It sat there on the trestle table at the Sunday School Picnic.  The bright morning sun glinted off it in a rainbow sparkle of colour.  I had never seen anything so beautiful!  It was surrounded by a myriad of other things, but I did not notice them.  My ten year old eyes were drawn to it's seductive beauty.  I was mesmerised.  I knew that I had to have it.

Of course, this was going to be a huge challenge for me.  I don't think I can do it!  There were two obstacles between me and my special treasure, though.  Firstly, I need to win the girls foot race this afternoon to claim it as my prize.  Secondly, what if a winner of an earlier race claimed "my" coveted prize before me?

I could think of nothing else, my mind fixated on that ornate delight.  All of the much anticipated fun activities of the day just faded into a background distraction.  Who else would be in the race?  Valerie?  She was already ten inches taller than me, with long, long legs, so I just knew that she would run fast.  Cheryl?  More long legs and already being coached by her mother in tennis and basketball.  Nola?  Well, at least I should be able to beat her as she was even smaller than me and often unwell.  But there were still the Wilson sisters, quiet girls, but tall as well.  None of them went to my tiny school, so I didn't have any experience of their form.  However, I was almost the smallest, so obviously I didn't stand a chance.  I glanced over at the prize table, relieved to see it was still there, glowing in the strong afternoon sun.

Finally, the call that I was anxiously, fearfully waiting for - "Girls 10 to 13 years, 50 yards race, line up!"

Mum and Dad were at the side of the mown strip of grass in front of the Church, as I was taking off my shoes for the usual barefoot sprint.  Dad whispered to me, "they're all too big to run fast!  Just take off quickly and run like mad to the end.  It's just a quick dash!"  I remembered Dad's stories of his running prowess as a young man and I looked across at all those older, bigger girls and sensed a faint glimmer of hope.

The starting pistol went 'bang'!

I took off like Phar Lap!  It's not far, just run lightly on your toes and watch the finish line.  You are a little dynamo, you can beat them!

First through the tape held stretched out by our two Sunday School teachers.

I won!  I won!  Oh, please God, letit still be there on the table! 

With shaking leg, the sprint or fear, I don't know, but yes!  It was still in the centre of the table.  

The most wonderfully pretty thing I had ever seen.  I claimed it victoriously, the most perfectly, glamourous, gloriously golden pearlescence of a cup and saucer ever made!  It was mine!

My heart was full of the pleasure of owning such a precious prize and the sense of achievement I felt in winning the race.

"That will be a lovely start to your Glory Box" suggested Mrs Horsted ad the table.

"That is really hideous," laughed Dad, "but good on you for running so fast."

My hideously beautiful cup and saucer has been carefully travelling with me for the last 60 years.

Jill Gaumann
​March 2023

”It won’t happen, it can’t, there must be a way to stop it.”
 
Mum and Dad didn’t agree with me, of course!  Dairy farmers wouldn’t I suppose!
 
Spring is the season of plenty on the farm – grass, milk and money!
 
Autumn, with pastures flourishing under gentle rain, precious calves being born, is an excellent season too.
 
Winter, well, is another matter.  Cold, muddy, wet and shortened dark days that are still filled with work.   But there is always rich food, warming fires and family to enjoy at the end of the day.
 
Summer!  I yearned for it.  Loved the feel of warmth on my tanning skin.  Holidays, Freedom, Happiness.
 
Mum and Dad hated summer!  Always the worry of not enough water in tanks and dams, dried off grass in paddocks where thin cows were torn between the shade of a tree or foraging hopelessly in the stubble underfoot.
 
It was the summer of 1967 and I was revelling in the heat of my favourite time of the year.  And, anticipating the long promised treat of a few days away at a beach.
 
School holidays were here and all was well in my summery, bright blue sky filled world. 
 
In my parents’ world it was a harsh blue sky which never relinquished even a squeezed out drop of moisture.  It was a severe drought.  A threatening heat haze hung continuously above the prickly brown pastures.
 
My Dad had stopped whistling and singing.  His eyes were squinted against the glare and had lost their habitual smile.
 
No water left at all!  An expensive delivery of drinking water signalled that Mum’s loved garden would soon look like the barren paddocks.
 
