family

New Australians

I was born in a major rural city in central Victoria. We lived a dozen miles or more away from that city, in a rural district, where my mum Daisy was the Postmistress and telephone exchange operator of an old fashioned manual telephone exchange. Back in the days when the switchboard consisted of a bunch of plugs on weighted cords that would be placed into a hole on the switchboard for the residence to be called. The handle on the side of the exchange would be cranked just so many times to let the person being called know that they were wanted. A long time ago.

Mum (Daisy) and dad (Harry) who are both deceased now had emigrated to Australia in 1957 as ten-pound Poms. On the trip out there was my elder brother Teddy and one of my elder sisters Sal. Another sister, Barbara, stayed in England for some reason, she was supposed to join us later after we were settled, that never happened for some reason. I've never really found out why and as a result I've never met her (but that's another story). Of course, I was on that trip too, making my mum's life difficult carting me about, the first to be born in Australia a few months down the track. After me came a little brother that never came home from the hospital as he was stillborn, he just didn't make it, but that used to happen quite often back then. I often wondered what it would have been like to have had a little brother to share my life with, but it wasn't to be. However, life goes on and a few years later, mum brought home a little sister for me, Joanne. I remember I was so excited about the prospect, I wanted mum and dad to call her "Pink Lemonade".  It was at that point in time the best thing I could think of, so surely it would have been a great name. I do believe there's a very famous singer these days that goes by the name of Pink  (obviously, I was a tad ahead of the times).

Harry was a British Army veteran and before the war, he had been an English dairyman through and through. He dearly loved dairy cattle, but work of that nature was hard to come by here in Australia during the fifties, especially for a Pom. Harry had served as a soldier fighting shoulder to shoulder with the Aussies, both at Tobruk and at El Alamein, he had decided then and there that Australia was where his family would go and his sons grow to be such as the men he had served with.

Mum and dad got off the boat in Melbourne, mum was simply too sick to stay onboard another minute. Mum once told me that she had sat on the stoop of the migrant hostel in the pouring rain whilst dad had gone off looking for work, apparently at that hostel you weren't allowed to stay there during the day, only at night. Mum told me that, at the time, she was pregnant, cold, sick and destitute. The entire sum of the family wealth was something like tuppence ha'penny (about three cents).  We were supposed to have gone to East Gippsland as part of a returned soldier re-settlement plan or whatever it was called back then, but Gippsland was, believe it or not, an arduous five day trip back then, by boat and rough country roads. However, mum was heavily pregnant, sick as a dog, had two small kids in tow and another five days travel would have been the end of her, probably me too. Come to think of it, such a journey was truly beyond her. Within a day or so dad had managed to secure a position at a dairy farm out Werribee way, mum said it sounded like home, so that was where we would go and dad had a job on a dairy. It turned out that things weren't so rosy, in reality, they were bloody crook. The owner of the farm didn't think much of Pommy dairymen, the old cottage they were to rent was apparently pretty ramshackle, damp, dank and draughty. Call it what you will, serendipity or fate, but something happened that was to change our lives.

A couple of months into this miserable existence a few months before I was born, dad had occasion to take some Bobby calves to be sold at the old Newmarket sales yards. While there he made the acquaintance of a well to do woman that was also selling calves. This woman, we all came to know her as "Ma", she had made a considerable fortune selling scrap iron to the Japanese before World War 2 had started. Something for which she held deep regrets. After the war Ma spent considerable time, effort, energy and money on doing whatever she could to help returned servicemen. She said it was her way of trying to make up for selling scrap iron to the Japanese and turned into bombs, guns and bullets, using them to kill our soldiers.

Dad had mentioned to Ma that he was looking for a new position. When pressed for more information he related the circumstances of his family's plight, Ma immediately put dad into her chauffeur-driven Bentley and drove with him back to Werribee. This wonderful woman took one look at the conditions in which my family were living and took great umbrage at it. Ma could see that my mum was in distress at her circumstances and was unwell, my brother and sister both had coughs and colds, a pretty serious thing back then if not properly cared for, especially in children. Ma declared that not for another hour would she allow our family to live under such conditions, as it would be the death of mum and me for sure. Ma told mum and dad to pack their belongings while she went to have a word with the owner of the farm, who in her opinion had spent the war in a protected industry, enjoying a life of relative ease whilst others had fought and died.  Ma was incensed that the owner of the farm would treat a returned serviceman and his family the way ours was being treated. I would love to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation. Ma was not a woman to be messed with. Ma returned shortly and handed dad a handful of pound notes, the equivalent of a few weeks outstanding pays. Supposedly it was from the owner of the farm, but I have serious reservations about the veracity of that statment to this day. My family were then bundled into the Bentley kit and kaboodle and away we went.

Ma said to dad, "Harry, I can't pay you a wage, but you can live rent-free on a place that I own out Bendigo way". "In return, what I will ask of you is that you fence the boundary of the property with timber you cut from the block and clear enough of the land for me to run a few sheep on".  "You can make a quid off  of the kangaroo bounty". "Stay until after the baby has come and you can get yourselves properley settled". What an amazing woman! She will forever hold a special place in our hearts. Sixty years later, most of that fence still stands, the posts cut by hand, shaped with an adze and the sweat of my father's brow.

