IN MY MOTHER’S EYES...

My Mother aged 18 years

My Nana...aged 18 years and below, me at 18 years

La Boite Theatre in the Round

When I was a little girl with pigtails and a few freckles scattered across my nose I loved watching my mother adeptly apply her make-up as she readied to go to work, or when she was just off “down town” to do the shopping.   The drawers of her duchess contained a multitude of lipsticks, powder, powder compacts, foundation, creams, lotions, eye-brow pencils, mascara, nail polish and every other accompaniment necessary.  

To a little girl, my mother’s duchess was an “Alice in Wonderland” world of wonders; as was a varnished box, about 18-inches square in size that sat on a shelf in her wardrobe.  I loved rummaging through that box filled with her costume jewellery. Doing so was a magical mystery tour; one which I never tired of exploring.  

In years gone by, the box had been a medicine box.  A red cross on one of its sides gave hint to its original purpose.  The lid at the top slid open.  I remember it well.  

I think during the war years - World War 11 - the box, filled with medial supplies, was probably kept in their backyard air raid shelter at the home in Elphinstone Street, North Rockhampton. 

It was the home my mother was raised in, and where my older brother and I lived briefly after we were born, before Mum, Nana, Graham and I went off to live at Slade Point, via Mackay for a couple of years.  From there we moved to Gympie when I was three years old.  

Our mother’s father, our grandfather - who passed away before I was born - was a local air-raid warden.  Their neighbours shared the shelter when the sirens screamed through the air, warning of pending danger.

The term “Down town” was always used when going shopping in Gympie’s main street, Mary Street.  Mary Street was literally down in a valley.  And to get there from all angles, the townsfolk had to walk “down” to get to town. 

In those days of the Fifties and Sixties, the days of my childhood and teen years, there were no shopping centres dotted around in various other areas of the town as there are today.

Corner stores were...yes...on corners...and some others were not on corners... but if one wanted to do a “major” shop, then “down town” into Mary Street they went.  And, to do so, everyone back in those days “dressed” for the occasion. 

 

Mum never entered the public domain not prepared to set her high-heeled-clad feet in said domain.  Neither did our Nana, but Mum, in particular, was the “star dresser”.

My mother took pride in her appearance, but she wasn’t vain.   

Mum, a tall, slim, very attractive woman, had a “good figure”, as was the term used back then.  She walked with grace and dignity. 

   

Her obvious grace was no doubt honed by her dance classes, both ballet and tap, which she diligently attended throughout her childhood and teenage years. 

Before marrying, and henceforth introducing my now late brother and me into this muddled-up world, Mum worked in “Kirbys”, which was, in those days, a large, family-owned department store in Rockhampton. 

Our mother was born in Gympie, but, as I mentioned previously, was raised in Rockhampton.   She was around 18 months old when the family left Gympie to reside in Rockhampton.  Her younger brother, our uncle Dudley, was born in Rockhampton.

My grandfather was a butcher

.

Both my brother and I were born in the central Queensland city. “Rocky”, Queensland fourth largest regional city, is known not only as the “Beef Capital of Australia”, but it’s also well-known for being situated on, or fractionally north of, the Tropic of Capricorn.

Kirby’s department store, among other things, was dedicated to fashion. Their in-house fashion parades were very popular with their loyal customers.  Over the years she was in their employ, my mother was Kirby’s in-house mannequin (not one that stood, transfixed in the shop window display, not blinking an eye), but a red-bloodied, red-haired, strutting/gliding, stylish, real live human one.

In those days of yore, “mannequin” was the more familiar word used; the word “model” not so much, if at all. 

As well as showing off the new season’s dresses, blouses and skirts, Mum was also the store’s underwear and swimwear model.  On a wall I have a lovely framed photo of my mother modelling a two-piece bathing suit. The photo-shoot was many years before bikinis hit our beaches and catwalks.  Mum, aged 18 or 19 years at the time, was one of the first, if not the first, to model a two-piece swimsuit in a Queensland fashion parade.

Further on down the track, during my childhood, Mum modelled for various Gympie dress salons when they held parades to show off new fashions for the up-coming season. 

