cost to our struggling family budget, no funds provided by the church. “It’s our donation”, our mother would say.

Hang on, the church were already getting half of any potential comic collection we may have started with our own meagre savings (more on that later), books, stray toys and clothes. Clothes our mother was constantly purchasing or had been given and finished passing down the line (fortunately at least, I didn’t have to have my older sisters hand-me downs). Once at the last wearer, they would be added to the church bazaar box (which probably resembled a very ‘bizarre’ box by the end of the lead up to the fete) with the other items, despite any protests. Any serious protest could lead our mother to find something else to ad to the boxes, an extra something that belonged to the protester, not instead of.

So, there we were each year, both at the church fetes and the school fairs. Donating considerable time, effort and resources from our meagre family budget, to supporting the schools we attended as children and the churches we attended as victims. The ‘Dwyer’(for Dwyer, read ‘mother’) family, always offering to ‘make the toffee apples’. The hundreds and hundreds of crunchy, red, teeth shattering, sticky, toffee apples on a stick! And it was a real production line. An incredible example, that would have stood examination by the most stringent time management examiners of any major organisation. From start to finish, and, finishing was the very best part believe me. You see there are many, many tricks to making classic toffee apples, particularly with young children involved and apart from the fact that the product must reach the end output, we became exceptionally good at it. Thanks to an Edmonds® cookbook, our mother and many pairs of hands (I won’t say enslaved workers, as we were sometimes allowed to take breaks).

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I remember the pain.....

I suppose you think I harp on about the punishment side of us growing up, but as we said to our mother, when a few years ago we had our first family (that’s brothers and sisters and mum, and partners for those of us who had them) get together in 26 years, we got to discussing many things, some funny, some hazy in their recollection, yet, many had the same common thread. Punishments. Our somewhat disappointed mother said in her best British tone, “Honestly, you would think, listening to you lot, that all we ever did was beat you.” There was a moments slightly embarrassed pause as we looked about to each other, before one of my sisters put forth with, “Well, it was certainly one of those things that sticks in the memory”.

As I have said before, everyone copped it, for one thing, or another. It is with this particular incident (the kite, the tree and the damaged brother), while I sat in the bedroom I too was wondering what the particular punishment would be. I have already confirmed with you that while not dead, it was a seriously significant injury. I had missed slicing his face fortunately, but, as I said, head wounds are messy and deceptive. Look at any teenager who has scratched at a pimple or scab, or any man (or woman) who has nicked their face or head with a razor, it can be very, very difficult to staunch the flow of the crimson river.

No doubt the inquisition floors ran fast with the crimson tide they would have created. Their devices far more fear and death inducing than I was expecting. Or, maybe not. I originally had seriously believed my father was going to kill me when he got home, when I thought I had caused the death of my younger brother. So, with his survival and likely recovery, albeit painful, there was a chance that I would suffer no less than a wayward miscreant had suspected he would, before the fearsome Dominican (Not the Caribbean kind) cardinals of the Spanish Inquisition and their machines.

I’m sure had my parents given consideration to creating a similar punishment machine, there would have been no end of helpful offers from the church widows. They would have been only too happy to organise a constant tea and biscuit service, or to run a stall to fund whatever device my parents would want to create. Particularly  if it meant my parents would be pulling their misbehaving children into line and restoring the true level of piety and appropriate behaviour to the hallowed chamber of their church. I wonder if the Dominicans of the Inquisition encountered teams of widows only too happy to plait the ropes of the rack pulleys or to file the ends of the iron maidens spikes? To provide them with a cup of tea when the questioning got too hard. They would have thrived on the service to the church they could provide.

(continued tomorrow)

Devious Devices

Lets consider the similarities of such inquisitional devices a moment. The rack, a device to exceptionally stretch a human frame into an unnatural position and inflict excruciating pain. Or in my case, on several occasions, standing in the corner (not so bad you think) but with your arms raised above your head for ‘long periods’ and then being made to hold them down at your side? Both involved unnatural positions and pain, particularly when you lowered your arms and the blood flow suddenly increased. The Iron maiden, a sarcophagus type device, with spiked interior, to not only enclose the victim but to prevent movement and exhaust the victim, so if not directly impaled when the sarcophagus closed, should they move inside they would scrape against the spikes. Or in our case, the small cupboard/wardrobe, where the child could be made to stand for long periods facing the rear (look out if you sat down and were caught), where the child could also suffer heat effects. Fortunately we lived in a cold climate (not that we would volunteer to go into a cupboard to simply warm up, except when we played hide and seek).

