Sharing Memories - Mail deliveries in the Outback

My sister waiting for the mailman

For many, the daily visit from the postman, or trip to the post office to collect mail from the post box is of no significance.  However, for those who live in isolated area, the weekly (or sometimes less often) delivery of mail and supplies is an event of importance! For many this is the only link with the outside world for extended periods of time. Today I am Sharing my memories of our outback mailman.

I can still remember the excitement I used to feel, when we caught a glimpse of the cloud of dust advancing along the road to Nuntherungie Station (this could sometimes be seen for quite a few miles), that signaled the imminent arrival of the mail truck. Nuntherungie Station was between Broken Hill and White Cliffs and the mail truck would arrive at our homestead on Saturday mornings, dropping of mail and supplies on its way through to White Cliffs.

The first mailman that I can remember as a young girl was Mr Vincent, a short slightly rotund gentleman who was always dressed in overalls.  Every Friday he would load his truck with orders of bread, vegetables, fruit and other supplies, mail, newspapers and other supplies needed by the properties between Broken Hill and White Cliffs.  He would set out along the red dusty road, stopping at all the Stations along the way.

My sisters and I would await his arrival with great expectations, as he always had a small sweet treat for all the children along the way.  I remember relishing the "Cherry Ripes" that he would pass around when he arrived. As was the bush custom, my mother would brew a pot of tea and have a nice slice of sponge cake, or scones ready for Mr Vincent's morning tea. My mother would enjoy the chat over a cup of tea with our mail man.  Her life on a station was very isolated and it gave her a chance to catch up on news from Broken Hill, and the other properties along the road. 

Among the letters and newspapers there was our weekly subscription to comics for my sisters and I.  I would be on the edge of my seat waiting for the next installment of the school girl mysteries in "Girls Own" and my sisters would pour over their new copies of the "Jack and Jill" comic books.

Also included in our mail would be our next set of lessons from Blackfriar's Correspondence School. Our completed lessons from the previous week would be packaged up, ready for Mr Vincent to take back to Broken Hill, for posting to Blackfriar's head office in Sydney.

June 30 1950, Western Grazier

The truck arrival also meant we would have fresh bread for our sandwiches. The fresh bread that arrived from the Broken Hill Bakery would have to last the week.  So as you can imagine by the end of the week, toast was the best option.  Though I do remember my mother wrapping the loaves in a damp tea towel and heating it int he oven to freshen it up a bit.

Then there was the time when the rain came, and this quite often mean that the mailman would have difficulty getting through to make his deliveries, as the creeks would flood and roads would be cut.  On these occasions, my father would sometimes have to drive through with the tractor and pull the mail truck through a flooded creek or two (or three!).  Heavy downpours would mean that the mail sometimes didn't get through for a couple of days. 

Our outback mailman and his deliveries were very different to the mail delivery experienced by those living in town.  He was more than the person who brought letters and parcels.  His delivery of mail and supplies was also accompanied by news from the outside, a lolly shop experience for the kids and that little chat over a cup of tea for the isolated families along the dusty road between Broken Hill and White Cliffs.

Mr Vincent and his son, with their mail trucks at Nuntherungie Station

Thankful Thursday - Sharing Memories - Here comes the rain!!!

Sheep lined up at water trough 

Last night as I browsed through some of my father’s old slides I reflected on the importance of rain and the impact it had on our lives when we lived on Nuntherungie Station (between Broken Hill and White Cliffs)  as small children.  The average rain fall for this area, in north western NSW, is around 235 mm (9 inches) annually!! Not a lot of rain when you consider the average annual rainfall for Sydney is 1,213 mm (47.59 inches). 

So as you can imagine when the rains did come it was a time for celebration.  I  remember my father turning on the two-way radio the morning after there had been a big storm, everyone from the district calling and reporting how many inches of rain they had, that their dams were full, or that there had been flood waters through their sheds! It was like flock of galahs squawking at a grain spill on the side of the road.  The whole district would be tuned in, hopes refreshed for a better year now that there was water in the dam.

Generally the creeks, line with shaggy old gums were dry except for a few waterholes.  However, when the rain came they would flood. Brown bubbling water would rush down the sandy creek beds, filling all the water holes and flowing into the large dams that were an essential life force for the stock and people living on the property.  Each property, would have a system of huge water dams excavated by earth moving plants, these dams would provide water to the homesteads and would be pumped to the water troughs to provide water to all the stock on the property. In times of drought the level of these damps would be watched closely, often in despair.  The down side of these rain falls would be that they often came on one big rush, washing away fences and cutting through roads and blocking supplies to isolated areas.

Enjoying the novelty of water in the creek

Following a heavy downfall of rain, one of my father’s first tasks was to check on the livestock (mainly sheep) and mend any of the fences that had been washed away. As I mentioned in a previous blog, "Days out with Dad",  I loved to accompany him on these trips, there was nothing like being in a jeep, and having mud and water (instead of dust) splash up on you as went through the water holes and creeks on the property.  The more mud the better it felt!  The flowing creeks and water holes also meant it was time for the children to have some water play!! Something that we didn’t have the opportunity do very often.

