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WEEDON FAMILY WRITINGS by Marie & Bethney A chance meeting happened in late 2013 whilst I was researching the history of the steam traction engines that worked in this district clearing land for the pioneers orchardists. Whilst interviewing Ted Garland, who had one of these traction engines, his partner mentioned she had relatives that were in the timber industry down south years ago. On enquiring as to their name, I was told it was "Weedon". I said there was a family of Weedon's at Barton's Mill and asked were they related. She doubted it, as they were at Jarrahwood and around that area. But she said she would make contact with them and enquire. Gordon Freegard Webmaster
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Mrs THOMPSON’S GARDEN by Bethney Pilling PREFACE Barton’s Mill Prison, belonging to the Department of Corrections, is 13 kilometers from Pickering Brook, along the winding tarred Canning Mills Road. Orchards of fruit trees, apples and pears, peaches and plums, line the road, lush and green, row upon row. Packing sheds perch precariously on the side of the hill right against the roadway. The houses, the older ones, tucked back behind old trees and gardens, the newer ones big and showy, facing, for all to see. I had never wanted to return to Barton’s Mill after we had left, and had always been concerned when we were driving in the hills, that we would just come upon it. I didn’t want to see a prison with high fences and barbed wire where once had stood rows of houses and a prosperous timber mill. But my father yearned to go and see if we could find any signs of our past, some 30 years later. So, with great apprehension and my heart beating very fast, Mum, Dad and I drove along the orchard flanked road up to the prison gates. The guard on duty said we could park and walk down the side fence and were welcome to look around for any recognisable landmarks. We hesitatingly skirted the high security fence, with its buildings tucked in behind a pretty garden, amid acres of green lawn. We walked for several minutes toward a small clearing. Two neglected rose bushes struggled for survival, one red, one pink, with wild oats growing up through them. That was all that was left of Mrs. Thompson’s beautiful rose garden. We seemed to walk only a short way when we saw an ancient apricot tree that had been in ‘big’ Mrs. White’s yard. And then the bush loomed up ahead and enclosed us in that little clearing - great tall trees, heavy undergrowth wild and dense. All the old buildings had been demolished to make way for the prison. How a whole township could have fitted into that small area truly confused me. We sat on a burnt-out log in the middle of the little clearing for a long time, trying to grasp at least something of our past years there. But nothing came. We three clung together, arm in arm, as we walked silently, slowly, back to the carpark. I remember many things about Barton’s Mill, some sad, though mostly glad and many times I think about our days there. I lived at Barton’s Mill from 1929 (when I was born) with my dear father and mother, my sister Marie 2 years older and my brother William 2 years younger. In 1939 the mill was closed, all the men were laid off and we sadly left. We moved to Armadale where mum’s two sisters, Hope and Val lived. I guess that was the logical place to go as their presence was of great comfort to my mother and to us all as we had often gone there on visits and holidays.
SOME CHILDHOOD MEMORIES |
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ETHEL THOMPSON
FLORRIE THOMPSON #2 |
The road from Pickering to Bartons was 7 miles long, hewn through great tall trees which met overhead in many places. It was a gravel road, narrow and winding, made to go around a tree too large to fell. It was high on the crown of the road, with deep gullies each side to take the torrents of water in the winter. In the spring time, leschenaultia and hovea grew in profusion along the banks. There was an occasional orchard visible up a steep hillside. After leaving Hewison’s shop at Pickering and passing the sparse roof tops dotted in the few orchards, no other sign of civilisation was to be seen apart from the shiny railway tracks. They followed the roadway, disappearing ahead into the dense forest of jarrah and gum trees, often heavy with white blossom. Then, the forest thinned ahead and there it was, Barton’s Mill, one road in, one road out, with the houses high along the left side of the road ‘til it forked, making a second row of houses. Mrs. Thompson’s house was the first house on the right, beyond it the tennis courts and the Hall, against the vast stacks of sawn jarrah, and then the Mill, with smoke curling up from its sprawling dull iron roof. The Thompson’s house was the best house on the Mill as he was the Manager. It had a big shiny kitchen built separately from the main house, though covered by a roof and enclosed on the south side. A little landing with steps led up into the kitchen. The boards of the lobby, the verandah and down the passage of the house were polished to a high sheen. Whether it was ‘Easi-Wurk’, a painted-on black varnish or Relax polish and elbow grease, I don’t know, but it was very dark. |
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MYRTLE & WILLIAM WEEDON |
On the little landing between the house and the kitchen were lots of potted plants, healthy and green. In her side yard, in a stoney gravel garden bed, grew a dozen beautiful rose bushes. Mrs. Thompson threw soapy water over them to kill the aphids and watered them individually with precious rain water from the big tank on the tank stand. Mrs. Thompson was very nice and always took us into the kitchen and gave us something to eat, bran sort of biscuits. She always wore a white apron and had a grown-up daughter named Florrie. I guess she was the oldest person on the Mill. Millar’s Timber and Trading Company owned Bartons and my dad worked on the bench sawing up the long lengths from the huge logs. He always took great pride in his job, making sure the big logs were guided in straight against the huge saws, to cut the 3 B 2s and the 4 B 2s, as straight as a die. He was later promoted to the office as a tally clerk where his knowledge of mathematics and excellent book-keeping skills gained him great respect. Our house, which was built for my mother and father when they came as newly-weds in 1926 to Bartons, was black, the boards weathered by the elements. I never did see one that was newly built and the colour of fresh hewn red jarrah. Our house, along with all the others, had a galvanised iron roof and it shone a dulled silver in the sun. Steps led up the front to a wide verandah with a rail along the edge. The left end was closed in with a cream duck canvas blind which my mother sewed on the machine. It came down to the rail and flapped in the wind like a sail of a ship even though it was anchored to the rail, or was it to the floor? In the summer we slept on the front verandah and in the winter the blind was rolled up and tied securely under the beams of the verandah. Next summer, when it came down, there were always jarrah stains in long streaks across it from the rain through the winter. Across the other end of the verandah was lattice work, with a pot plant stand made of jarrah planks, stepped up in several rows. My mother’s pot plants were glorious - huge Angel Wing begonias with handsome heads of pink flowers hanging down like little angled lanterns. I can remember Mum being very sad when we left the Mill, having to leave her loved pot plants behind as there was no room for them on the truck laden with our worldly possessions. And as everyone else was leaving there was no-one left to water them. So, I guess, they, along with the Mill, slowly died. I can see her now, looking back at them as we went down the steps. |
