For those who expressed an interest in my memoirs. The move from...

For those who expressed an interest in my memoirs.


The move from the cane fields in the north to the lower reaches of the Murray-Darling Basin in South Australia brought our family to a man-made ribbon of lush green vegetation. Having worked the land in Sicily, my parents purchased a mixed orchard and vineyard in the early 60's and a new life began.

Irrigated farms contrasted strongly with a landscape that was dominated by Mallee gums, and the inhabitants also reflected the toughness of the environment. They did not give respect easily, it had to be earned with fists or on the football field.

Not afraid to speak their mind, fighting was their way to settle disputes, and when one was knocked down, the fight was over, hands were shaken, and socializing continued.

My father couldn't understand the ways of these Australians. How can these people argue, fight, then shake hands and buy the victor a beer? He said, mocking their ways as someone coming from a place where fights did not end after a few punches, instead they simmered between feuding families for generations.

Not long after arrival, my parents received their first shock, feeling high and dry due to their inability to communicate with the mostly English speaking residents. One of the older children needed to attend meetings with the bank manager or the local co-operative in order to translate.

Becoming established in this new place also presented further challenges, as my parents realized a range of machinery and implements were needed to efficiently work the orchard and vineyard. It was an expense unaccounted for, causing my father and older brother to do much manual work that could be easily completed using machinery.

Later in the first year, a second-hand tractor and some implements were purchased, and my illiterate father felt like a baron surveying his estate atop his roaring machine.

New impressions were created when deciduous trees shed yellow-bronze leaves in autumn, and after a period of naked dormancy in winter, burst into bloom in spring. In summer and autumn colourful parrots, galahs, and cockatoos arrived to forage in nearby almonds plantations.

While feeding on ripening nuts, these intelligent birds socialized and were indifferent to my approaches until I neared, causing them to surge away in a swirling kaleidoscope of colour, sound and movement. Needless to say owners never got to harvest much, as those powerful parrots made short work of the crop, including the difficult to crack, hard-shelled varieties.

As a ten year old, there were new frontiers to investigate, but my new friends were different to those known in Queensland. They were taller, light-skinned children with more aggressive expressions. They saw the world through different eyes and in my first few years I never felt at ease in their company.

That feeling helped precipitate a trait that has stayed with me since those early days, of a solitary observer. While alone I foraged around trees and vines, gleaning fruits missed by fruit pickers that would eventually be eaten by birds or rot. A good eye and concentration was needed to discern the presence of fruits hidden behind a dense canopy, although something was found.

With the river near, it was no problem reaching our spots where we bathed and fished during summer, and in order to demonstrate courage, we swam across the river on quite a few occasions.

Depending on the speed of the currents, we aimed upstream in reach our landing spot, blissfully unaware of a river capable of sucking down strong swimmers into whirlpools, not to be found for several days until their bloated body rose to the surface. Swimming across the Murray is something few residents would dream of doing nowadays.

Building something that floated was a common preoccupation as youths. Tin canoes were hastily constructed using an iron roofing sheet, flattened out and nailed onto pieces of wood for a bow and stern. Gaps were sealed with bitumen scraped from the road on hot days, creating an unstable and difficult to navigate canoe.

After experimenting with rafts and canoes, I wondered about bark canoes cut from large river red gums by aboriginals as indicated by scars found on the old trees. How did those crafts actually manage to float!
  
I came to appreciate the value of River Red gums, the true characters found along the Murray  banks and floodplains. They provided food and habitat for a wide range of birds, insects, and mammals within their expansive canopies and aquatic creatures found niches around submerged branches and roots.

Those giants allowed settlers to build homes and animal enclosures, fence the land, fuel the kitchen, and until roads were built, powered steamers carrying people and cargo along the Murray.

We made tracks through thick stands of bulrushes along riverbanks, arriving at creeks where we fished for yabbies using a piece of string, some meat, and a wire scoop for lifting these menacing looking crustaceans from the water.

Natural vegetation was utilized to make fine arrows where a straight bulrush stem was attached to a bullet casing dug from a disused rifle range, creating a hard tip. Chicken feathers were attached and dry Washington palm fronds became powerful bows.

After removing the sharp serrated spines from the palm fronds , heavy fishing line was attached and we had weapons capable of killing a large animal or even a person. Their power was demonstrated when practicing on old forty-four gallon drums, easily penetrating the metallic casing.