One of my favourite memories was of Miss Tapp (the sister of the owner of the property) coming down to our house,  gathering my sisters and myself up to go exploring after the rain. We would head off, bare feet and with our dresses tucked into our bloomers (Yep!! ) to the creek to play in the mud and water.  On one particular time, our mother had just finished making us new white cotton bloomers, and was very dismayed when we returned all muddy brown and dripping in boomers that would for ever remain a light shade of reddy brown.

Water Play in the claypan water hole 

Another paddling adventure was after my dad returned home from one of his post rain tours of the property, he reported that he had found a nice water hole on one of the claypans for the “kids” to play in.  It was decided we should go for family picnic. Lunch packed, we all climbed into the jeep in our swimmers, and headed to the spot where Dad had found the water hole the day before.

However, when we arrived the water had evaporated or drained away, and Dad’s water hole had been reduced to a sheet of water , which was about 2 inches deep!  Not to despair, in we hopped, and splashed and slid around on the muddy clay while Mum organise our lunch.

Of course there are also the stories of isolation and being cut off from supplies, loss of stock and damaged fences and buildings, however, the assurance that the dams were full and there would be water for a few more months far outweighed  the downside!

Thankful Thursday - Childhood Movie Memories - #52SharingMemories -

I am very thankful for all the wonderful memories of my childhood and it would be a shame if these memories were lost so, Sharing Memories is a wonderful way to record your history and the social history of the times that you lived in.  It is these everyday accounts of our lives as children and teens that will some time add colour to our history.

Last year, motivated by Lorine Schulze‘s blog, Olive Tree Genealogy’s prompts of #52 Sharing Memories I started to write some posts on sharing Childhood memories.  I have to admit, I certainly did not meet the 52 posts requirement, however, I really enjoy writing about childhood memories, so will endeavour to write a few more in 2014.  Yesterday, I saw on Lorine's Blog that the prompt for Sharing Memories this week was Movies.   What a great topic!  so I thought I would share a couple of my going to the movies experiences!!

Woolshed 

Growing up in the outback of New South Wales meant that heading off to the movies on a Saturday afternoon with friends was not an option.  However, there was always room for innovation and we still managed to have a “Movie” night every now and then. We were living on Nuntherungie Station, about 120 miles from Broken Hill and 45 miles from the opal mining town of White Cliffs. One of the owners of a nearby property Kurrunera Station had a small plane and his flying licence. Recognising that people of the district were missing out the latest entertainment from the Silver Screen, he thought it would be great to provide the local people with the opportunity to see some of the latest movies.  So arrangements were made with the movie theatre in Broken Hill to every couple of months pick up a copy of a movie, and fly it to his property for a “Movie Night”. 

A movie theatre would be set up in his Woolshed. The word having been spread to all corners of the district  by two way radio and the local people would drive for miles over dusty dirt roads to his property for the big night. 

Wool bale - great Movie seats

The children would all sit together on the bales of wool that were set up in front of the screen, and chatter amongst themselves. One has to remember that these children sometimes went weeks without seeing any other children other than their siblings.  The local graziers would catch up on the latest wool prices or discuss the lack of rainfall and the wives, happy to have an occasion to dress up, would compare notes on their children and life on the land, as they set up the plates of cakes, scones and other goodies for everyone to share at interval.

The first movie I can remember seeing at the Woolshed Picture Theatre was the Disney Movie The Miracle of the White Stallions. It must have had quite an impact on me as I remember being fascinated by the fact that the Lipizzaner horses from the Vienna Spanish Riding School were born black and as they grew older turned white.  I also clearly remember the scenes of the second world war and the valiant effort to save the horses from the Nazis.

The second movie that I remember seeing at the Kurrunera Station Movie Night was not such a big affair.  There had been heavy rainfall in the district and many of the roads were cut. This meant the numbers attending were quite low, so the movie was shown in the homestead.   The movie was, The Titanic, again as I was a young girl  the memories of this movie remained with me for a long time. I remember burying my head in a cushion when the ship went down.  (Lucky it wasn’t the more recent version of the movie, as I might of suffocated.)

A couple of years later our family moved from the White Cliffs district and lived on a number of other properties, one of these was near Gulargambone!  Here was another great movie experience, the outdoor and indoor Magestic Theatre.  In the winter the audience sat inside, however in the summer the screen was set up outside with rows of deck chairs set up for the patrons. Nothing better than sitting in the striped deckchairs, with your bag of popcorn, under the starlight watching the latest movie.  As I was the older sister, my job was to chaperon my three younger sisters on our movie outings.  This certainly limited the  opportunity to sit with any of the boys from school that I fancied.