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From the verandah we stepped into the front room in which the only things I can remember were a fireplace, the piano and a radio. Chairs we must have had, but I don’t recall them.The radio I remember vividly because it was given to my dad but it had broken valves and loose wires and wouldn’t work. The Test Cricket was on in England at the time and there were several men, along with my dad, desperately trying to mend the wireless to listen to the cricket broadcast. It was late in the night when suddenly the old thing spluttered to life and across the ocean came the crackling voice of the English commentator “And Australia are 2 for 104”. Well, the roof nearly lifted off our little house as the men cheered and they stayed with ears glued to the distant voice, ‘til the early hours of the morning. Some kerosene was surely burned in the Aladdin lamp that night. Our Aladdin lamp was a thing of beauty. It had a delicate mantle and a glass chimney and a beautiful pearly glass shade suspended on four arms which came out from the centre. The kero was in a glass bowl on a stand which held up the shade. All care had to be taken when lighting or moving the lamp. My mother cleaned the glass regularly with crumpled newspaper as the smoke from the mantle made the glass sooty very quickly. It was lovely when the lamp was first lit, softly lighting up the room. It was carried very carefully only by my mother or father and when taken from the kitchen to the front room it left long shadows behind us as we walked. The piano was the grandest thing in our front room. It was to go to Aunty Val but as Mum was married first and was an accomplished pianist we had the piano. And could she play it! We had many happy times singing around the piano and we learned all the old songs, especially when Gran came to stay- ‘In the Gloaming’ and ‘Loves Old Sweet Song’. Mum played for the dances in the Hall and until they got a piano, the men used to carry ours down the steep front steps to the hall. Mum always told us never to have food or drink on the piano as the crumbs encouraged the mice to eat the felt and the glasses marked the top which she kept beautifully polished with equal parts of vinegar and olive oil she kept in a jar. |
MARIE & MYRTLE WEEDON AT BARTON'S MILL #4
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Sometimes we went to the dances in the Hall and when we got tired or fell asleep Dad carried us home which was just up from the Hall and put us into bed. I can remember waking up one night and standing on the rail of the front verandah, looking back down at the Hall and hearing my mother’s wonderful dance music wafting up towards me. The Hall had big wooden sliding doors on the sides which were pushed wide open and I could see a great path of light shining out from the Hall almost up to our house. I stood on the rail and yelled out “Mum, I want you!” in a great big voice and Clarrie Catchpole, who lived in the single mens’ quarters in front of our house, heard me yelling and went to get Dad. My mother was very upset to think I had woken when they weren’t there. Our parents’ bedroom was on the left side of the house and our best furniture was in there. The suite was oak, with a lovely long oval mirror in the little wardrobe, the dressing table also had an oval mirror with two drawers that had blacky-brass handles which flapped down against the plate that held them. Their bed had four posts and the ends had six oak panels between rails. It was very high. The front room led into the kitchen with our bedroom to the left off the kitchen. How we three children and often Gran Ray, fitted in there was a marvel. We had a frame wardrobe with a cretonne curtain across the front and a pyjama box made from a Watsonia butter box. In those days the pounds of butter were packed into neat small wooden boxes at the Watsonia factory for delivery to the shops. Sometimes the boxes were just chopped up for kindling, but industrious people like my parents made them into furniture. My father had hinged a lid onto our box and my mother had padded the top with an old jumper, upholstered it with cretonne and tacked a frilled skirt around the whole box. It was lovely. |
MARIE VALMA WEEDON
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WEEDON FAMILY AT BARTON'S MILL FEBRUARY 1930 |
TYPICAL MILL HOUSE SIMILAR TO WHAT WAS AT BARTON'S MILL #6 But, underneath the pyjamas, which were dutifully folded each morning and put away in the box, was a piece of newspaper, and underneath the newspaper was ‘the strap’. My mother says now that that was not so. We were such good children we never needed ‘the strap’, but I can tell you I got it several times on the legs for being cheeky and answering her back. “Beth, address me properly” when I had stubbornly answered “No” instead of “No, Mum”. So I answered “No Mrs. W.J. Weedon, Barton’s Mill via Pickering Brook”. The kitchen was a bit ‘L’ shaped, an ‘L’ on its side. The back verandah had been right across originally but my dad enlarged the kitchen which led into the wash house. The copper was bricked into the corner and what a good smell it was on wash day with the clothes boiling away in the suds from the Signal soap. The pot stick, which my mother used to poke down the clothes and to lift them out onto the draining board, was bleached yellow from the soap and boiling water and was almost ragged from wear. It was used for no other purpose as Mum took great pride on the ‘whites’ being really white as they flapped on the long line strung right across our backyard.
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The sheets always went towards the outside ends of the line so that they didn’t flap against the prop in the middle. Great dexterity had to be used when letting the line down to hang small things near the prop so that the sheets didn’t dangle on the ground - disaster if the prop suddenly slipped and all the big things flopped in the dirt. After the washing was over, a full day’s work every Monday for our Mother, she would take buckets of the boiling wash water from the copper, With us kids standing well clear, she would throw the water along the boards on our back verandah. As soon as the water cooled on the wooden floor we would rush to stand and wait at the end of the verandah for Mum to throw the cool rinsing water with great gusto over the boards. We would tuck our dresses up into our pants, letting the lovely water splash up our legs and we would squeal with delight. The sheets always went towards the outside ends of the line so that they didn’t flap against the prop in the middle. Great dexterity had to be used when letting the line down to hang small things near the prop so that the sheets didn’t dangle on the ground - disaster if the prop suddenly slipped and all the big things flopped in the dirt. After the washing was over, a full day’s work every Monday for our Mother, she would take buckets of the boiling wash water from the copper, With us kids standing well clear, she would throw the water along the boards on our back verandah. As soon as the water cooled on the wooden floor we would rush to stand and wait at the end of the verandah for Mum to throw the cool rinsing water with great gusto over the boards. We would tuck our dresses up into our pants, letting the lovely water splash up our legs and we would squeal with delight. |
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Outside the wash house door was our rainwater tank. It stood on a sturdy stand made from railway sleepers and next to the Aladdin lamp was the most precious thing we possessed. It was our life-line, as there was no ‘scheme’ water on the Hill even though we were tucked in between Canning Darn and Mundaring Weir. When the tank flowed over in the winter and water gushed out from the overflow pipe sticking out from the side, right at the top, it was a time for rejoicing. But as summer lingered on and Dad tapped the rungs to listen for the high pitch of the empty ones and the dull sound of the lower water-filled rungs, we knew we would have to be extra careful not to waste a single drop. We would tap the tank with our knuckles to listen for the ‘dull’ sound each time we walked past, hoping we would never get down to the last rung. We had a dresser in the kitchen with all our plates and cups and dishes on it. The doors below had knobs of wood with a nail through the middle on which the knob turned, across to close, down to let it open. Over the Metters stove was a mantel shelf with cannisters which were painted Lactogen tins. My mother made mats the length of the mantel from newspaper with fancy cut-out patterns along the edge. They were beautiful. Later, we had green coloured oil cloth shelf covers but I liked the paper ones better. It was a lovely cosy kitchen and I liked to help my mother keep it tidy. I can recall tidying up when Mum was immobile with a burnt heel and Mrs. Wallis coming with me to check that I had tidied up well. Yes, it was very good, but I had left a shoe under a chair, hidden against the wall, and so blotted my copybook.