Not long after arriving at my new primary school, something strange began to happen. There was no one resembling Mother Carla who terrorized the children in my former convent. Lessons took on a pleasant and enjoyable atmosphere in my new state primary school and soon after, the lazy, defiant boy from Queensland had catapulted to the top of the class, albeit in a small primary school.

Angry racist comments from students who had lost their place were forthcoming, something that spurred me on to do even better.

Our secondary school had some five hundred pupils from a wide mix of backgrounds. Big, aggressive students bullied their way about the yard and initially it was a case of finding a place at lunchtime where I could relax. As well, it was important to be at the bus stop on time as it could not wait. If missed, there was no one who could drive us to school, something that was exploited at times.

I felt uneasy due to persistent racist comments, and not wanting to attract the attention of the older students, meant carefully planned trips to the canteen or toilet. After a couple of years I found my feet, having developed an acceptable and outgoing persona. By the age of fifteen I was accepted in my home town as a footballer and also by my classmates as someone who was good academically.

One thing that worked wonders within our small community, helping people to forget their animosity towards migrants, was the game of Australian Rules football. Our team colours were green and gold,  a reflection of the orchards and vineyards. Dark green citrus foliage contrasted with golden fruit, green orchards stood out against a backdrop of yellow wheat crops, and the strongest image, the deep golden shade of apricots drying in the sun against the surrounding vegetation.

Fascinated by the oval ball and how its chaotic trajectory could be controlled by experienced players, I was hooked and looked forward to matches each winter. If one had good co-ordination it would be possible to judge the likely movement of the ball and gather it in to the advantage of our team.

One afternoon, while playing in the senior team, and when positioned near the opposition ruckman, the ball was delivered in our direction. At six foot five, there was no contest against such a tall player, but by chance, the ball came towards us relatively low and it was a simple matter to accelerate around my lumbering opponent to mark the ball.

It made me feel accepted in our community  as our supporters laughed and hooted at the opposition ruckman was outplayed by the rover. Knowing he would not forget the incident, I kept an eye out for the rest of the game, fully aware that a collision with the bony fist, elbow, or knee of the lanky farmer meant a visit to the hospital.

Although we found something do on Saturday nights, there was work to be done the following morning and I learnt early on that working with a hangover was not worth the pain.

Work varied according to the season, although irrigation occurred throughout the year.  We needed to check furrows throughout the night, and when a full moon flooded the landscape with soft, grey light, it created strange, eerie shadows.

I worked warily as my imagination was fired, sensing entities lurked while dogs barked in the distance. The desert sky seemed to be closing in, inviting something fearful in the still, frosty air.

Dangers existed in the orchards and vineyards. Knowing how to place ladders carefully was an important skill, usually learnt the hard way. On quite a few occasions, I found myself crashing through the canopy of a large tree, dragged down by a bag full of fruit strapped around my neck and back.

Although most accidents resulted in scratches and small bruises, few workers had a healthy back. Lazy landholders sometimes failed to control weeds such as innocent weed that looked harmless enough from a distance, but produced sharp, curved spines allowing seeds to embed firmly in the flesh.

Some days were so hot and devoid of sounds, it felt like they would never end. Leaving the orchard or vineyard was always the most pleasant feeling as sweat cooled the body. Soft drinks or beer tasted twice as good at the end of those days.

When metal containers filled with grapes were loaded onto trucks, someone needed to throw empty containers back down, and wearing only thongs, I thought nothing about a half dozen bee stings as my feet came into contact with the many bees lapping up sugary juice oozing from the grapes. Those painful jabs caused no after effects or reactions and, like most irritations, were quickly forgotten.

Years later, I came to appreciate the lives experienced by early settlers living in hot, tin shacks, working by hand or with horses. Old photographs showing lean, leathery-faced men clearing scrub, harvesting, or cultivating, gave a sense of the challenges and difficulties experienced.

Before locks were built to contain the river, droughts meant the stream was nothing more than a trickle, creating intense fears for a population dependent on irrigation for survival. Soldier settlers, given small plots to clear and develop, expended their sweat to create something just able to sustain their lives with few luxuries.

Meanwhile, their children hardened in the tough environment and a culture of violence, drinking and risk taking took hold.