When I reached high school age, my parents sent me to board in St Faith’s Girls Hostel in Dubbo, so that I could attend Dubbo High School, as they felt it would provide me with better schooling options.  St Faith’s was a Church of England Hostel where about 40 girls from the surrounding districts lived under the guidance of Matron.  Every Friday night, the girls were allowed to go to the local picture theatre, We would all assemble with our 40cents admission at the front of the Hostel after dinner, and our Matron and her Samoyed dog called Yetti, would escort us to the theatre and then meet us at the end of the movie to escort us home.  These were fun times, when I was exposed to all the movies of the late 1960’s, with flower power, spies, Easy Rider, James Bond, Dr Strangelove, to name a few.  There was always the smuggling of hot chips into the back seats of the theatre, hoping the usher wouldn’t be able to smell them, and of course the odd rolling of jaffas down the aisles if the movie was a little boring.

Thank you Lorine for posing the Sharing Memories prompt of “Movies”  it has brought back so many fun memories. I would love to hear others childhood memories of going to the movies as  I am sure there are some good stories out there. 

Sharing Memories - Childhood Memories of Picnic Races at White Cliffs

Horses preparing to race

 As I remember, the vast distances between settlements in outback NSW definitely didn’t seem to place restrictions on the social life of the people living in these areas.  One of the most popular events were the Picnic Races that were quite a regular feature in many of the small settlements. 

The local horse breeders would travel long distances to compete at these events.  All the station owners, and station hands, along with their families, would pack up for the day and head into town for the race meeting and the dance that would be held at the local community hall in the evening. 

Keeping in mind these memories are those of are a young girl and that they are probably from quite a different perspective to that of the older generation,

 this is how I remember it. We would all be dressed in our best casual clothes, and our party dresses and shoes would be packed in the car for the evening event.  Pillows and blankets, and refreshments would be piled into the back of the car, and off we would head on the dusty road to the small opal mining town of White Cliffs. 

 

Opal mines of White Cliffs

The township of White Cliffs consisted of one sparsely settle street, with a pub at one end, a small general store and garage with one petrol pump on the other side of the road. Further along the street the bush nurse’s residence/office, and the local Country Women's Association (CWA) building, a post office and the Town Hall could be found.  Very few of the town’s residents lived above ground, and the town was and is still renown for its underground homes.  Miners dig out their kitchens, bedrooms and living rooms in the earth near their mines, where the temperature is much cooler than the searing summer heat above ground.

The White Cliffs Race track was a few miles outside of the town and consisted of a large dusty track, with roughly hewed wooden railings.  On the outside of the track there were a number of tin sheds, a larger one, where the CWA would serve, tea, coffee and freshly baked scones and cakes , then there were a number of smaller shelters, one acting as the local betting station and another as the bar where cold beer and soft drink was available to quench many dry throats.

It was a great opportunity for all the people of the district to catch up, as the distances between properties often meant it was weeks between seeing other people other than those who worked on the property.  It must have been quite a special time for the women to be able to get together and share stories, as I know in my mother’s case, she and the owners wife were the only adult women on Nuntherungie Station.

For the children, it was a chance to catch up with children other than your own siblings, we would all run off and play around the sheds, check out the horses and later in the day have a few laughs at some of the locals who had visited the beer shack one too many times. 

There would be general buzz around the track as everyone caught up, discussed the weather, lack of rain, prices of wool etc.  Then about every half hour there would be a hush over the crowd, and in the distance you could see a cloud of dust approaching as the horses made their way around the track towards the finish line.  The excited punters would jump up and down, hoping that their horse was at the front of the cloud of dust.  The horses would finally reach the final straight, and all the children would race to the barrier to watch the pounding hooves as they raced by.  Disappointed punters would tear up there betting tickets and head to the beer shed to mourn their lost, and the gentle buzz of conversation would start up again until the next cloud of dust and hooves made its way around the track.

The races over, it was time to wash off the dust and climb into our party gear for the evening “dance” at the local hall.  Younger children were fed, bathed and dressed in their pj’s and tucked into makeshift beds in the cars parked outside the dance hall.  Ladies would dress in their prettiest dresses and high heels, and men would don freshly ironed shirts and pants ready for a night of music and dance.  I was a little older than my sisters so I was lucky enough to be able to stay up a little later, and would sit on the side of the dance floor with one of my friends and watch the couples gliding across the dance floor.  I loved to watch the swishing of the ladies full skirts as they twirled and spun. 

 

Then the best bit of the evening came when the band stopped for a break, fresh hopps and sawdust would be sprinkled across the dance floor (to make it easier for the dancers to “slide”), and while the parents checked on the younger children,  the  older children would take the opportunity to run and slide across the dance floor.  I was not a child who liked to be bundled off to bed when there was a party, and somehow usually managed to be able to stay up until the dance finished.  This was a special treat as I would get to see the last dance of the night.  “The Streamer Dance” as I called it.  It would be announced as the last dance, and rolls of streamers would be handed out to everyone.  As the couples danced, the rolls of streamers would be tossed across the hall, unwinding and covering the dances in a  curly coloured blanket. 

The Dance over, we would be bundled into the car, a space made for me on the back seat amongst my sleeping sisters and we would head home with heads buzzing from the excitement of the day.