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BETSY, BOB & FRANK NETTLETON AT BARTON's MILL 1927 #8 |
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MARIE VALMA WEEDON 2 years 10 months
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My mother had gone from Bartons to Armadale Hospital to have her appendix removed. The hospital was run by Sister Whitehead, a great friend of Gran Ray, and Dr. Streike. As Mum came out of the anaesthetic, Sister Whitehead had asked “How’s your tummy Myrt?” and Mum in great agony, had replied “It’s my foot Sister. What’s happened to it.” Sister Whitehead looked and in great alarm saw that Nurse Hand had put Mum’s feet onto an uncovered hot water bottle and one heel was burn’t completely off, down to the bone. What a terrible convalescence the poor darling had. Gran carne from Armadale to help us and to dress Mum’s ghastly wound, which they had packed with pulverised shell. Heaven knows what for! We all cried each time it had to be dressed, Dad standing at Mum’s head - Mum, Gran and us kids fearful to look at it. She walked on crutches for ages and it eventually healed over, but to this day has a hard drawn up scabby centre to her heel. In the winter time, in one corner of the backyard, stood a glorious bed of chrysanthemums as tall as we were. They were yellow, white and brown, with huge heads of curled petals. There was also the little white pompom variety, excellent for picking. They were the type the Seventh Day Adventists pinned on our dresses and the mens’ and boys’ shirts, on Mothers’ Day. It has always amazed me that they bloom faithfully at the right time each year. My father found it difficult to dig in our backyard. Over our left side fence was the school and huge dark green, feathery leafed wattle trees grew in the school yard. Their matted roots infiltrated our yard. On the right side of us lived the Selkirks, who grew lucerne trees all down their side fence, their roots as bad as those of the wattle trees. Dad asked Mr. Selkirk to cut them down, but mean Mr. Selkirk wouldn’t oblige and I can remember the heated words flying over the back fence. Mr. Selkirk was grumpy. He wore heavy tortoiseshell glasses, smoked a smelly pipe and the smell wafted over our fence. Mrs. Selkirk played tennis in a short white pleated tennis skirt. They had one son, Noel, who at 14 was very mature, though not very tall, but he had a deep voice and should have shaved as he had a dark shadow of fluffy hair over his chin and upper lip, and would have looked much better if he had done so. |
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In the other back corner of our yard was the lav., or dunny, as the crude boys called it. It was the pan variety and always smelled very highly of phenyl which my mother poured in copious amounts from the bottle that stood on the ledge behind the door. But it was very hard to disguise the smell and I never lingered any longer than was necessary. Strung on string behind the door were neatly cut up pages from the Broadcaster, the radio programme booklet. It always seemed the best news was cut in half and the next piece I pulled off never followed on. The nightman emptied the pans. I never knew where he took the pans to empty them. I thought it was the most terrible job in the world having to dispose of other people’s poo! The pans had flapped fitted lids which clipped back down when pulled out, so the contents wouldn’t slop over. A clean pan was then put in and that was the only time I was ever game enough to look back into the pan, when it was nice and clean with shiny tar on the inner sides. I was always terrified that the nightman would perhaps come when I was sitting on the wooden seat with the smooth edged hole cut out of the middle.
BETHNEY WEEDON PLAYING "MOTHERS" #10 |
MARIE WEEDON WITH HER DAD'S MORNING TEA AT BARTON'S MILL 1932
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WEEDON CHILDREN 1932: We dressed up a lot in clothes brought up by Aunty Hil, Mum’s dearest girlfriend from her school days in Mt. Lawley. Aunty Hil was really exciting. She smoked, painted her nails and worked for a specialist ‘on The Terrace’ in Perth and always had lots of goodies for us. She would put our hair up in her rollers to make curls, but as I was always eager to take mine out before it was dry, it was never a success and just straggled down in loose damp spirals. The dresses she brought were her cast off flimsy evening gowns and we thought we were really something, parading in front of the Chester girls. When we went to Armadale to stay with Aunty Val or Aunty Hope we watched girls learning dancing from Mary Davidson. When we returned to the Mill, we would don Aunty Hil’s gowns and flap around in front of the Chester girls, who lived next door to the Selkirks. We would tell them we had been in Mary Davidson’s Concert when we went for our holiday to Armadale and had worn those same dresses. I would leap up around Marie’s waist, hanging on with my legs crossed over at her back and she would wizzy around, me leaning back so my dress flopped right over my head. Marie would hold her dress out wide. The gullible Chester girls, four of them sitting in a row on the guildford grass carpet, gawked goggle eyed at us and believed that we truly had been the stars of Mary Davidson’s Concert. |
Sometimes Mum threw ashes in on top of the contents to subdue the smell and flies. All the lavs had little back flap doors which led out into a lane along the back of all the houses and I know Dutchie Oswald used to go along the lanes, opening the little flap doors, hoping to find someone sitting on the ‘throne’. He was a bully. He had reddish hair and scruffy clothes. He bailed Marie and me up one day in the back lane when we were coming back from feeding the chooks. (Our chookyard was outside our back fence across the lane.) We were really scared of him but he was a coward and cried easily when tackled by Noel Selkirk. Against our fence on the school side was our cubbyhouse which Dad built for Marie and me. It was wonderful, made from boards from the Mill. It had an open doorway on the left, and the right side was of solid boards half-way up, with lattice work up to the roof. It had a real board floor and shelves along the sides. In one corner the boards were scorched and charred, caused by Billy setting fire to Marie’s cane dolls pram. We played many years of hours in that cubby, along with Nerl and Mrs. Mapmee. They were our make-up friends and went everywhere with us. We had a little china teaset with little mauve flowers on the sides of the cups, with ‘Made in Japan’ printed on the bottoms. Nerl and Mrs. Mapmee always had their cup of tea with us.