Smacking with bars and other devices, well, everyone must have had that form of punishment during their lifetime… oh, sorry. Anyone born before the current ‘nanny state’ (1998) where you can’t even smack a child once (according to media) although I do believe it is only not allowed, if it uses ‘unnecessary force’. But don’t worry, there are always the ‘church widows’ of our general society watching and waiting to report a parent seen bringing a misbehaving child into line with a tap or slap. It will probably be the same ‘church widows’ who will be robbed, mugged, assaulted or worse, in the near future by a child who was allowed to do exactly as they pleased because no one was there to punish them. Who will the ‘widows’ be phoning then? The same people they complained about the parent to earlier, and, no doubt, they will also be saying, “where are the child’s parents?” and “why did they let the child behave like that?” Hypocrisy I know, but, we are controlled by laws, set up because one or two do the wrong thing and the rest of us have to pay the price.

But we were discussing the early inquisition devices and the similarities between my parents’ methods and those of the churches. Fortunately there was a limit to the space we had in the house with so many children and so few rooms and the garage as mentioned did not have a lot of space (as also mentioned) even though it never held a car. Storage and operational space may have prevented the construction of any such device. But I wonder if the thought ever occurred to my parents. Did they face administering some form of punishment dreaming of a device that could work across all the children? It would have to be adjustable of course, for the differing ages and sizes, but, ….. it’s just a thought.

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In fear we pray?

I sometimes wonder if it was the church that also was responsible for some of the punishments inflicted on we children, principally our family. In particular I refer to the somewhat heavy-handed methods and severe manipulations of pain infliction, and its effect on its victims by the church. Take a moment to examine the worst side of the history of the catholic church. Well, lets narrow it down a little to at least a couple of hundred years, I doubt we would have time to look at the entire worst side of the Catholic church.

And do not think I am saying ‘they’ are the only ones. Every religious group has it’s periods of religious fear domination and zealous punishment of ‘wrongdoers or at least those who asked too many questions or possibly disagreed on one or two points of doctrine, or at least asked the wrong person to ‘pass the wine/water/blood. it’s just some of them seemed to have excelled at it and prolonged it for longer than others. I always remember the classic Monty Python Episode ‘The Spanish Inquisition” They used the line, “Our Chief weapon is surprise, surprise and fear!” I can assure you, surprise was generally how my father worked, and the fear? The fear lingered. Probably to this day, even though he has since departed this life.

It would have been wonderful when at any time of being questioned prior to receiving a serious punishment, the walls had parted and ah-la Monty Python, Cardinal Ximinez of Spain and two flanking cardinals had entered to announce “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!” I doubt my father would have found it as funny as my brothers and I would have. Although when the skit was created we were a little older than the incident I was relating. Hind sight of history is a wonderful way of playing with memories. But like the actual inquisition, which took place across the faith beginning in 1231AD (France) and not officially dissolved until 1820AD (South Americas), although not constantly in action (so the church would argue), it instilled in the faithful (but more so in the not-so-faithful) the certain live threatening fear to ensure appropriate behaviour.

There must have been entire communities driven on the fear these periods threatened. What alliances and betrayals must have occurred between friends, enemies and the church, all to draw attention away from ones self. To think that this could impel a person to create a different version of events to protect them self, rather than be included in the fearsome interrogation that would follow. (Actually this is starting to sound exactly as what happened on the incident with my brother and the split head- Started April 1^st 2012 blog). I can only be thrilled that our parents were not allowed to use some of the created devices to administer their punishments.

(Continued tomorrow)

 The Traditional Gargoyles

After such a cutting assessment by such young children, it appears it was ‘game over’ for the priest that particular day, as he suddenly completed his delivery and moved on to the next phase of the ritual of the mass. Around the church, everyone took the opportunity to settle themselves and shift their focus away from our gathered clan. Everyone? Except the ‘Church widows’. Their steely glares would pierce through any person in their line of sight, as they sent their stern reprimanding looks in our direction’. I’m sure anyone who has ever been part of any church group (Mainly the ‘older’ kind – well, the catholic church, the protestant churches, the Anglicans… you get the idea), will know of whom I am talking about. It was how I seemed to remember them. The narrow-minded, bitter, scowling gargoyles of the era. I always thought of them as the ‘non-nun’ nuns. Entrenched in the church and the only moments their faces would produce a smile was if the priest cast a glance in their direction.

