maybe even the only person, to ride a sheep over the border on the Mungindi Bridge! I could hear my mother screaming at Dad to get me off, but I think he was laughing too much to hear.
When we came off the bridge on the opposite side, the sheep I was on started “baa baa-ing” and ran crazily amongst the mob. After a few seconds of this, I let go of the wool and fell off backwards. I picked myself up, dusted off and stuck my thumb in my mouth for comfort. Emmie rushed through the mingling sheep and gave me a cuddle and over her shoulder I could see Dad striding back to the truck. I poked my tongue out at him, feeling bold and extra safe, as he had his back to me. Dad had often put us on a sheep when placing them in the sheep break at night and we always fell off quickly.
The Border Leicesters were short and wide and as this mob was near full woolled, it made it easier to hang on. My siblings admired me for my ride and were a bit envious. For years afterwards, my bravery was spoken of to any friends and acquaintances who would listen. I think Dad had expected a frightened sobbing child waiting for him over the bridge. It was very high and it would have been a long drop down to the water for a four-year-old if I had fallen off that sheep.
Most roads we travelled on were rough and dusty, either bare dirt or gravel. Things in the back of the truck quite often broke. We did not have crockery until we got a caravan in the late fifties. Up until this time, we ate off tin dishes and later on enamel plates and drank from enamel mugs. We had a lot of plastic dishes too that lasted longer then the enamel ones. Enamel chipped badly but we still used it. If we were short on mugs, the stockmen would use the cups off their quart pots to have a drink. The cooking was done in the camp ovens or aluminium saucepans.
It was not always convenient to bake in the camp ovens. A good fire had to be made with coals under the oven and on top of it and that was not possible if there was not a lot of good quality wood around. If we knew that there was a shortage of wood at any upcoming camps, we would stack some in the back of the truck and use it sparingly. It does not take a lot of wood to get a billy to boil or cook up a pot of boiled potatoes and pumpkin or heat a tin or two of peas. A small fire would be lit and this was normally called a “black fella fire” or a piddly attempt at making one.
To light a campfire in high grass we had to dig a hole about eighteen inches deep, depending on how hard the ground was. The soil from the ground was stacked on the opposite side from where the wind was blowing, so it offered more protection if the wind was very strong. The smallest flame could turn into a raging bushfire and we were all aware of this. The flames would literally roll along the ground hungry for substance.
It was common to see at least one of us squatting near the fire, one hand holding a forked stick with bread on it over the hot coals and the other hand held in front of our face to keep the heat off. If the fire was big, the stick had to be a couple of feet long or you cooked your face while browning the toast.
Dad had made a tucker box but it had disintegrated over the years, so he bought a green tin travelling trunk. Though it did not keep the ants out, it certainly kept out flies and the other pests that we preferred not to share our food with. In this box we carried all the things we needed on the table: hot sauce, tomato sauce, dry milk in half pound tins, mugs, cutlery, plates, syrup, Vegemite and opened tins of jam.
When this trunk was required, it was lifted down onto the ground and then carried to the closest tree that had half decent shade. It was actually quite heavy and as the truck was rather high, it was never my job, though I was quite capable of jumping into the back of the truck and pulling it to the door so Emmie and Mary could carry it. If the shade of the tree was sparse, it was shared by all – dogs and humans. We had tables on and off over the years but if they broke while we were on the road, miles from anywhere, then we made do without until a new one was bought. When we did not have a table, we ate picnic style and we learnt not to drop our bread.
We lived with the constant knowledge that water was not to be wasted. We had two canvas water bags on the side of the truck and hung an enamel mug off a hook to use when we needed a drink. But if no one was around to see us, it was easier to just tip the water bag and drink straight out of it. We all hated to see others do it but we appeared to have no qualms about doing it ourselves. We were only allowed to add three mugs of water to the small cream enamel dish we used for a hand washing basin. This same water was used by all of us until it was quite dirty, then it was thrown out and more water added. We always left a hub cap full of water for any dogs coming into the camp, otherwise they made straight for the hand washing dish. A cake of soap was with the dish and quite often it was left in the bowl to become a big blob of jelly (which was always someone else’s fault!) and an old threadbare towel was hung nearby.
Petrol was very dirty and Dad kept an old pair of Mum’s panties that he used to put over the nozzle of the petrol hose to filter the fuel as it went from the bowser into the tank. He used to take great delight in embarrassing Mum by putting his head in the window and saying, ‘Take your panties off love and give them to me so I can filter the petrol.’ He did not care who was walking past the truck as he said it and he never got sick of the joke at Mum’s expense. She would always take the bait and be mad at him and then sulk for the rest of the day.
Dad and Mum went to Collarenebri to do shopping. Dad went to the Stock and Station agent to collect any messages for us, as our mail was always directed to the next town, and then continued to the pub. Mum did the grocery shopping and posted any mail. After finishing the shopping, she sat in the truck cabin with Mike. We “young ones” were quietly sitting in the back of the truck. Mum eventually got fed up and walked to the door of the pub. She poked her head around the door and spied Dad, then said to one of the patrons, ‘See that red-headed bastard over there, well you go and tell him I want to see him.’ Luckily Dad was a happy drunk and took no offense and back to the camp he drove.
Another time we were camped close to town, Dad was once again in the pub and Mum had Mike with her and no money. She decided to ‘leave the red-headed bastard in the pub’ and walked out of town, carrying Mike who was eighteen months at the time, back to camp. When she arrived, the blue cattle dog would not let her in, so she sat on a nearby log and cried and cried. She was tired, hungry and very upset as she knew she would possibly have a long wait until Dad got home. In her annoyance, she had left Emmie, Mary, Les and me in the back of the truck and she didn’t know what we were up to. She was too tired to walk the couple of miles back into town carrying Mike. When Dad eventually arrived back to camp half-tanked, he asked her why she walked and she told him in the only way he appeared to understand, with much screaming and bad language.
Mum never bothered to walk back to the camp again. A couple of times she risked driving the truck back herself but she hated driving in town. Instead, she would annoy Dad so much at the pub, he would eventually give in and drive us all back to the camp. In those days it was frowned upon for women to be in pubs, hence her calling from the door. Sometimes the other patrons would tease Dad about Mum and the kids wanting to go home. He always made her wait an hour or so but then he would leave, often singing her a dirty ditty to get her into a good mood again.
We were camped on a common where there was plenty of green grass for the stock so Dad called a holiday. Some of the leather bridles, halters and hobbles needed fixing so he decided to do that. I used to love watching him get the hemp, rub it in with wax and roll it. This made the sewing waterproof and extra strong. When possible he would just push his awl through by hand, but if the leather was extra thick or several thicknesses, he would use a hammer and gently tap the awl until it was through all layers. He would rarely get anything fixed professionally, preferring to do it all himself. He also had a leather punch that made various sized holes in the leather. We often borrowed these tools to play with, making holes in anything we could and we were very careful to put them back into the bag in the crate where we got them from. Dad taught us to always put things back where we got them from, so next time they were needed we could find them. He preached this to us all the time.
One day we met up with Tom Bunyan’s delving