AUNTY HIL #13 |
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WOMEN OF BARTON'S MILL #14 Back Row L - R: MINNIE WIGHT, FLORENCE BERRY, BEATRICE WHITE , MRS WIGNALL
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DICK, JOHN & RUTH WALLIS #15 The Oswalds lived on the lower road, in front of the Wallises. They had lots of children, including Dutchie and Anna who was about my age. Mrs. Oswald found it hard to make ends meet and Mrs. Wallis was very good to them. She bought material and sewed many items of clothing for the children, including some pyjamas for each one. She apologised for putting old buttons on the jackets but Mrs. Oswald was thrilled with the lovely new things and didn’t worry about the old buttons. |
Next to the Chesters’ was an empty paddock and then the Gibbs’ house. They had the biggest fig tree I have ever seen in their backyard and everyone on the Mill got figs for jam or just to eat. Under its huge canopy it was very cool and Mrs. Gibbs kept her cooler, her Coolgardie safe there. Under the tree was a heavy sweet smell from the squashed fruit under our feet. Next to the Gibbs’ house lived Joanie Brown. She, along with Gloria Wallis were my friends. She had black hair and very skinny legs and that’s all I remember of her. Gloria Wallis belonged to Ruth and Dick and she had a brother, John. She was a year younger than me and she was little and frail with a pixie face and freckles across her nose. We played a lot together. They had quite a nice house and out the back they had ‘duck boards’, which really was a platform up to the backdoor, with one inch gaps between to let the water flow through. Mrs. Wallis was very fussy in the house and didn’t like any mud being tramped in, hence the duck boards. Mum and Mrs. Wallis were friends. She wore glasses with fine brown rims and was always critical of things other people did. MARIE WEEDON IN FANCY DRESS AS LITTLE BOPEEP |
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MRS WIGNALL
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On the far side of the Wallises lived Mr. and Mrs. Wignall. They had no children and were a bit older than my mother and father. On the 15th June each year, on Marie’s birthday, Mrs. Wignall always made her a copha cake. This special treat was fashioned from coffee biscuits set in chocolate, made from icing sugar, copha and cocoa. It was oblong and she would cut it into beautiful slices to show the striped layers of chocolate and biscuit. I can remember Marie proudly carrying it home, with Billy and me tagging along behind, pestering her for a slice, all the way home. Between Mrs. Wignall’s kitchen and front room was a beautiful curtain, made from toffee papers rolled onto string, with a coloured bead between each paper. It hung down in sparkling strings and clattered as we walked through it. Mrs. Wignall’s house was newer than the other houses and built in a different shape. It had a side verandah and entrance and was the last one in the top row of houses, on the road out to Karragullen. We seldom went along that road to Karragullen, only when we went to Armadale. |
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One of our most exciting Sunday outings was to walk to the Darkan. We found it by walking way past Wignell’s house, along old forestry tracks, through the dense bush and tall jarrah trees. I am sure my father was never quite sure we were on the right track because when we were getting deeper into the forest he would say “Perhaps we won’t be able to find it this time”. And then, out of the dense bush it would appear, great strange upheavals of huge black rocks. Nowhere else did those rocks appear. In the crevises between the boulders bloomed a profusion of pink and white everlastings, thousands of them. We would pick great bunches of them to take home for Mum to tie together and hang upside down on a nail on the back verandah to dry. Maiden-hair fern grew in the cracks and gullies between the rocks. We would run excitedly up and down the dark spewed-up rocks and sit on the warm surface to have our picnic lunch which Mum had prepared for us, sandwiches and little cakes. It was strangely quiet at the Darkan, very secret, a magic place. |
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Another of our Sunday outings was to walk along the shiny railway track. They never led to anywhere, only around another bend, but we always hoped something would appear. We would walk with one foot on the rail and one foot on the shale between the sleepers. It took two steps to get to the next sleeper which didn’t jar as much as the rough between them. Sometimes, we would take bigger strides and leap onto the next sleeper. We would walk as far as we could, ‘til Mum judged when we had to turn around. We then had the long walk back, which somehow never seemed as far. We never saw any trains on the track as our walks were always on a Sunday and the Mill was closed on Saturdays and Sundays. The most handsome piece of machinery on the Mill was the steam engine - big, black and green and brassy. Its job was to pull the sawn timber from Bartons to Pickering Brook and bring back the empty rail trucks for re-loading. It was a thing of great beauty, with its many brass pieces polished a gleaming gold, and they shone to dazzling point in the sunlight. It seemed to have many brass bits, chimney stacks, plates on the sides of the cabin, hand rails up one side and down the other, a rail around the boiler, and pipes, knobs, hand wheels, caps, levers, and the whistle on top, all polished to reflect my face like a mirror.
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WEEDON CHILDREN TAKEN IN MAY 1934 IN CORNER OF BACKYARD AT BARTON'S MILL |
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LOGGING TRAIN BEING HAULED BY LOCOMOTIVE "COATES" There were two engine sheds at the Mill. In the second shed was the poor sister, the real work-horse of the Mill. She had no glamorous shining bits, just basic black. This engine went out into the bush, to the forestry camps where the huge logs came from. The railway line was laid out into the deep forest and when that area was cut out, the tracks were taken up and the rails laid out in another direction. The logs were hauled by horse teams to a landing and rolled down onto the railway trucks. Great iron pegs were knocked in between each log and released one at a time, to allow each log to roll down the landing, into the cradle on the long rail trucks. The logs would be secured with great chains before being hauled back to the Mill. The men who worked in the bush camps were wonderful, hardworking pioneers, living a harsh hazardous life away from their wives and families, only coming home at the weekends when the camps were a long way out. Their transport to and from the job was on a kalamazoo, a trolley which ran on the railway tracks. It had a seesawing hand lever in the centre of the platform and moved along the tracks at a remarkable speed. |
Clarrie Catchpole was the engine’s maintenance man and he took great pride in keeping the engine in splendid glory. He was a skinny little man, who wore a grease stained skull cap which I guess kept the grease and oil from dripping on his head, as he climbed in around the great wheels. He used an oil can with a great long spout and even that was a shiny gold colour. Behind the engine shed there was a great heap of a thousand empty Brasso cans, proof of the polish. Next to the Brasso cans was a big sand pit, built up with sleepers and filled with beautiful fine white beach sand. This was stored in a box in the cabin of the engine and was released onto the railway tracks. The sand helped the wheels grip the shiny smooth rails when the engine was pulling a heavy load of timber up a steep hill, and helped the wheels to brake on the descent.