My mother styled her shoulder-length, rich auburn hair with the finesse of a trained hairstylist.  Not only did she make her own clothes, but she also made mine.  Our Singer treadle sewing machine was rarely idle.  Mum was handy with knitting needles, as well.  Nana sewed, too; and Nana was a dab hand with a crochet hook.

Our father never played a role in my older brother’s life, except very briefly when
Graham was still a little boy.  Our father was never part of my life. 

He, our father and our mother separated when she was pregnant with me.  Graham was three months short of turning three years of age when I was born.  Our parents later divorced. 

My brother and I were born during the war years...the Second World War.  Life everywhere, of course, had been turned upside down, not only here Down Under.

From the moment they went their separate ways, our father had nothing to do with us.   

However, throughout our childhood and beyond, both our mother and our grandmother never said a bad word against our father.

While raising my brother and me, with the help of her mother, our Nana, the four of us lived together. The Famous Four against the world – Nana, Mum, Graham and me. 

  

Mum worked hard to feed, clothe and keep a roof over our heads.  She was never out of a job.  She was a barmaid throughout our childhood; and a damned good one, too.  Along with performing that role, for a few years during the winter months, Mum rose at the crack of dawn, or before, to go with a band of others to farming areas surrounding Gympie to do the back-breaking, finger-chilling job of bean-picking. Frost-bite was never factor to be considered.

We lived and were raised in a humble, rented two bedroom flat.   Graham’s “bedroom” as such, was the little enclosed “front” verandah.  I shared a small bedroom with Nana, while the main bedroom was our mother’s.

Later on, a year or so after my brother commenced working, he rented the middle flat (there were three flats in the building).  Our coffers had increased...so, we expanded!  We’d taken over two flats of the three!  There was no stopping us!

For a number of years, during our school hours, Nana cleaned the houses of others. Also, for a time she was a cleaner, in the mornings, at Gympie’s Empire Hotel. 

Both women never shirked from work, nor did they ever avoid their responsibilities...Graham and me.  

Both women never lost their sense of humour, nor did they lose sight of life’s good values. 

My mother passed away in 1974. Nana passed away two years later in 1976. 

It’s a long time since I’ve physically wished them “Happy Mother’s Day”. 

Not a day goes by I don’t think of them; not a day goes by I don’t miss them.  I miss Mum’s fieriness.  She was a true redhead through and through. 

I believe the reason she was an expert angler was she, too, always took the bait.  My brother and I loved to “stir” our mother.  Mum never failed to bite.  Scolding us for our teasing, the glint in her eyes was evidence of the amusement she tried to disguise. 

I miss my mother’s wicked sense of humour.  I miss Nana’s calmness; her strength of being.  

My recall of the Tuesday evening Mum and I went together to see the movie “Imitation of Life”, which starred Lana Turner, Sandra Dee, John Gavin and Susan Kohner has remained a vivid memory.  At the time – 1959 - I was still attending high school.  Inconsolable, I howled all the way home from the picture theatre.  I’m pretty sure Mum decided there and then she’d henceforth accompany me to comedies only.  

In the late Sixties, Mum and Nana left Gympie to live in Slade Point, via Mackay to be closer to my brother and his expanding young family.  I was living in Brisbane. Separately, they’d visit me for brief holidays of two to four weeks.   

The last time Mum stayed with me in Brisbane was early in 1974.  Nana remained in Slade Point.  My mother stayed on and on.  Nana and I thought she was never going to go home.  I wasn’t bothered by her lengthy, extended visit that seemingly had no end in sight.  Actually, we three, Nana, Mum and I laughed about it.  Mum passed away, unexpectedly, in August of 1974...perhaps she knew or sensed something we didn’t.

During one of Mum’s visits in the early Seventies she and I went to a matinee at the newly-opened La Boite Theatre in Kelvin Grove, a Brisbane suburb, to enjoy its live production of “Macbeth”.  An afternoon of Shakespeare started us off quoting the Bard to each other for the next couple of days - " misquoted" is probably closer to the mark! 

And then there was an afternoon, I’ll never forget.  At the end of my working day, Mum and I had agreed to meet in the “Ladies’ Lounge” at the Carlton Hotel in Queen Street, Brisbane for a couple of afternoon cocktails. 

Mum was dressed in a new, very stylish pantsuit I’d given her as a gift.  It was the first time she’d worn it.  The pantsuit was a beautiful, rich green, a colour that suited my mother with her natural red hair.  The pantsuit was a Carla Zampatti design. 

