Living History

Childhood adventures during The Great Depression

The year 1930 was one of grief and disappointment for many people. The depression was eating at the hearts and souls of Australians and indeed most of the civilised world.

My family of Invermay, Launceston, were no exception to this situation. With a daughter of fifteen and the father only able to pick up the odd day or two of work, it would have been with little joy that they awaited the birth of a second child. If I was an unwelcome addition to the family's problems, I can only state that they kept the fact well concealed, and my childhood was one which I would never have changed should I have been given the opportunity. Even now, I truly believe my parents to have been the best in the world.

As a toddler, life was very pleasant for me, but not for the rest of the family. The depression dragged on, my father still getting some work on the waterfront and where ever he could. Dad was an experienced and competent seaman and had worked on many of the coastal traders prior to his marriage and for some time after the arrival of my sister. Whether by choice or because of a promise to my mother, he never returned to the sea.

As there was 15 years age difference between my sister and me, it was as if I was an only child and when I looked around, I wondered why all the other kids of my age had stacks of brothers and sisters to play with and I was more or less on my own. Living in a house full of grown ups whom I loved deeply, nonetheless, led me to be a bit of a wanderer.

In the early thirties, neighbours were truly that. Everyone on Invermay knew their neighbours, not only next door, but for blocks around. Such was the social structure, that there was a 'hole in the fence' in each of our side boundary fences, so that we could visit our neighbours without walking on the street. They in turn had a 'hole in the fence' which led to their neighbours’ yards. From our home, it was possible to go to our local general store, some streets away, with only 30 feet of public roadway having to be traversed.

When I was four years old, I was playing alone in the back yard of our home one afternoon and heard "Coogan's Whistle". This was my signal that soon my dad would be arriving home from work. W Coogan and Son had a factory located a block away from us and the start, dinner and knock-off whistles gave the surrounding residents a handy time reminder during the day. I continued with the production line of mud pies which had occupied my attention for some time, listening for the creak of the front gate which would herald the arrival of my dad.

It seemed to me that he was running late that day and on more than one occasion, I walked to the gate and looked down the street only to be disappointed. The production line of pies was growing and my supply of mud was getting low when the familiar sound of the gate sent me running up the lane. He was pushing his bike with one hand but over his shoulder he carried something which I couldn't quite make out. Everything was dropped to the ground as I started my usual final sprint to be swept up by those strong gentle arms and hugged, then thrown up into the air and caught again in our established ritual.

Only then did I see the object which he had carried home. I was picked up and placed on the saddle of a miniature push bike, perfect for my size and just like my dad's. It was a present from my Uncle Tom. I can vividly recall the absolute joy and excitement I felt at this time. In 1935, there were few motor vehicles on the streets of Launceston and in Invermay a rarity. Therefore, the logical place for me to be taught to ride was on the roadway.

It must have been the social event of the year because I remember just about everyone who lived in the street was out the day following the arrival of my bike and either holding onto the back of the saddle as I wobbled down the street or cheering from the sidelines.

In 1936, the great day came, my first day at school. The old con job was well and truly carried out on me. My godmother, who lived next door, was full of wonderful stories of the fun that 'the bigger kids' were having at school. They enjoyed games out in the playground, sang songs, and the teachers read stories to them most of the day.

Led by the hand, I was taken out of my much-loved street, towards the imposing Invermay State School. As we passed a house next to our local general store, a lady spoke to my mother. She had her little girl with her. I must have had a slightly advanced recognition of female beauty because, when I found that she was also starting school that day, I recall thinking that this school business might have its good side. My efforts to impress her took off like a lead balloon. For all of my school days, I didn’t get a word from her; it must have been hatred at first sight.

My days at Invermay State School were very happy for the most part. I made many friends, some who lived only a block away from me and I had never seen them before. Among them were several boys who became my best friends and have remained dear to me to this present day.

My school history would not be read as an outstanding chronicle of achievement, but life was never dull. My worst escapade was 'playing the wag' for two weeks with a couple of other kids. We spent much of the time around Royal Park and Princes Square. Of course we were caught out and paid the price by being 'kept back a year' and shuffled around to other classes, so that we didn’t see much of each other. Invermay was a fairly tough school and of course we all had our share of black eyes and bloody noses.

Summer holidays became a particularly wonderful time for me and my friends, with all sorts of adventures waiting to be experimented. Fruit scoffing was a big summer thrill. In almost every back yard in Invermay, pear, peach or apricot trees would be waiting for someone to sample its fruit. Fruit was never 'stolen' from trees; rather it was 'scoffed'. To take more than one could eat immediately would be stealing, but to eat only what can be picked and carried away by hand or pocket for immediate consumption was pure scoffing.

Surveillance of the area for some time before 'the season' paid off, because a knowledge of who has a dog, who had a noisy gate, who had outside lighting were all an advantage to the well-prepared scoffer. In the early days, the large property in Rooms Avenue, now known as 'Burwood', a reception centre, was a great spot. A large garden with all kinds of fruit trees provided many a young scoffer with a fine feast.

