Growing Up Poverty Struck and Parish Damned
Without Prejudice
I forget half the things that my Mum used to say, but growing up "Poverty Struck And Parish Damned" was one of them. So was "This Is Not Germany And You Can't Be Lined Up Against A Wall And Shot For What You Say" Mum was a strong woman who had lived through the Second World War and survived.
She was shot at and she lost her fiance virtually in front of her eyes, so she knew what she was talking about.
We were immigrants first and then nomads after Jamie died, 4 years after we had arrived in Australia. His death was to change our lives and we went from wealthy to poor in minutes. Jamies death unhinged my Mothers state of mind like nothing else and she was already fragile.
She couldn't cope with being in Port Augusta any more where Dad had run a successful panel beating business. His neon sign, Ern's Panels was the first in Port Augusta. But once Jamie was dead we began in earnest our travels around Australia. Sometimes we stopped at a place just months and sometimes years. It just depended.
Dad ran from bills like a thief in the night. When we answered the door we had to say we didn't know an Ernie Bruckshaw. Meanwhile Dad would be hiding behind the curtains in the lounge room. There was never enough money, ever. Both my parents were impractical with money. We had high days and holidays when were in the money and no food when we were poor.
Poor was more the norm and starving became a way of life for us. David, George and I looked like biafrans on a bad day, all of our childhoods. When there was no food and no money we ate whatever we could find. Tomato sauce sandwiches, H.P. sauce sandwiches, raw potato, Sugar on bread, an egg hard boiled was a rare treat.
My oldest brother patiently taught me how to make Scottish Tablet, a dry fuge like concotion of condensed milk, suagr and butter. It takes forever to make and you have to stir for what seems like hours. The result when done well is a ripply smooth finish and if done badly turns into crumbles that are not unlike cat litter in appearance, but we would still eat it. He emailed me last year for the recipe so I guess he's making it up there in Darwin.
I became a picky eater, eating only scrambled egg and tomato soup for ages. There was never enough food and at our family table it was a case of grab it first before someone else does. That's not unusual for large families anyway. But for us it was a daily struggle. Mum did her best with what she had. I can remember only having chicken once and it was a pet from the backyard and all of us refused to eat it.
Ian had chopped its head off and we never forgot the headless chook still running around the back yard, the body hanging on the line, dripping blood. Mum swore and cursed as she had to de feather the Bloody thing and had to have boiling hot water from the copper. There were a lot of words we hadn't heard before coming from our red faced and sweating Mother that day.
Dad and Mum were furious we wouln't eat the rare treat but we sat sullen faced at the Christmas table and ate only the vegetables. Our lunches were always a meal of wonder and delight as well. Doorstop slabs of bread and butter with maybe a tomato, an egg, a twist of salt in a twist of greaseproof paper, the rainbow kind. I used to keep my lunch hidden in its brown paper bag and look longingly at the other kids lunches.
I never rememeber an afternoon snack when we arrived home. so we made our own. Shortbread which was sugar, flour and butter, never ever can I eat it now, the smell of warm shortbread is enough to make me gag. One time in Avalon, George and I found a tub of caramel sauce sitting in a nook in the garage. We figured it came from the previous tenants so ate it anyway. The first couple of spoonfuls were divine but we ate too much and were sick after from the sickly sweet taste and I have hated caramel ever since.
Mum made tripe and brains and Jackie liked the brains and the rest of us wouldn't touch them. Mum and Dad would eat the tripe and not us. I can recall going in to the kitchen and Mum was making pigs trotters and I gagged at the thought and ran outside. Liver and onions with bacon was also on the menu and rabbit which was gamey and tough. Horrible both of them. I did like Mums steak and kidney pie, however, and bubble and squeak.
Mum said when she was a child her Dad was served the streaky bacon and the siblings had the fat on bread. We had fat on bread from the roast called dripping sandwiches, beautiful sprinkled with salt. And when we went back to the UK you could buy pork dripping just for the purpose of piling it on bread. It came in small tubs with the brown jelly like stuff on the top, white fat underneath and scrapings of the pork brown and crisp as the bottom layer.