MAVIS CATCHPOLE, ? , GORDON CATCHPOLE, MARIE WEEDON |
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Harry Catchpole, Clarrrie’s brother, was the driver of the shining engine. One time when we had come back from Perth, up the Gooseberry Hill switchback to Pickering, we sat in the cab all the way from Pickering to Bartons. It was thrilling looking at the roaring fire through the round hole in the furnace when they opened the door to throw in more wood. As we steamed along, the trees flashed by us and as the roofs of the houses came into sight through the trees, Mr. Catchpole•did a ‘Cock-a-doodle-doo’ on the whistle. He was a nice man, very quiet and I was very sad when his wife died. It was Royal Show time and on a rainy day Mrs. Catchpole took their kids, Mavis and Gordon down to Perth. She got wet and cold and took ill. She developed pneumonia and died. I remember it was terrible for her family and for everyone on the Mill. Theirs was a little house, on the lower side of the railway line, below the yard with its great stacks of timber. Across the front of their house, from one side to the other, was a beautiful rambling rose, smothered in white blooms, hundreds of them. Mavis, who was blonde and very pretty, was allowed to pick them to put in her cubby. Her cubby really was a beauty. Built of jarrah boards, like just about everything on the Mill, it boasted a fantastic array of things on shelves around the walls. Lots•of old chipped plates and pieces of pretty broken china dishes and real cups with no handles and a teapot with no spout. She was lovely and let us play in there with her dolls and pram. Then, girls of 10, 12, 14 played with dolls. Behind their house, in a cleared area, we used to draw out rooms on the ground with sticks. Then we would pick armfulls of blackboy needles and lay them thickly along the lines. These were the walls and we would leave doorways into each room and heaven forbid anyone who stepped over the walls into the next room! Mavis told us we couldn’t play if we walked over the walls. We swept each room with a piece of bush and we built up chairs and tables and fireplaces with rocks and made beds out of more blackboy needles. That the cubby had no roof didn’t seem to matter. They were happy days. |
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LILY WHITE |
Up on the top road before we came to our house, Millars built a little Post Office and shop on a vacant piece of land, in between McCaskills and Mr. Cook’s house. The Post-mistress was Doris Grey, a sweet lady, not very old and always smiling. She had the ‘Penny Tray’ and the ‘Hapenny Tray’ that she would bring out from under the counter, upon request. They were a sight to see. With musk sticks, sherbert bags, licorice sticks, toffee suckers, lolly balls, aniseed balls, humbugs, all neatly arranged in flat trays with a flap down lid. We would take a long time to choose how we would spend our penny, while she waited patiently. On the counter was a brass bell, which we had to bang hard with the top of our hand. Doris lived through the door leading into the back of the shop, behind a floral curtain. She would come as soon as the bell rang. Sometimes Mr. Catchpole came out too. It was good, their being friends, when Mr. Catchpole had no wife to look after him.
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While Mrs. Wignall’s house was the last in the row, the first on the top side was the Pommy Whites’ house. There lived Mr. White, Mrs. White, Lily, Reenie and Billy. They were all small and frail. They had the strangest contraption strung from their kitchen ceiling on which Mrs. White hung rows and rows of washing. So, they always seemed to be bobbing in and out of all sorts of wet garments, and the place was always damp and dark. Lily White was a great friend of Marie’s. She was shy and very quiet and pale. One day she got very sick and died. I never knew how or why.
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BARTON'S MILL SCHOOLGIRLS 1936
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Next to our house was the School. It was one big room with all grades in together. On to the side of the School, nearest to our house, was a wide platform, built of sleepers, with steps leading up onto it. The entrance was around the other side with rows of coat hangers on the wall at the right side of the porch. Strange, the only thing I can remember of my years there was one day, when Marie told Mrs. Bowman, our teacher, that I could spell ‘Constantinople’. Our Dad was the finest speller in the world and encouraged and taught us to remember long words. Mrs. Bowman told me to stand up and spell it, which I did correctly. I can remember Marie smiling very proudly towards me. Mrs. Bowman congratulated me and said I was a good example to the older children. I was very proud. |
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"POMMIE WHITE'S MILKING COWS |
Mrs. Bowman was a lovely teacher, quite old, with faded red-brown hair, worn in a loose bun. She had a little husband who had slicked down, sparse black hair and was very frail looking. I think he must have had an invalid pension because he didn’t work. He used a walking stick and always wore checked orange, brown and black carpet slippers. He kept house. They had a pretty tortoiseshell cat named Cleopatra. When they went on holidays I was given the honoured job of feeding Cleopatra on minced liver and milk. One time, she had kittens while they were away and I proudly looked after her with even more care that time. Mrs. Bowman, though a real gentlewoman, had plenty of spark. I remember one year when we had the Inter School Sports at Pickering Brook. Noel Selkirk was a strong boy for 14 years and though he wasn’t very tall, he was a good athlete. He had won all of his events and had picked up our team in the relay race to give us the ‘Shield’. At the end of the day, several officials tackled Mrs. Bowman and said she had got Noel out of the Mill for the day. She grabbed Noel’s hands and shoved them up to the officials’ faces and told them if he had been working on the Mill his hands would have been stained with jarrah. They begrudgingly gave her the Shield and we all trooped off proudly behind her, back to the truck to take us home. As we neared the Mill, we set up a chant - “Bartons won the Shield, Bartons won the Shield” - and people came out of their houses to cheer us home. |
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The 5th November was Bonfire Night and was always an exciting celebration. There was always a huge bonfire stacked up in a clearing past Chesters’ place, started months before, so it was good and dry by the 5th. A big Guy Fawkes was always propped up on the top of the pile and in the light from the great blaze we lit our crackers. Dad always had the crackers ready but hidden away until the great day. He stored them in empty Spalding tennis ball boxes. He was the treasurer of the tennis club and I remember thinking nothing looked as good as 12 new snowy white tennis balls, laying in rows of four, as Dad lifted the flap lid of the box. The wonderful smell of rubber wafted out like no other smell and I breathed in deeply each time the lid was opened. Dad saved the empty boxes to put important things in like photos, private papers and of course, crackers. |
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There were rows of Tom Thumbs with all their wicks entwined . Ones a bit bigger, about an inch, some about an inch and a half and a few penny bombs. There were Catherine Wheels and sparklers, snakes, Roman Candles and a couple of sky rockets. It was all great fun. Between our house and Selkirks, on the edge of the road, was a great sawn-off gum tree about 4 feet high. Mum and Dad would tack our Catherine Wheels on the side of the stump and we would wait with great anticipation for them to splutter into life, spinning madly around, shooting off sparks like the circular saws in the Mill. The top of the stump was like a big flat table and we would light our snakes on the top and watch as all the strange black stuff foamed out of the end. Next morning was just about as exciting as we searched around for duds and fizoggs and try to make them do something by bending them in the middle and lighting the remaining acrid smelling gunpowder that trickled out. Our hands would smell of crackers for days after. Out past the lower row of houses, way out along the railway line, was the Recreation Ground, the Rec., a great area hewn out of the forest by the men on the Mill. All the sports were held here, football and cricket mostly. There was no lawn, only gravel. I best remember the cricket, everyone in their white clothes and Marie and me in our blue and white trobalco dresses with cape sleeves, and our floppy sun hats, and Billy with his button on pants.