They were usually the exceptionally thin, hawk-nosed, senior women who gathered near the entrances, both pre, and post service, to surround the priest and monopolise his attentions. Shielding him from any other parishioners trying to get in a word, or ask a question. The older women with little left in their lives. Strangely, they all usually seemed to be widows. Women who had, step by devious step, taken control of the various power platforms in the church organisations, the tea and biscuit committee, the flower committee, the alter committee, the books committee and the pinnacle, apart from the welcoming committee, the ‘fete’ committee. They had usually insinuated themselves into power at a staging position, around the time of the appointment of any new priest to the parish. While one group, who had aligned themselves with the departing priest would sense the end of their control, and often despite their efforts were simply culled from the meetings (a bloodless but vicious coupe d’etat). There was it seemed major strategic and political dramas constantly occurring throughout the parish, communities and probably, given the examples I saw then, throughout the globe between rival mobs of church widows.

Their disapproving looks would fly towards us from their various tactical positions they controlled throughout the pews. Cutting through anything before them with more effect than a high-powered laser. We knew they would be looking at us whenever we did something inappropriate in the church, no matter how minor. While they may have been able to scare my younger brother into tears with those fearsome glares, more than once, I observed my brave sisters give them the traditional (and very disrespectful) ‘silent raspberry’ (with the screwed up face and waggling of heads). They of course would visibly repulse from such behaviour and shake their heads in sorrow that such activities should occur in ‘their church’. But watch out if mother saw you challenging one of these women. And be prepared to duck if you were within reach!

(Continued tomorrow)

Into the silence 

So into the brief silence where the priest had paused for breath during his ongoing monologue, my bored younger brother had loudly called to the choir above (up on the mezzanine floor, not ‘the above’), “Hey! You ‘ghosty’ people up there? Sing us the ‘Ghosty’ song. And with the cry echoing around the cavernous vault of the arched ceiling of the church, people flinched. Apart from several heads jolting up in sudden surprise from being woken unexpectedly, all the remaining eyes seemed to focus immediately on my younger brother and then to slide sideways, left or right depending on where they sat, to my mother. She had definitely flinched, but did not slide down out of sight. Her ‘Englishness’ (as mentioned in previous blogs) would hold her upright and she said, from the corner of her mouth in the sharpest of ‘stage whispers’ to one of my older sisters nearest my brother. “Turn ..him ….around …..now! The shade of embarrassment crept quickly up her face from the neck up. The priest had paused and looked down disapprovingly on my mother and her….. brood.

No doubt my mother returned her best ‘Empire stare’ (British, not ‘the force’). Looking directly back at the priest challenging him to continue the silent criticism as it appeared the priest flinched a little and my younger brother, now being turned to face the front again, said it a louder voice “but I don’t like him, I like the singing”. This of course caused my mother to snigger (very unladylike, she would say) and then a lot of people in the church were suddenly attempting to suppress their laughter. A bout of not so subtle clearing of throats swept through the pews. I believe what then changed everything was one of my sister’s, while trying to keep my younger brother facing forward, saying loudly to my mother, in case she hadn’t heard, “He said he doesn’t like him, he likes the singing”.

This time there was a minor explosion of laughter, but only down towards the ground as everyone suddenly bowed their heads trying not to catch the eye of the flustered priest, upon whom the children had apparently, passed suitable judgement.  The grin on my mothers face spoke volumes as she focussed her head on the back of the pew in front. Once again one of her children had commented on what everyone was thinking but wouldn’t say. While many struggled to contain themselves, my mother stood shaking slightly with laughter but at the same time, looking to the children and with the merest arching of her eyebrow and gesture of her head, signalled that all the children were to sit down and face forward. We realising something had happened and not sure if we would be thanked or banned, sat forward and with a very motherly ‘Ssshhh’ from my older sister we looked innocently to the priest to continue his presentation.