That place was at the Northern end of the district. I have no memory of it, only the stories I've been told by my family. I surmise that we stayed there long enough for dad to have honoured his commitment to Ma. Dad finished the fences, cleared enough land for some sheep to be run ( I have heard stories about that little excersize) and for mum to secure the opportunity at the Post Office that was just a few miles down the road.

 'The Post Office', the place I recall vividly, where my bit of this story really started. A place where I  remember a childhood of freedom, adventure and even some danger. These things are inextricably linked one to the other. It was where I underwent the gaining of a knowledge of Australia's landscape and its animals. It was where my love of the  bush and this country came into being and where the seeds of a fierce independence took root and grew. Still it abides within me. I'd go so far as to say that the very bones of this land attached themselves to my soul through my small bare feet. I feel it still at sixty. I take my boots off even now and allow my soul to revel in the cherished memories that this land has given me. The love that this hostile land engenders in those that become a part of it is not to be taken lightly.

Meet BB

Meet BB the bull

BB was a bull we once owned, his name was BB short for any of the following, dependent upon  our mood, or his activites at the time  (Black Bull, Big Bull, Big B***, Black B*****), why the variety of expressive names containing expletives as well? Because he was one of the most terrifying bulls I’ve ever come across!

BB was a Black Angus, he weighed in at just on 1000kg, that’s 1000 kilos of bone, muscle, and a real bad attitude. He was lucky he hadn’t wound up at the abattoir as hamburger mince. I often wonder if he really was as nasty as he made out though, but, I wasn’t really going to take any chances with the big sod. Never went into his paddock unless you were either in or on a vehicle or on a horse. I always kept a weather eye on him as to just where the big sod was and I always had my dogs with me. 

Funnily enough, now I think of it, I did have some issues with another beast called Lucky and no two ways about it, that beast really was nasty and believe it or not, that one was a steer called lucky, lucky I hadn’t shot the bastard, probably never forgave me for introducing him to a very sharp knife as a bull calf.

Anyway, back to BB, he was possessive and territorial he had an ego the size of Sydney Harbour and really liked the girls. These were only some of his little issues, he mind you, never saw them as anything to worry about, but by gee, it made life interesting for everybody else around him, typical bloody psychopath. 

If you happened to be walking on the property and old BB was in the vicinity, he would come along the other side of the fence and walk alongside you, with just the wires of the fence separating you.

 Now this wouldn’t have been so bad under normal circumstances, but the big bastard used to get as close to the fence as he could and whilst walking alongside you would do a quick two-step to get ahead of you, turn to face you and offer a challenge to your presence, this would involve some pretty serious pawing of the dirt. throwing dust all over the place, then as you got closer he would lower his head roll his massive shoulders in preparation for a battle of the ages. BB would roll his eyes, dribble streams of saliva, snort and begin to approach you with murder in his eye, this can be somewhat off-putting, I can tell you. You’d find yourself thinking, Jesus I hope that electric fence is working properly. 

You’d be thinking if the sod hits that fence it wouldn’t stop him if he chose to charge.  So you’d keep walking and as you passed him by, he would prance alongside for a bit, whilst rolling his shoulders and puffing out his chest, I must admit he was a damn good looking bull, it was, in fact, the only reason I kept the sod on the place, because he threw awesome calves. When the bugger realized you hadn’t bolted, he would trot ahead and repeat the performance, until you got past his paddock then he would just stand there in the corner and give you the evil eye until you came back past.

This was of course, somewhat disconcerting. My wife and daughter were terrified of the big bastard (mind you, I wasn’t far behind them). Old BB has gone to God by now, but we certainly had our moments. you can read some of them at Amazon.com on your Kindle or download them. He certainly was a characte, co be ready to say G'day to him quite often.

Living with Critters is a captivating glimpse into the often hilarious and sometimes heartwarming, or even tragic interactions between man and beast. Set in the Gippsland region of Australia (The Land Downunder).  Living with Critters is a collection of true stories, full of farm animals, working dogs, Horses, mental sheep, and rambunctious bulls.

Australian native animals and the humans that interact with them all have a part and a story to tell. The author tells of his interactions with a plethora of these unforgettable, real-life animal characters, other people and his family. If you've enjoyed the James Herriot series of All Creatures Great and Small, or you're a fan of  Murray Ball's Footrot Flats cartoon collection, then this is a must read.

 Often the stories related in Living with Critters gives an insight into our world from an animal's point of view. Be ready to laugh, or cry, at the exploits of living and working with animals, but mostly, just enjoy a uniquely Australian story, told by a fair dinkum Aussie.

This blog is the home base for the "Living with Critters" stories and books.

This site will introduce you to the various real-life characters that inhabit the Living with Critters stories,  browse the blogs and  enjoy meeting some new hairy friends.

Some names have been changed for the sake of privacy.