Mum was not a great cook, but she had to provide for her brood so we ate a lot of savoury mince with onion and carrot. It was hot and noursidhing and we soaked up the juices with bread and butter, yum ! I left home at 8, packed my little case and walked down the dark road rather than eat big slabs of cabbage, boiled until it was floppy and soft. I had to go back as I was scared out of my wits and Mum silently served me desset, the offending cabbage had disappeared. Round one to me.
It wasn't just the food that made us Poverty struck and Parish damned, however, it was also our clothes. In the summer for most of my childhood I just wore bathers. Faded red speedos. Jackie older than me by four years wore the navy Jantzens I so coveted but I wasn't old enough. I had a school uniform of course but it was usually a charity one.
I didn't care about clothes then, not like I do now. Nowadays I have a wardrobe bulging with great fashion and I put them on the walls on display as to me Fashion is also art. I love Australian Designer stuff. Alannah Hill, Lisa Ho, Perri Cutten, Adele Palmer, Wayne Cooper. I find UK fashion too hot for our climate, even their tee shirts are thicker than ours.
I love the fifties fashion style the most as it is so feminine and stylish. Nipped in at the waist and flouncy skirts, tight on the bodice and fastened with a belt, love ! I have a big bust, hips and bum, so the fifties fashion covers a multitude of sins. Its so very girly and pretty. I watch all the style shows like Sussanah And Trinny ans What Not To Wear, Gok Wan And What Not To Wear USA and as I love Vintage fashion and shoes I scour the recycle shops for pieces and accesories.
The other part of Being Poor was my Dad used to cover my books. He was a perfectionist and would cover my exercise books with full page pictures cut from The Womans Weekly, then cellophane over the top and they were the biggest hit at school.
He was doing it as we didn't have money for anything else and was not aware he would start a style sensation. He was so lovely my Dad to do that for me, but then he named a star after me when I was born so what else would I expect ?
Love Janette
I forget half the things that my Mum used to say, but growing up "Poverty Struck And Parish Damned" was one of them. So was "This Is Not Germany And You Can't Be Lined Up Against A Wall And Shot For What You Say" Mum was a strong woman who had lived through the Second World War and survived.
She was shot at and she lost her fiance virtually in front of her eyes, so she knew what she was talking about.
We were immigrants first and then nomads after Jamie died, 4 years after we had arrived in Australia. His death was to change our lives and we went from wealthy to poor in minutes. Jamies death unhinged my Mothers state of mind like nothing else and she was already fragile.
She couldn't cope with being in Port Augusta any more where Dad had run a successful panel beating business. His neon sign, Ern's Panels was the first in Port Augusta. But once Jamie was dead we began in earnest our travels around Australia. Sometimes we stopped at a place just months and sometimes years. It just depended.
Dad ran from bills like a thief in the night. When we answered the door we had to say we didn't know an Ernie Bruckshaw. Meanwhile Dad would be hiding behind the curtains in the lounge room. There was never enough money, ever. Both my parents were impractical with money. We had high days and holidays when were in the money and no food when we were poor.
Poor was more the norm and starving became a way of life for us. David, George and I looked like biafrans on a bad day, all of our childhoods. When there was no food and no money we ate whatever we could find. Tomato sauce sandwiches, H.P. sauce sandwiches, raw potato, Sugar on bread, an egg hard boiled was a rare treat.
My oldest brother patiently taught me how to make Scottish Tablet, a dry fuge like concotion of condensed milk, suagr and butter. It takes forever to make and you have to stir for what seems like hours. The result when done well is a ripply smooth finish and if done badly turns into crumbles that are not unlike cat litter in appearance, but we would still eat it. He emailed me last year for the recipe so I guess he's making it up there in Darwin.