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WEEDON FAMILY AT SOUTH PERTH ZOO 1934 #23 |
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Every year the Fremantle Cricket Club would come to Bartons for a gala cricket competition. Our father was the Captain of the Bartons’ Club and he was a good batsman. Don Bradman was everyone’s idol. Dad’s Aunty Ada was married to Alex Maru and they belonged to the Fremantle club. Uncle Alex was a bookmaker in Fremantle and Aunty Ada was very nice to us and showed us to all her friends, in their big tent, put up especially for the day. They always had lots of food and oceans of beer in kegs, so a good day was always had by all. The team came up from Fremantle in a Charabang, except for Aunty Ada and Uncle Alex, who came in their car. It was the sporting event of the year and Bartons didn’t disgrace themselves. |
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BARTON'S MILL CRICKET TEAM #24 Back Row L - R: , , JOE BROWN, FREDDIE CURRELL , DICK WALLIS, , .
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All the fences around the sides of the Mill houses were made of wide off cuts of jarrah, some beautiful and straight, with no knots in them. I can remember my father, on one of the Cricket Club days, going along our fence with Uncle Alex and knocking off several well-seasoned boards with his hammer. Uncle Alex took them home to make into tables, I wonder if he ever did. Next day, Dad replaced them with new red ones from the Mill. We always had one picket missing off the side fence so we could climb through into the school yard. This saved us the walk around. We were always late to school and often the bell would ring as we were scrambling through the fence. I used to marvel at the Babidges who lived six miles away and came to school by horse and cart to arrive always at least an hour before. They were shy children and I sadly recall some kids calling out after them “Babidges sell cabbages, Babidges sell cabbages”, as they pulled away from the school fence, and I felt ashamed.
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MARGARET FRENCH
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Another miraculous piece of machinery on the Mill, other than the engines, was Pet French’s car. His real name was Revel but apparently his mother had called him ‘Pet’ and the knickname had stuck. Pet had the only car on the Mill that I remember and he was, I guess, the local taxi service. When we wanted to go to Armadale, he would take us. It was a tourer car, big and square with a fabric hood and running boards down the sides. I often got car sick, so I would sit up front and it was good with the side curtains down and the wind blowing in my face. Mr. Joins lived in a funny little shack on the way out to the Rec., up a steep path, on the left side of the road. He kept chooks. His shack had walls lined with pasted-on newspapers, turned brown from the smoke of his stove. We used to walk out to his place, Marie and Billy and me, to get eggs that we would carry home in a billy can. I can only recall him as a shuffling old man with grubby dark clothes and a grey flannel shirt. But Marie remembers him unpleasantly as the proverbial ‘dirty old man’. |
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MARIE, BILLY, MYRTLE, BETHNEY & BILL WEEDON
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In the time shortly before we left the Mill, Marie was found, by the School Nurse to have a ‘flutter in the heart’. It was a great worry to my mother and father, who took her to Perth to be examined by Dr. Gordon Hislop, the heart specialist of that period. He diagnosed a ‘patent ductus arteriosis’ and advised them to keep her in bed for 12 months. That seemed almost an impossibility but it was done and her condition improved. I can see her now, bouncing up and down on her bed on the front verandah, trying to see if she could make her beautiful auburn hair touch the roof. My father used to bring her Truffle Snaps as a reward for missing out on all the things she had to. Truffle Snaps were yummy runny caramel encased in lovely milk chocolate. I remember the taste so I must have got one too, or at least a bite of Marie’s. The day Mr. Sanders came to the Mill was of great importance. He had a drapery shop in Fremantle and twice a year, winter and summer, he would visit all the out-back towns, lugging his bulging cases of goodies. He was a corpulent man with small black rimmed glasses, who perspired profusely and was forever mopping his brow with a big crumpled handkerchief. He would stagger up our front steps; a huge case in each hand and drop them, crash, on the floor in the front room. Then he would proceed to open them - they literally sprang open as soon as he took off the straps - then he would array their contents around the room. Everywhere dresses, shirts, work clothes, sheets, towels, material, singlets, underpants, cotton, lace, elastic; buttons, pins and needles were displayed. You name it, he had it. My mother would stock up on all she could afford. She would kneel on the floor, with us kids milling around, to make her selections. Packing it all away was a great art. Mr. Sanders would meticulously fold everything so that it would fit back into his cases, then with one knee on the lid keeping it closed, he would attempt to do up the catches and tie the straps. Finally, he would succeed, and after a cold drink he would adjust his braces and hitch up his big black pants, and with his battered brown cases, would stagger down our steps to his next port of call. I wonder if he ever knew what a good job he did and the pleasure he gave to us. |
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BETHNEY AND BILLY WEEDON
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The most beautiful dress I had was one that my mother had made for me, as she did all our clothes. It was pale blue organza, with little white flowers embossed on it. It had a full gathered skirt, puff sleeves, a Peter Pan collar and a big sash that tied at the back. She made it for me to wear when I sang in a concert on the stage in the Hall. Shirley Temple was all the rage at the time and I being of similar age sang her song: “Evening is nigh Stars twinkle on high Purple shadows begin to creep Close your eyes and start counting sheep If you’re real good And pray as you should Snow white angels Will watch through the night For our little girl” |
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I held a big borrowed doll, whose I don’t know, in my arms and rocked and swayed as I sang. The dress was especially beautiful, made to fit me perfectly not to ‘do me’ for next summer. I was sad when my mother gave it away because it didn’t fit anymore. The Flanigans were nice people, Margaret and Tinksie were two of the girls. They were very pretty, with brown eyes and black hair. Their father, Mick, was a friend of my father and I remember them talking about cricket and boxing. My father used to shadow box in the corner of a room, darting and diving, side-stepping, back and forward. He always said boys should be able to ‘put up their props’ and look after themselves.Each summer we would go to South Fremantle for two weeks holiday. In those times people in seaside places would let out rooms to families for summer holidays. It was always with great anticipation we awaited our holidays. Several years we stayed with the Goodes’ family in Walker Street and then with the Andersons in Chester Street. My mother always did a wonderful job, encouraging us to be quiet and well behaved while we stayed there. It was no small task looking after us all in one room. Sometimes we would sleep on a front verandah and had to share a kitchen. We always had to wait until 4 o’clock before going for a swim as Marie burned easily and the sun was too hot before then. I remember one year at Mrs. Andersons, Marie lying on the bed with Mum tearfully smearing cool starch water over her scarlet skin which still shone pink through the drying white lotion. Our father was a strong swimmer and would take us one at a time, on his back, into the deep water. We enjoyed our holidays at South Beach, the Merry-go-Round and the sand castles, but I was always glad to get back to our cosy house, with our own things and we could be together again.