Release dates and general information can be found here, as well as the opportunity to ask any questions you may have.

Updates and links can be found here to the stories and books available on Amazon.com and Kindle.

Regards,

Fred Bear

childhood in the bush

My Childhood in the Bush

In many ways, I consider myself fortunate, to have had my early years living in the bush, a period in time that forged my personality in the crucible of life and left me with such vivid memories.

 I don’t know if it’s true for all people, but I have very clear recollections of my life from the time I was just over 2 years of age. Come to think of it, given some of those memories I sometimes think I’m fortunate to have survived at all! It is hard to imagine what a modern day parent would think if a child of this 21st Century got up to the mischief that I did. The modern day parents would probably have conniptions and need counselling for a few years. Here are some of those memories. To me, they are as fresh as if they were yesterday. I hope you enjoy this little trip down memory lane with  me.

I started school at the age of 4 years, my birthday being in January, so this little adventure was pre-school for me, so at the very most I was 3 years old. I knew I was heading off for school after the coming Christmas period and I was keen as mustard, I remember the schoolmaster coming to the post office to collect his mail, where he and mum discussed the possibility of my attending school in the coming year, even though I was a little on the young side. At the time I reckoned it was my ability to give a credible performance of “doing the twist” that swayed him and secured my attendance. The fact that a special dispensation from the school authorities was needed, because there weren't enough  kids enrolled to justify the school’s continuance, had bsoloutely nothing to do with it. Nope! That little fact had nothing to do with it. Regardless of the circumstances, I knew I was off to school, wow!  I was looking forward to that day.

Well, I wandered around the place rapt with the prospect of hitting the big time and going to school. I pestered mum no end, insisting that she should help me brush up on my reading skills in preparation for the big event coming in the next few months. Mum was an educated woman and also a very capable tutor, I recall many nights sitting by the fireside listening to the tales of Billy Bunter, Biggles, White Fang, Robinson Crusoe, The Old Man and the Sea, not to mention the full collection of Tarzan of the Apes and The Gorilla hunters. I was into science fiction, Jules Verne’s 20,000 leagues under the sea, his Journey to the Centre of the Earth, the adventures of John Carter, the bloke that kept slipping back and forwards to Mars.

 To me, these stories were the bee’s knees of literature! For me, the pièce de résistance was the fact that I had read, understood and enjoyed Isaac Asimov’s I Robot, well before the Christmas break! I read like a little demon, didn’t matter what it was, I’d find something to read, although mum did draw the line at my trying to read all of the mail that came through the place. However, she would let me practice, by reading to who they were addressed and from whom they had been sent. School reppresented to me the opportunity to go somewhere that would allow me to learn everything about everything that ever been recorded by the written word and put into books!

Newspapers, magazines, anything I found laying about the place, I must admit I did often have trouble getting some of the magazines back into their little paper rolls without getting caught. I used to smuggle them out of the post office and have a read of them in my pretend school room (half of an old corrugated iron water tank out in the paddock), most of them made it back to the post office generally unharmed, but well read. Unfortunately, I soon found that the majority of prep grade readers that were part of  the school curriculum that had been loaned to mum by the headmaster/teacher, were definitely somewhat a little on the lack lustre side. I never did work out why people made such a fuss about how good the John & Betty books were. Honestly? I mean why would John and Betty have a terrier dog, yet never speak of it tearing rats to bits, or even chasing rabbits? It was just one of lifes little bits of a dissapointing reality I suppose. But I made up for it on my own time, by reading everything else I could get my hands on.

This was the period of my life when mum played along and let me “take myself to school” and go "on nature walks", these activities were based out of an old rusted out, half water tank in the  back paddock. Generally a reasonably safe place, and in view of the house. Other than for the odd time I had to evict the odd King Brown snake that had moved in for a bit of warmth from the hot iron. I usually achieved this (if they weren’t too big), by standing back and throwing rocks at the tank or beating on it with a big stick. I wasn’t game to tell mum, or I would have been banned from “taking myself to school” for sure! Other than the odd snake, it was a pretty good place.

Mum used to make me a cut lunch, usually consisting of a vegemite sandwich and a home-made jam sandwich on crusty home-made bread all tossed in an old brown satchel bag, where I also kept all of my special stuff for carting about when I went "walkabout" (that's another story). To this day, I still find myself in a dilemma of which to eat or make first, even at sixty years of age. It's always a difficult decision as to which I will eat first. In fact, I still tend to eat them one half of each, alternating between the two.  Maybe that’s why I like baking bread and cooking these days. Fresh bread making day, was a favourite time in my life, in our household, it meant fresh bread with lashings of churned butter and enough honey from our own beehives to satisfy even Winnie the Poo, also another character I didn’t understand, I mean how could a carnivorous bear, be best mates with a tiger and a silly bloody donkey! The rubbish they expected kids to read astounded me even then. However, Winnie the Poohs and his love of honey, although in my opinion it was his only redeeming feature. Pooh and I did share some common ground, I certainly loved our beehives and our bees, so he wasn't that silly after all, I supposed.