(Continued tomorrow)

Say it loud!

It is often said (well, used to be, when people pronounced and spelt the language better) “Out of the mouths of babes…..” and no, they were not referring to the milky puke that is sometimes dribbled from an infant (or in some cases, projectile vomited like an unpredictable exorcist infant of possession). They were referring to the moment when a child, in an unexpected way, can loudly declare what is not said, but what is (or was) an inescapable truth. The time for this is usually just after everyone has stopped speaking and there is a moment of silence.

It is into that chasm of silence, which the innocent, uncomprehending child (we are talking about the consequences of what the child says, not the ability to be aware) will speak loudly and clearly, causing all to momentarily flinch with embarrassment. I remember, …. well, I remember ‘being told’, of one such incident in the church. Does this make it a ‘hearsay’ memory? One, which I have heard so often, that it is hard to know whether it actually happened. But because it has been planted so strongly in the actual memory, it has become family fact. A bit like the urban myth concept I suppose. However, in the deep silence of which the rituals of the Catholic services were so often punctuated, (for effect I think), the innocent (and probably bored) child would sometimes speak. Loudly.

It is the hearsay memory in this instance. It was a short way into the service when the choir, whom were situated above and behind us in the upper level of the church, had completed singing a beautiful song about the ‘Holy Trinity’ (The Father, The Son and the Holy Ghost’ – For those of you not up on religion, the pages from Genesis to Revelation (King James version) sort of covers the explanation). The priest in all his religious attire and his intentionally affected sonorous voice set about narrating a short lesson, or a long sermon (sometimes it was hard to tell which was which, this is probably why the priest would stand in different places to deliver each part).  Part way into the address, as the voice of the priest droned on, probably about something that even to my young ears I had heard several times before, and just as heads are beginning to droop and nod and others (predominantly our younger family members) would begin to fidget and squirm uncomfortably (partly due to the nature of the seats). One of my brothers turned around and looking up to the rear of the church called out loudly,

 “Hey! You ‘ghosty’ people up there? Sing us the ‘Ghosty’ song.

(Continued tomorrow)

Space, kneel and be praised

There we were exposed or not to the congregation, upon arriving at the side of the few pews where there were the seat spaces, as mentioned, towards the front, there were never quite enough spaces for us to all sit on the one seat so, a little assigning routine would be carried out by our mother. Logistically it sounds easy. Seven or eight children, at least one adult, that is nine to be seated maximum (Always the full compliment, meaning my father as well, on those special occasions). Mother would then begin the distribution assignments, trying to keep the younger ones close so as to keep an eye on them and make sure they didn’t wander, letting the older ones sit separately if there wasn’t enough seats. Mind you, she would ensure they too were close enough to be able to keep an eye on them. Young girls (as three of my sisters were all older than me), must not be allowed to let their gaze wander from the front of the service. There was always a sharp ‘eyes front’ if mother found their eyes wandering around and checking out the local boys who were in attendance.

I don’t believe I have mentioned that my mother was raised in a strict manner in a catholic school/orphanage after losing some of her family in the Second World War. The nuns certainly instilled in her certain practises, which, she happily passed on to us. Serious misbehaviour would collect a swift thwack (thump and whack combined) to the back of the head regardless of being in the ‘Lord’s’ house. This only came about after several warning looks, ‘hissed’ sotte voce warnings, threatening glares and actual naming of the offending or suspected offending party was ignored. There is nothing worse than having your name said out loud, except maybe having your whole name said aloud and probably having your whole name said aloud in church was slightly worse. You really knew you were in trouble. Even the priest knew you were in trouble. And he couldn’t (and probably wouldn’t) help. But if it wasn’t really your fault, as was often the case, you tended to keep on until the arrival of the ‘Thwack’.

It was not unusual for the older sisters to sit behind us (as directed to by our mother) and then take advantage of the odd poke, under-seat kick or teasing whisper to entice one of the younger children to react and thereby collect the first warning look. Remember, they had an hour to find a way to cause trouble. Of course if the tables had been turned, we would have done the same. The opportunity to cause a moment of embarrassment could happen during any of the sitting, standing and especially kneeling phases of the service. And often did. But once again the classic phrase…… “Just wait till you get home” would issue from my mothers clenched teeth. Another reason rushing home after the service wasn’t a priority.