(In 1971/72 the national fashion company for whom I worked contracted Zampatti to design a range of women’s clothing.  She visited our showrooms and offices in Brisbane around that time,  by invitation, for the launch of the new range.  At the time, it was her first ever visit to Brisbane.  By that stage I'd added the catering feather to my "cloak of many colours" , or to my "cap of multi-tasks" in my position with the company.  I catered for the function/fashion parade we hosted that evening, and was thrilled to meet Carla, and to have her eat the food I'd prepared.   She was stunning-looking, very pleasant woman

Italian-born Carla Zampatti (Carla moved to Australia with her family when she was 8 years old), is one of Australia’s most influential fashion designers).  

The waitress who served our drinks at The Carlton asked Mum and me to leave because my mother was wearing a pantsuit! 

Way back when...in the 30s and 40s, Marlene Dietrich and Kathryn Hepburn tossed convention aside, and scandalised the conservative dressers in the meantime, but despite the public’s disapproval of androgynous women, they snubbed their noses at them, and more power and admiration to them for doing so.  

In the early Seventies, in Brisbane, and elsewhere, some still turned their nose up at women wearing pantsuits or classy slacks in public.  (Including the young bar girl at Brisbane’s rather snobby, Carlton Hotel who took exception at a well-groomed woman  who dared to sit in the illustrious Ladies' Lounge dressed in a pantsuit)!

Politely pointing out my mother and I were enjoying a quiet drink, disturbing no one, I refused her request.  I also passed comment on how well-dressed my mother was.   

If the lass had been capable of reading through the lines she would've picked up my subtle nuances that both Mum and I were dressed better than she was!  However, I kept my tone and response courteous.  More flies are caught with honey, than with vinegar.

At our leisure – very leisurely - we finished our drinks, after which we left for greener, more welcoming pastures.  We moseyed on to the then legendary National Hotel where we were greeted by the equally legendary, flamboyant barman, Warren, the host of the popular, well-patronised cocktail bar named in his honour – “Warren’s Bar”. 

Mum and I had many fun times together, as did Nana and I.  

From the moment I left home to live in Brisbane - at the age of 20 years, in late July, 1965 – not a week went by I didn’t write and post a lengthy letter to Mum and Nana...hand-written letters.  There were occasions I wrote to Mum and Nana twice a week, depending of the amount of “news” I had to relate.  They responded in kind.

Mum and Nana remain secure in my heart.  Both were guiding lights who taught me wrong from right. 

Mum’s Breakfast Strata:  Chop 300g spinach. Cook 1-1/2c finely chopped onion, salt, pepper and 1/4tsp nutmeg over mod-heat, 4-5mins; add spinach; remove from heat. In buttered shallow, ceramic baking dish spread 2c 1-inch cubes of Italian or

French bread; top with 1/3^rd spinach mixture. Sprinkle with 3/4c coarsely grated Gruyère and Swiss cheeses (or cheddar); repeat layering twice, ending with cheeses. Whisk together 2-3/4c milk (or half milk/half cream), 12 large eggs, 2tbs Dijon; season; pour over strata. Chill overnight. Let stand 30mins; bake in 175C oven, 45-55mins. Stand 15mins before serving.

Breakfast Cups: Lightly spray 6 cup muffin tin. Roll out 6 slices of bread of choice until thin. Cut out a 4-5 inch circle from corner of each piece. Save scraps to fill holes in the toast cups. Cut circles in half; lightly butter each piece. Place small scraps of bread in tin to cover 2/3^rd of base; place 2 circle bread halves into each cup. Load in spinach, 1 tomato slice, grated cheese, chopped, cooked bacon; crack 1 egg on top; season. Bake in 190C oven, 15mins.

Semolina Pancakes with Cardamom Rhubarb & Red Grapes: Combine 1 cup golden caster sugar, juice and peel of 1 mandarin, 4 crushed cardamom pods, seeds of 1  vanilla bean or 1tsp vanilla paste and 1-1/2c water in saucepan over med-heat; stir until sugar dissolves; bring to boil. Reduce heat; simmer 10mins; remove peel and cardamom; add 1 bunch rhubarb cut into 5cm pieces; cook 2mins; remove from heat; stand 10mins; add 100g halved red grapes. Combine 200g semolina, ½ plain flour, 10g dried yeast and 1tsp ground ginger. Whisk together 1 egg, 1 yolk, 150ml milk,, 1/4c honey and 200ml hot water. Add to dry ingredients, beat for 5mins. Stand for 30mins. Make pancakes. Serve brushed with butter, topped with fruit; with Crème fraîche and honey served separately.  