I became a picky eater, eating only scrambled egg and tomato soup for ages. There was never enough food and at our family table it was a case of grab it first before someone else does. That's not unusual for large families anyway. But for us it was a daily struggle. Mum did her best with what she had. I can remember only having chicken once and it was a pet from the backyard and all of us refused to eat it.
Ian had chopped its head off and we never forgot the headless chook still running around the back yard, the body hanging on the line, dripping blood. Mum swore and cursed as she had to de feather the Bloody thing and had to have boiling hot water from the copper. There were a lot of words we hadn't heard before coming from our red faced and sweating Mother that day.
Dad and Mum were furious we wouln't eat the rare treat but we sat sullen faced at the Christmas table and ate only the vegetables. Our lunches were always a meal of wonder and delight as well. Doorstop slabs of bread and butter with maybe a tomato, an egg, a twist of salt in a twist of greaseproof paper, the rainbow kind. I used to keep my lunch hidden in its brown paper bag and look longingly at the other kids lunches.
I never rememeber an afternoon snack when we arrived home. so we made our own. Shortbread which was sugar, flour and butter, never ever can I eat it now, the smell of warm shortbread is enough to make me gag. One time in Avalon, George and I found a tub of caramel sauce sitting in a nook in the garage. We figured it came from the previous tenants so ate it anyway. The first couple of spoonfuls were divine but we ate too much and were sick after from the sickly sweet taste and I have hated caramel ever since.
Mum made tripe and brains and Jackie liked the brains and the rest of us wouldn't touch them. Mum and Dad would eat the tripe and not us. I can recall going in to the kitchen and Mum was making pigs trotters and I gagged at the thought and ran outside. Liver and onions with bacon was also on the menu and rabbit which was gamey and tough. Horrible both of them. I did like Mums steak and kidney pie, however, and bubble and squeak.
Mum said when she was a child her Dad was served the streaky bacon and the siblings had the fat on bread. We had fat on bread from the roast called dripping sandwiches, beautiful sprinkled with salt. And when we went back to the UK you could buy pork dripping just for the purpose of piling it on bread. It came in small tubs with the brown jelly like stuff on the top, white fat underneath and scrapings of the pork brown and crisp as the bottom layer.
Mum was not a great cook, but she had to provide for her brood so we ate a lot of savoury mince with onion and carrot. It was hot and noursidhing and we soaked up the juices with bread and butter, yum ! I left home at 8, packed my little case and walked down the dark road rather than eat big slabs of cabbage, boiled until it was floppy and soft. I had to go back as I was scared out of my wits and Mum silently served me desset, the offending cabbage had disappeared. Round one to me.
It wasn't just the food that made us Poverty struck and Parish damned, however, it was also our clothes. In the summer for most of my childhood I just wore bathers. Faded red speedos. Jackie older than me by four years wore the navy Jantzens I so coveted but I wasn't old enough. I had a school uniform of course but it was usually a charity one.
I didn't care about clothes then, not like I do now. Nowadays I have a wardrobe bulging with great fashion and I put them on the walls on display as to me Fashion is also art. I love Australian Designer stuff. Alannah Hill, Lisa Ho, Perri Cutten, Adele Palmer, Wayne Cooper. I find UK fashion too hot for our climate, even their tee shirts are thicker than ours.
I love the fifties fashion style the most as it is so feminine and stylish. Nipped in at the waist and flouncy skirts, tight on the bodice and fastened with a belt, love ! I have a big bust, hips and bum, so the fifties fashion covers a multitude of sins. Its so very girly and pretty. I watch all the style shows like Sussanah And Trinny ans What Not To Wear, Gok Wan And What Not To Wear USA and as I love Vintage fashion and shoes I scour the recycle shops for pieces and accesories.
The other part of Being Poor was my Dad used to cover my books. He was a perfectionist and would cover my exercise books with full page pictures cut from The Womans Weekly, then cellophane over the top and they were the biggest hit at school.
He was doing it as we didn't have money for anything else and was not aware he would start a style sensation. He was so lovely my Dad to do that for me, but then he named a star after me when I was born so what else would I expect ?
Love Janette