(Continued tomorrow)

Please be seated

It would not have been difficult to be a little embarrassed occasionally by our family arriving at and settling into church. We were never few in number and yes the old jokes of “didn’t you have a television’ and ‘small house was it?” usually followed when you said there were ten in the family. When I was young of course other people would say “Catholics huh?” I didn’t understand that for many years, as there are many things that are never discussed when you are ‘a catholic’ It was interesting at times in the church, as the rites and ceremonies usually required a lot of sitting, then standing, then kneeling, then standing, then sitting. I used to think it was because we couldn’t make ourselves comfortable on the hard wooden seats. But it may be the church was just well ahead on the concept of DVT (Deep Vein Thrombosis) and by so many different moves in the hour or so the ritual progressed, it prevented sudden movement of any blood clots and thereby cutting down on the potential number of funerals the church would have to fit in.

One of the first problems for us , as a family, was of course getting into church. This was at a time when the churches used to be practically full for every mass. We would of course arrive into the hushed cavern of the small church, at least seven of us guaranteed, the odd one may have been missing for one reason or another, after our longish walk. It seemed no coincidence that usually the only spaces left would be at the front area of the church. We would move in to the church, under the usually frowning stare of the other ‘Christian’ parishioners and make our way down the side of the pews. I always felt it was glares and stares that followed us, but occasionally I caught a glimpse of sympathy (strange creatures these catholics).

Our arrival seemed to coincide especially when the mass was just starting, and everyone was taking their seats after the opening entry by the priest and alter boys (more on that later). So, there we were, slowly trying to ‘sneak’ down to the spaces passing all those standing when the priest having reached the assigned position would turn and say “Please be seated’. Everyone sat. And there we would be, exposed. The only people standing in full view of all the ‘good’ people. The ones who had arrived with plenty of time (probably in their cars).

(Continued tomorrow)

Passing the good word

So we would walk to church every Sunday. Hail, rain, wind or shine. And it often rained. Which meant we would feed into the church, dripping wet or simply, heavily damp. Sitting like wet church mice in a row, listening to the sermons and partaking in the prayers and songs. I was always surprised how those good ‘Catholics’ with whom we shared the pews in the church, as we slowly steamed dry from our walk there (if we were lucky enough to get a seat near one of the gas heaters that is), would nod their heads sagely to the preachings of the priest. Listening to him talk about good Christian values and raising praise to the God almighty. Delivering a sermon that would make them think hard about how they lived their daily lives. And then, when it was time to leave, they would walk out to their cars, thanking the priest for the sound advice, smiling and caring, before hopping in, then driving past our family heading slowly back home. Some lived no more than a door or two away from us, but would simply stare as they drove past, heading home to their ‘Christian’ household.

Occasionally one or two would stop to offer the girls or my mother a ride home. But I could count those instances on one hand.  Generally we would be left to trudge back through the rain, or sleet, becoming more and more the ‘drowned rats of the valley’. I often calculated in my head around what time many of those who drove past us would have arrived home and what they would be doing. I know two kms should not be considered very far, about three thousand steps, but as I mentioned we were small children and some were smaller than others. Their five or six thousand steps could slow us down considerably.

I recall it was often the small conversations that made the journey pass, as each of us walked with another. We certainly talked about all sorts of things, and generally we were happy. Occasionally we sang as we walked. My older sisters had good voices and they were easy to listen too. I think I learnt the words to ‘California Dreaming’ while walking backwards and forwards from church.

There were times that our father joined us in going to church, but I seem to recall he stopped going some time before I reached my early teens. I remember trying to raise that as an argument for not going myself. I believe the term ‘heathen’ was used by my mother in the counter argument, whether that was myself, or my father I cannot recall.

It was also a challenge for my mother taking several small children into the hallowed space of the church. Particularly when there were choirs involved.

(Continued tomorrow)

Pilgrimage? No just got wet a lot

It was interesting that we were brought up as Roman Catholics. Actually for a number of years we thought everyone was. There was no real discussion of any other religions, except my mother’s occasional ingracious sneer, ‘Bunch of heathens’.