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!

 

REGULARITY IS THE KEY TO A KEY POSITION

Central Hotel, Normanton

Grand Hotel, Biggenden

One of Collinsville's Murals, honouring the coal-mining history of the town

Every pub has its regulars. In pubs everywhere there are clones of Cliff and Norm, the pair who kept us entertained in the brilliant TV comedy “Cheers” sit at public bars. 

A fixture at the bar, the regular holds court every day on “his” bar stool, not only is his butt imprinted on the stool, so too, invisibly is his name. The stool is firmly planted, always, in the same spot at the bar.  Don’t move it an inch this way, or two inches that way, he will know; and he will let you know he knows. Woe beholds anyone who dares take his place and stool at the bar.   Those who are so bold (read “stupid”) to do so, do it at their own peril - no prisoners taken; no quarter given!

In previous posts over the years I’ve written about my brief tenure, in the late Eighties, as relief manager at the Central Hotel, Normanton, a small outback town in Queensland’s Gulf Country. 

Very quickly, within my first couple of days at the hotel, I learned who sat where at the pub’s public bar; who held pride of place and who the come-what-may-take-your-chances’ patrons were.  The latter were of no less importance, but they had to know their place – at the bar. 

Similar applied in the “Black Bar”...the bar some of the local Aboriginals, at their own choosing, claimed as their bar.  Everyone, black, white, brindle, purple or pink were free to drink in either the public bar, but many Aboriginals who patronised the pub preferred the “Black Bar”. They had christened the bar accordingly.   

If those who follow the “politically-correct” line; those who like to jump up and down about anything and everything (perhaps a trampoline would be the solution to their urges); who like to make mountains out of molehills when neither are necessary, or warranted...if they had their way...they'd probably be screaming for a name change, saying it was in bad taste.  Get the facts first...

However, it was the local indigenous patrons, the pub's Aboriginal drinkers who named the bar accordingly, not the whites.   

Some others opted to drink at the “Mango Lounge” only - that meant sitting in the red dirt under the mango trees in the pub’s yard.  They never set foot into the hotel, not the public bar, nor the Black Bar. Again, where they drank their liquor was their choice and theirs alone.  It was, perhaps not set in cement, but it was set in the red, savannah soil.

All the above I’ve described in previous posts.  If my repetition annoys, and appears redundant, I apologise.

Without fail, every afternoon, around 5.05 pm, “Rooster”, a local butcher walked into the pub to claim his spot at the public bar.  Miraculously, seconds before his arrival, “Rooster’s” place at the bar was cleared, free for him to take up residence.  From there he held sway over his domain and loyal subjects.

Like many others in those remote areas, “Rooster” was a character; one I was glad I had the good fortune to meet.  A nice fellow, probably in his mid to late fifties, it was hard to even hazard a guess – his life was etched on his face – “Rooster” was a gentleman of the first degree.  With a dry sense of humour, he had many stories to tell, with a store of others he kept to himself, no doubt. I often wondered how he’d ended up in Normanton, miles and miles away from whence he’d originated.   Such questions I kept within myself. 

Everyone, or almost everyone, in areas similar to Normanton and its surrounds has an interesting story, or more to relate.   There are some among them who prefer to keep their stories private and untold, for reasons known only to them.

For a few weeks in the early Eighties I assisted two friends who owned the Grand Hotel in Biggenden.  Unexpectedly, their chef had scarpered overnight, leaving his job and the town without prior warning.  An SOS was sent out to me. 

Post haste, the very next day off to Biggenden I went.

The pub, too, had its regulars.  Daily, they sat in their ‘reserved’ places.  Some others, with their ladies in tow, preferred the beer garden to the public bar; but the public bar was most popular with the menfolk. 

I’d been told intriguing stories about “Sully”, a stockman from a cattle station.