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BETHNEY WEEDON, BILLY WEEDON, JOANIE BROWN, GWEN BROWN & ALAN BERRY
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HILARY "TINKSIE" FLANIGAN, IRENE WHITE & GLORIA WALLIS
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FANCY DRESS THREE LITTLE PIGS |
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We seldom went to Perth, but I remember the time we all went to do some shopping. Dad took Marie, Billy and me to look around in Boans while Mum went off to shop alone. We were to meet her outside in Murray Street. We were waiting there patiently for her, on the edge of the footpath when suddenly Billy vomited up all the good things Dad had dished out to him and us girls. Dad told us to sit on the curb and Billy continued to be sick in the gutter. Dad was kneeling beside William when he just looked up into the vast sea of legs and bellowed “Myrt” and like an apparition through the seething throng, Mum appeared. She rushed to us and with great love calmy comforted William and proceeded to mop him up with volumes of something from her shopping bag. I think at no other time were we so glad to see our mother.
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FLORENCE BERRY #29 |
Sometimes we visited Aunty Hil in Mt. Lawley, where she lived with her old Mum, and sometimes we visited Aunty Molly, Mum’s oldest sister. Aunty Molly kept house for gentlemen and their families. Her home was in North Perth and like Aunty Hil’s was a lovely old place. Both had long passageways down the middle, the like of which we didn’t see at the Mill. Aunty Molly was always beautiful to look at, with fine smooth skin and bright lipstick. She usually wore a glorious wide brimmed hat if she came to meet us in Perth. She was always so very happy to see us and would envelop my mother in her arms. |
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My most frequent trips away were to Aunty Val’s in Armadale. I would suffer badly with homesickness even though Aunty Val was very much like Mum and Gran Ray was often there. Despite this I was happy there and always had a good time. Gran Ray went backwards and forwards to Uncle Jack’s and Uncle Harry’s farms, when she was most needed, during seeding, harvesting and shearing. She would also go to other branches of her family when a baby was due or sickness was about. She was an angel in disguise and we all loved her dearly. When the household tasks were done, she would sit with her crochet hook and out of her apron pocket would come another medallion, there always seemed to be one in there, and she would do a few more rounds on it. Evenly and slowly the hook would weave in and out, in and out. She achieved amazing results with that hook and worked many beautiful doylies, jabots, lace collars, table cloths, edges, mats, runners and altar cloths. Everyone in the family received something she had made. The worst holiday I can remember was when I went with Gloria Wallis and her mother to stay at Mrs. Wallis’s mother’s place in Buckland Hill. Her name was Mrs. Shanahan. The trauma began when I found I had not bought my pyjamas with me. Mrs. Wallis said “Well you’ll just have to sleep in your pants” - how shocking - I have never slept in my pants! I was relieved that I had been promoted to elastic instead of my old button-onto-the-bodice bloomers. Elastic was thought to stop your growth, or circulation or digestion, or something. Anyway, after that I got homesick and wanted my mother. How I stuck it out those couple of days I’ll never know. I was O.K. during the day but as evening shadows began to fall, so descended my dreaded disease.
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ALAN BERRY ON AN AERIAL MOTORBIKE |
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TENNIS AT BARTON'S MILL - JOHN MCKASKILL #40 |
My mother and father were good tennis players and they played regularly on the courts next to the Hall. But, the most amazing tennis player on the Mill was John McCaskill. John was a young man who unfortunately had a hare lip and cleft palate, a crooked arm and one leg much shorter than the other. But could he play tennis! He would hold the ball in the crook of his bent elbow, tight against his body, and with good hand would raise his racket high and smash down a serve as good as any I’d seen. Then he would run, hobbled fashion, across the court rarely missing a ball. He would call out the score ‘Horty, Hurty’ for all to hear. I always felt he didn’t regard himself as being different. He was always friendly and outspoken and was well accepted. In later years I met him again, singing in a concert party that was from Rockingham, that had come to the hospital where I was working. He was as eager as ever and very glad to see me. He asked after Marie and Bill, and Mum and Dad, and said he would always remember us. He died shortly after that. I feel he was indeed fortunate to have started his life at Barton’s Mill. |
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MYRTLE WEEDON, MARIE WEEDON @ OLGA CHAMPION
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WEEDON FAMILY ON A SUNDAY MORNING ON BARTON'S MILL BACK VERANDAH 1936
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TENNIS COURT AT BARTON'S MILL #33 |
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There was no church on the Mill but every Sunday the Seventh Day Adventists would come from Carmel College and we would have Sunday School in the Hall. Everyone went, except the Catholics. We went to their College one year, to their annual rally, somewhere near Forrestfield I think. They had put up a huge marquee and we filed past a large sheet held out by four men, singing: “Dropping dropping Dropping dropping Hear the pennies fall Everyone for Jesus He will get them all” I never could work out how that could happen. The ladies prepared hundreds of lunches and they had plates laid out on camp stretchers in the tents. One lady followed the other, each placing a different salad on each plate with a big slice of buttered bread on top. We had only gone for the day but they must have camped there for several days. I still sing one of their songs: “Pretty little pansy Velvety and brown On each tiny blossom God is looking down In its own sweet language Saying unto me Would you not be cheerful And as helpful be” |
SUNDAY SCHOOL TEACHERS AT BARTON'S MILL 1934 #34
SUNDAY SCHOOL AT BARTON'S MILL 1934 #35 Back Row: MARIE WEEDON, LILY WHITE, ? , EVELYN McCASKILL, ? , GWEN ANDERSON?, JOANIE BROWN?