By far, my happiest memories of the late 1930s are of the many adventures had by me and my friends on the North Esk River. Situated on a bend in the river was a tide meter which was installed after the 1929 flood. We kids found that the installation made a wonderful diving platform. A single planked foot walk on piles made the structure accessible and during the summer holidays, up to a dozen kids could be found there each day. Some in swimming trunks, some in their underpants and the rest in their birthday suits.

We were told by every adult in the area that the water was filthy, probably full of bacteria and a dreadful health risk. There was never any sickness or affliction which was caused by swimming in the river. Access to our 'swimming hole' was through a cow paddock at the eastern end of Bryan Street. The owner hand milked his charges in the open air early in the morning and evenings, taking the milk by his horse drawn cart to his modest dairy in the back yard of his house. Before dawn the following day he would be out delivering milk and cream to his 'round of customers'.

After he retired from his business, the paddock was neglected for some time. While wild life kept the grass down, gorse bushes thrived and the local kids were often in trouble for tossing the occasional match into the dry growth of an isolated gorse bush. Within minutes, the bush would be engulfed in roaring flames. An observant resident would usually call the fire brigade, although the fire would invariably burn itself out with intense heat within minutes, and by the time the brigade arrived, all that remained was the blackened skeleton of the bush, with a few wisps of smoke.

The police were informed of the problem, and several local residents were appointed 'watchers' and would inform police by phone as soon as the first signs of a fire were spotted. This way they were in a position to be on the spot before the offender had time to leave the area. This system worked well and for some months there were virtually no fires in the paddock.

One of my smarter friends was reading a chemistry book, and told me that one of the points of interest was that when potassium permanganate and glycerine are mixed together, within five minutes or so, the mixture spontaneously combusted. We reasoned that this knowledge could provide a means of lighting a gorse bush some ten minutes after we had left the scene. Glycerine was no problem, it was available in every kitchen, but potassium permanganate was a real problem. It took us a week to find out that potassium permanganate was only a flash name for 'Condy’s Crystals', an antiseptic which was to be found in every medicine cabinet.

By sprinkling the crystals into a tin lid and carrying the bottle of glycerine in our pocket, we were ready for the big test. As we walked, the mixture was prepared and the lid casually dropped into a gorse clump. We then casually walked up to Bryan Street, up Herbert Street, climbed into a nearby peach tree, and waited for the smoke column into the south eastern sky. The experiment was a complete success, and was only used once more, just to prove the point. As with most things, once perfected, it was discarded in the search for other mischiefs.

There was a laundry in Herbert Street that backed onto the cow paddock and the rear yard of the premises presented a treasure house to the local kids. Although we had taught ourselves to swim quite well, we yearned for the thrill of a boat or canoe with which we could explore 'our river', which is how we regarded it.

As we all suffered from the old Invermay complaint, 'empty pockets', we knew that a boat was out of the question, but in our short span of life, we also knew that with scrounged material, there are very few things which were impossible to fabricate. In the laundry’s yard was an assortment of rusty drums from five gallon capacity to 44 gallons. There were also damp and moss covered pieces of timber from long-forgotten fences and other sources. Quite a few of these 'collector’s items' were gathered and secreted away in the reed bed along the banks of the North Esk.

Amazing rafts were constructed using the empty drums. They were bound together with wire and binder twine. A decking was made from scrap timber, and paddles were old broom sticks with pieces of tin sheet nailed on the ends. And, amazingly, they were strong and stable enough to hold four hefty kids.

In addition, cartons were rarely seen in those days, with most goods supplied in pine cases of all sizes. Shopkeepers would often give away the larger cases because of their taking up space. We managed to secure a number of these large wooden packing cases, and fitted these with a 'V' front which provided a rough bow and enabled the craft to be steered with some accuracy, although the flat bottom and absence of a keel made them very unstable craft. The cracks between the wooden slats of the cases were filled with melted tar which was available from the yard of the nearby railway workshops where, from memory, I think it was used to weather proof parts of rolling stock. This was usually donated late afternoon after rail staff knocked off.

Quite a few 'battles' were fought between the various craft, using poles to push rival captains and crew into the drink. At the end of summer, the craft were left in the reeds until the following spring. Most had deteriorated to a point where some were falling apart and abandoned, but others were recoverable and used again.

Of course, life in the ‘30s wasn’t all fun, sadly even for children, and one of my strongest and saddest memories was of a period of time just before the outbreak of war, when infantile paralysis was rife. The epidemic struck Invermay State School very badly. During the summer, the kids were going down like nine pins with the infection. The 'lucky ones' were left with withered and stunted limbs. An arm or a leg would be left just bone covered with skin. Many died because the paralysis caused deterioration of their chest muscles. Going to school was like playing Russian roulette. When we entered the class room and were all seated, we would look around to see which desks were empty that day.

John, Launceston, Septuagenarian

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