“Sully” returned to civilisation every six months or more. His visits were legendary. His presence so overpowering the regulars left their prized places at the bar. En masse they’d head to the other pub up the road to escape him.  Enough was enough already, they figured.  

 “Sully” arrived in town determined to make up for his months off the grog.

Once his vocal chords were lubricated, and on the way to further lubrication, he wouldn’t shut up. That’s when the migration began.

When “Sully” realised he was left sitting solo at the bar, off he’d go to the other pub.   

Upon his arrival, the exodus began again, in reverse.

The pedestrian traffic in Biggenden’s main street was busiest when “Sully” came to town.  Back and forth from pub to pub, patrons, disgruntled regulars and “Sully” passed each other.  

“Sully” came to town while I was cooking at the pub.  

His unheralded visit made things interesting indeed because at that stage the pub in which I was cooking was the only pub in town.  The other pub had burned to the ground a couple of months previously. 

When "Sully" turned up at the Grand Hotel that day the drinkers immediately got a dose of indigestion.  There was no escape...or so they thought! 

Not one to blow my own trumpet, but, I will in this instance because it was I who came to their rescue and saved the day, or rather, saved the night!

No introduction was needed when “Sully” appeared at my kitchen door that memorable morning.   

Not only had his reputation preceded him, his description had, too.   

There was no mistaking who the tall, rangy, bandy, weather-beaten man, clad in dusty, well-worn R.M. Williams jeans and riding boots leaning nonchalantly against the door frame was.    

His legs were bowed from his many years of being on horseback.  Most of "Sully's" time was spent with his legs wrapped around the trunk of a horse, not often were they used for walking purposes. 

“Sully” tipped his battered Akubra, and with a half-smile on his face was about to introduce himself, but before he did, I jumped the gun, and said: “G’day, Sully!”  

The expression on his face showed the surprise he felt at my knowing who he was without introduction.  

“Sully” didn’t have a regular spot at the bar.  He was very fluid.  Either he moved from one stool, one area to another, or the other patrons moved from one end of the bar, up and down, back and forth when they tired of him and his ramblings.  However, they were a captive audience, and couldn’t move very far from his reach; and definitely not to the other pub, because it no longer existed. 

Having ammunition to work with, I knew what needed to be done to solve the unfolding dilemma.

Noticing the mood in the bar was changing, and changing rapidly I loaded my imaginary shotgun, and walked down the short hallway to the doorway leading into the public bar.  I called out to “Sully”, informing him his dinner was ready.   

The first couple of times I gave him notice he waved me off, saying he’d be there in a moment.  I knew that was never going to happen; that the "moment" would never arrive.

The third time I appeared at the doorway I knew “I’ll be there in a moment, dearie” wasn’t an option; not one I was going to accept, anyway.

Firmly, not loudly - not in the tones of a “fish wife”, nor those of a “screaming banshee” - but loud enough for “Sully” to hear...and understand the intonation...I demanded he come to the kitchen “now” to eat his dinner!  

He was being given his third chance, and like the old joke about the horse and its three chances, there would not be a fourth chance!

With his tail between his legs, meekly “Sully” followed me back to the hotel’s kitchen, and sat down at the table without further ado.  

It took all my power to smother the amusement I felt inside me.  If he'd had the slightest inclination that I could see the funny side of what was going on before me, I would've lost him, there and then!

And there, at the kitchen table, he remained eating his dinner like a duly reprimanded contrite child.  As soon as he finished eating, he rose,  pushing back his chair.  He thanked me very much, and retreated upstairs to his room, where he remained for the rest of the evening.  Shortly after sun-up, “Sully” left town to head back to his workplace, on one of the surrounding cattle stations.  I never saw him again. 

The pub’s regulars were so thankful it was as if they were prepared to worship at my feet for my good deed; to crown me Queen of Biggenden.  They found it difficult to believe I’d accomplished the almost-impossible feat the previous evening; but achieve it I had.   

It had been “Sully’s” briefest visit to town ever...one day and one night. It had never been done before.   History had been made.  He’d always stayed two or three days...and nights.  I learned,  further down the line from my friends, that Sully didn't return to the pub for months!

The problem, in reality, was an easy one to solve.  I didn't know how anyone hadn't come up with it long before that particular evening.  Like most drinkers, "Sully" didn't like to drink on a full stomach, after eating a big meal...so the solution was - "feed the man!"  And feed him a big meal I did!