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CHURCH & SUNDAY SCHOOL GROUP OUTSIDE PUBLIC HALL AT BARTON'S MILL 1933c #40
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CHURCH & SUNDAY SCHOOL GROUP OUTSIDE PUBLIC HALL AT BARTON'S MILL 1936c #36
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MRS. WOODS
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If we walked out our back gate, along Selkirks and Chesters back fence on the right, our chook-house and the dense forest on the left, we came to the stables. The horses belonged, I think, to Joe Brown, Joanie’s father. It always smelled good up there. Whether it was the chaff or hay or the manure I’m not too sure. We often wandered up there, hold William’s hand so he wouldn’t walk under the rails, made from long slender trees with the bark stripped off, and be trampled on. One big brown fellow was named Jarrah Jack. I don’t know if he ever won a race or saw a race course. But it was an exciting place to visit Sometimes we walked down to the ‘yard’ with our father, up and down, in and out, between the great stacks of sawn timber, towering high over our heads on both sides. The rows appeared to narrow in the distance to form a little oblong window of sunlight at the end of each stack. Dad was always very proud of the sawn jarrah boards, lying in many different lengths and thicknesses and would slap his hand on them as we walked past. We always read the little slips of paper tucked into the end of each stack, with Dad’s tally numbers written in his distinctive style. There were many other families on the Mill but I remember only fleeting things about them. The lush passionfruit vines along the side of Scaborios’s, Woods’ and McCaskills’ houses. We had a poor one that was on the shady side of the house and never had much fruit on it. |
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MINNIE WIGHT The Woods had a grown up family, Dulcie and Norm, so I never went to their house. Mrs. Berry lived well below the Mill, past a swamp where white Arum lilies grew. She was happy and plump and had a happy, plump boy named Alan. ‘Big’ Mrs. Wight in contrast to thin Mrs. Pommy White was always friendly and lived on the lower road, up near the Woods and Oswalds. ‘ Big ‘ Mrs. Wight had two boys, Ralph and Walter and a little girl named Beryl. At the end of the lower road, past the Oswalds, was a newer house with a young married couple who had a baby. They planted the whole of their backyard with clarkia and larkspurs and it was a wonderful sea of pink, cerise, mauve and purple. Many times I think about my happy early childhood days at Bartons and often wonder if the roses are still blooming in Mrs. Thompson’s garden. |
Mr & Mrs WIGHT, BERYL, RALPH, & WALTER
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References Article: Bethney Pilling Images: 1, 2, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 20, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 29, 31, 32, 37, 38 Bethney Pilling
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ASHES OF ROSES by Marie Smith
My Mum looked the prettiest that first Mother's Day Next Mother's Day we asked Dad The day before Mother's Day, Mrs. Berry was a large woman, friendly. I could hear Mrs. Berry raspy breathing, my heart beating, Dad let me carry it home.
CHILDHOOD PORTRAITS - DUTCHY by Marie Smith Dutchy was the middle child of seven Dutchy always marched with his knees Rain slashed at windows, Five minutes, Dutchy's father pounded Someone broke into the school that night, I was glad when Dutchy was old enough It was raining the day I found Dutchy's name. Why do I cry?
E. R. SANDERS by Marie Smith His arrival on the Mill There were no shops on the Mill. Ed could have set up shop in the Mill hall I never thought Ed's high waisted black pants Sometimes he let us unbuckle the straps Ed would throw back the lids, The packing up was almost as exciting
GUGGA WALLIS by Marie Smith Gugga wasn't his real name. Gugga lived in one of the huts Dad went to see him once. No one talked about Gugga. I think Gugga's son visited him, but not often. Then I heard he'd been transferred
JIMMY McGEE'S MOTHER by Marie Smith Jimmy McGee's mother's grey hair was bobbed, Her shoulders humped over her tiny frame Sometimes she went barefoot. Gee had a talent besides her story telling. When my mother couldn't play for funerals The mill closed for good in 'thirty nine. When I was grown I read an aborigine
LOUIE ZOLA'S BLACKSMITH SHOP by Marie Smith Inches deep in cinders, black as his hair
CHILDHOOD PORTRAITS - LUCY by Marie Smith Lucy was my father's aunt, War raged, buzz bombs terrorized Britons In her bold, round hand Though seventy years separated our births, She lived with her only son, In June the letters stopped. Another June. Hilda wrote again.
MAGGIES by Marie Smith Campbell's Scotty could chatter like a cocky. Noel Selkirk lived next door. And it was Noel who told us "Don't believe me, then." Noel was hurt to think we doubted him The Chester girls and I found Dad "Make a maggie talk? Talk to him." Dad spaded the gravelly bed. "First though, you have to catch him, We were feeling much better. "Then you need a real sharp knife."
MISTER CATCHY by Marie Smith Clarrie Catchpole's brother Harry, Of course, we never called Harry Sometimes he'd let us climb into the cab, The Mill inspector came twice a year. We never told anyone what the inspector said.
CHILDHOOD PORTRAITS - MR. BAILEY by Marie Smith Mr. Bailey was an itinerant preacher. He always stayed at our house. He didn't look like he was in the Dad was a bit skeptical of Mr. Bailey. There was never too much
THE BOTTLE'O by Marie Smith He came hot thirties' summers, Dad didn't spend much We'd hand up chipped ones
THE DARKEN by Marie Smith The Darken was a place best remembered God tossed or Devil thrusted blue granite rocks Our visits over too soon, we'd pick We'd cram all we could Years into motherhood I mentioned the magic to my father.
THE HA'PENNY BOX by Marie Smith After Mr. Cook died, his wife gave up Her blonde, golden colored hair, so curly No-one minded going to pick up mail anymore. When I was seven and Mrs. Gray had disappeared through the brown curtain to get Mum's parcel I hurried home, delivered the parcel,
THE LAST TIME by Marie Smith The April day they left the small bush town He'd sheltered it beneath blue wattle shade, Her mother called. She turned for one last view.
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS by Marie Smith This is the first time I have seen her Dad would say, 'now, don't put down I never knew whether they were right, My pad remained in the slot on top of my desk Ten minutes from my destination, She gets off before I do. When I stand I settle back, long last her censure gone.
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References Articles: Marie Smith
Copyright: Gordon Freegard 2008-2020
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