I didn’t understand exactly whom she was referring to, but can only assume, it was anyone who wasn’t Roman Catholic. Or liked music other than Elvis (just kidding Mrs Dwyer/Mills).  Actually the phrase,‘Bunch of heathens’, was used very regularly by my mother to describe a lot of things which were not on par with her ‘English’ heritage. After living her first 16 years in the United Kingdom, she left, to arrive in New Zealand, where, apart from a few years in Australia, she has lived for over half a cent…. (whoops, nearly let that slip out). She has lived for the greatest majority of her life in New Zealand. Yet she has always retained the ‘quintessential Englishness’. And yes, it definitely exists. We grew up with it. (Much more on that in later blogs)

So, we were discussing, Religion. It suits some, angers others and is forced upon so many, who are really, in most cases I have encountered, not interested (a bit like politics really). They don’t want to deny others the right to their religion, they just don’t want that particular persons rules of religion forced upon them. Unfortunately ours was. We were placed full-square into the Roman Catholic traditions and by method of repeated absorption, extremely, constantly repeated, we were expected to become just that. A good, solid, Roman ‘Pope honouring’, Commandment respecting, church going, bible reading, and so on, and so on, and, a Catholic. Since then, having read major parts of the bible, and currently reading it in combination with several other religious works of various faiths, I find many similarities. Love one another, be kind, be truthful and do not harm. But what we see in the world today must be what happens when these are interpreted by self serving religious advisors (in some religions), then those concepts appear to become abused and confused.

But back then we were young, impressionable and malleable (sort of) The regular early morning Sunday mass attendance to be done in all weather, and Dunedin had all weather, particularly in the winter. Freezing mornings, freezing rain, freezing snow, freezing sleet, freezing hail, sometimes I think the sun was just freezing. But we would be roused from our sleeps with instructions to dress tidily (Sunday best) and of course, accordingly. Then out into the cold morning and a walk (or wet trudge) to the church, which was just over 2km’s away (I know it was, I measured it on google earth® just now). I believe I have already mentioned that we did not own a car. The buses did not run Sunday mornings and so, we walked, each way, 4km’s. The Dwyer clan on their way to church, passing all the non-believers and ‘heathens’.

(continued tomorrow)

The back door entered

The back door next to the laundry led into the kitchen, mainly filled with the kitchen table and the long green coloured bench four of us sat upon on one side of the table. A large stove, where the heavy lidded hotplates of the cook top sat waiting to be raised as dinner was prepared. The rest of the room held the remaining chairs and the kitchen sink, where many a dish had been washed, by many a complaining child, myself included. Right now I would have happily stood at the sink washing a month’s worth of dishes, rather than be where I was now. Although there was nothing to say I wouldn’t be washing a years worth of dishes as a part punishment for what had happened.

There was one chair in that room of which we were all too frightened to sit on and to go into explaining that will take more than a paragraph or two, so I will write more about that later. For now just think of it as an older cream coloured vinyl covered wooden seat with it’s own name. I believe my mother must have been currently sitting in the lounge as I heard the small sliding hatch open from the kitchen side and my fathers voice say simply “Well?” There was a quiet mumbling reply from my mother, carrying to me, despite the softness, which I did not hear the end of. The hatch was closed and I heard my father move down the hall to the lounge door. The door opened, my Father must have stepped inside, for then I heard the door close.

Have you ever noticed that despite the fact humans often needed to pinpoint sounds for purposes of survival (just as I did now), and despite 80,000 years of evolution, we haven’t really developed a great facility for it? Sure we can get the general idea where it came from, unless there is a solid object nearby, and then, nine times out of ten, we will be misdirected to where the sound didn’t come from. Meanwhile the Sabre toothed tiger has padded quietly up behind us to await our turning and seeing it face to face. Faced with the other instinct ‘Fight or flight’, no doubt most ancestors would have fainted and become dinner.

The quiet discussion between my father and mother followed for some time. I waited. Tense. Fearful. And guilty of nothing. I’m serious. It was after all, my brothers’ fault. For not staying at home as he was supposed to have done. I had not actually done anything wrong in my actions. In my mind of course, with those good old catholic guilt anxieties throwing themselves forward unnecessarily, I was a turmoil of guilt ridden, gut wrenching, hand wringing, self blaming, self loathing, brother damaging, a genocidal criminal.
 (continued tomorrow)