Peace settled over the bar once again...all was well. The regulars sat at their regular spot without fear of having to move...and then move again....ad infinitum...

Pub regulars are an interesting lot.   

When I was cooking at the “Town & Country Hotel-Motel” in Collinsville, the coal-mining town, back in the mid-90s, regulars had their regular spot at the bar, too.  

Two of the pub’s most regular regulars reminded me of “Heckle and Jeckle”, the unforgettable pair of mischievous, talking magpies created by Terrytoon Animation Studio back in 1946.  “Heckle and Jeckle” kept us kids entertained throughout the Fifties at the Saturday afternoon matinees. 

The Collinsville “Heckle” and “Jeckle” arrived promptly at 10 am, each morning...at pub’s opening...without fail, and there they sat for a few hours.  They were usually gone by 1 pm or, at the latest, 1.30 pm. 

Each time I walked from the kitchen to one of the cold rooms to get whatever I needed for cooking purposes, I would see them at the far end of the hallway, across the bar.  We’d nod, smile and give a wave each time.

Then panic hit the pub one morning!  The clock struck 10, and to everyone’s surprise, only one of the old “magpies” turned up!  Time passed and the missing bloke was still missing.  It was something that had never happened before!  Upon investigation, of “Jeckle” who had turned up as usual, he had no idea where his mate was; nothing to offer to shed light on the mystery.

A search party was being formed, but fortunately, the following morning “Heckle” returned to his place at the bar, at 10 am.  Everyone descended upon him, firing question left, right and centre.  There was no escaping the third degree.  He’d had a doctor’s appointment in Bowen the previous day, and had forgotten to tell anyone!  

A harsh lesson was learned by him that day...and he never repeated a similar misdemeanour again!

Regulars are part of a pub.  Regulars become part of the woodwork; and if they don’t turn up for any reason, they are missed.

Regularity is a good thing.  It’s better to be a regular than irregular.

Chicken & Prunes: Add 1 chopped onion and 1tbs chopped garlic to pot; sprinkle with1tbs each paprika, cumin, powdered ginger, salt and pepper. Add 200g pitted prunes, 3/4c natural yoghurt and 1c chick/veg stock; place about 1.5kg chicken leg quarters on top; spoon liquid over chicken.  Bake uncovered, in 175C oven 1 to 1-1/2hrs.  Baste chicken a few times during cooking. Skim off any fat, if required.

Pork-Prune Meatballs: Combine 455g pork mince, 2tbs finely chopped prunes, 2tsp finely chopped shallots, 1tsp chopped sage, 1/4tsp ground coriander, salt, pepper and 1tbs white while; knead until mixed. Chill 45mins or overnight.  In 2tbs portions, roll pork mixture into smooth balls, about 1-1/4-inch diameter.  Melt butter and a little olive oil in pan; sauté meatballs in pan, not touching, over med-heat; cook about 2mins. Decrease heat; turn over balls; cook 16-18mins. Add 2tbs white wine to pan; deglaze. Transfer meatballs to platter.  Remove pan from heat; add 1-1/2c thick yoghurt; whisk; stir in 2tbs chopped fresh dill; pour sauce over meatballs.

Prune-Banana-Walnut Loaf : Preheat oven, 170C. Lightly grease and line loaf tin. Place 250g roughly-chopped pitted prunes, 1tbs golden syrup and 150ml water into saucepan; gently warm, mashing prunes with back of fork; cool. In bowl, beat together 75g unsalted butter and 75g caster sugar until pale and fluffy; add 2 eggs, beating well; fold in 3 mashed, ripe bananas, 150ml milk, 100g chopped walnuts, 1tsp ground all spice and prune mixture; combine well; sift in 175g S.R. flour; gently fold into batter; spoon into loaf tin; arrange walnut halves on top; bake 50-55mins. Brush with extra syrup when still warm.  

Prune-Banana-Almond Smoothie: Blend until smooth, 2 ripe bananas, 1tbsl flax seed powder (meal), 5 almonds, 5 prunes and 1 cup chilled milk; then had a further cup of milk; blend to combine well.  Other non-dairy milk can be substituted.
 

A painting by the late, wonderful Aussie artist,  d'Arcy Doyle