The cows stopped producing milk, looked emaciated.  There was no sustenance on the farm, all the hay was gone, none could be bought and now the dams were dried up.
 
Our mealtimes had always been animated with conversations about politics and current affairs.  For weeks now the grown ups discussions were intense. 
 
“It won’t happen!  It can’t!  It would be so wrong!  There has to be a way out, to stop it!”
 
Morose silence at the table now, people playing with their food.
 
Dad was weighted down with the decision which he had no choice but to make!
 
The bulldozer arrived early on the hot day and scraped a big hole in one of the paddocks.  A really BIG hole!
 
Bruce, the dog, was sent unwittingly on a Judas mission to round up 350 cows and move them into makeshift fenced yards adjacent to the gaping hole.
 
Bruce understood the order but acted tentatively, looking back constantly for reassurance from his revered master.  The old black and white dog obviously sensed the foreboding atmosphere simmering beneath the carefree blue sky.
 
Dad and Grandpa stood, one each side of the pit, with their shotguns and boxes of cartridges.
 
None of the family talked or ate that night.
 
The biggest tragedy in my parents’ lives lingered.  The effects lingered.  Dad, Mum, Grandpa and the dog were all lost, devastated.
 
But the summer sky was still an unsullied vivid blue.
 
I was sad when I thought of what had happened, of the many cows that my sister and I had hand reared as calves.
 
But I didn’t appreciate the enormity of what had happened.
 
Summer was beckoning still.
 
We travelled to Torquay.  Maybe a little beach holiday would lift everyone’s spirits.
 
Early next morning we were sprawled on the sandy beach, relaxing amongs many noisy holiday makers and seagull.  Many people had transistor radios blaring, including my father.
 
It was the 3rd February, 1967.
 
“We interrupt this program…”
“Ronald Ryan has just been hanged at Pentridge Prison.”
 
The entire crowd was shocked into complete silence.
 
Mum, Dad and Grandpa murmured in hushed tones…
 
“It DID happen, it can’t have happened, there must have been a way to stop it!”
 
Another hopeless tragedy.
 
Above, the bright blue sky and heat haze, continued to shimmer.
 
 
Jill Gaumann,
February 2023

​It all started with the fairy tree!  A gloriously old, gnarly apple tree in our orchard next to the house.

I was three years old when I discovered that Bluebell and Pixie lived in this magical tee.  It was clothed in pinky white blossoms, creating the perfect ethereal beauty required by fairies.

In the many happy hours spent with my fairy friends, my lifelong affinity with trees was born.

The rope swing Dad created in a huge pine, allowed me to fly, high amongst the fairies and the branches.

Christmas trees were an absolute wonderment, a freshly cut pine branch (“you never take a small tree before it has enjoyed it’s life,” said Dad) decorated with Mum’s prized pretty baubles and our hand-made paper chains.

School introduced me to the pleasure of books!  (…“made from specially grown trees”, Dad Informed me).  I sat on the grass outside our one room school, listening with growing excitement as the teacher read daily instalments of the Magic Faraway Tree.  More proof that trees are magical.  My imagination was ignited!

Grimms’ Fairy Tales slightly dampened my enthusiasm for dark, dark forests, though.  But the Swiss Family Robinson surviving on a deserted island in a magnificently engineered tree house, made me yearn to live high amongst the branches!

Of course, Dad and I built a modest tree house in one of the pine trees on the farm.  It was basic, but I commanded all the cows, birds and people within my wide-ranging view.  A lovely quiet space to read undisturbed by parents or little sister.

The low mulberry tree, with its big leaves, was a perfect hiding space within the garden, its fruit a delicious bonus.

At school, the huge Oaktree was begging for children’s hands and feet to climb up into its leavy abundance.  We were all expert climbers, never a tear or an injury.  The Oak tree was very old and gentle.  Its boughs had spread perfectly for us to scramble up and up!

The glassy leaved Boobialla tree in our house paddock was sprawling over a wide area, with foliage down to the ground.  Its many horizontally growing branches were comfortable retreats from the outside world.  Inside it, the canopy was light and open with good views of the sky.  Often, on moonlit nights, I would creep out of bed and climb into the welcoming Boobialla to look at the moon and the stars.  It was my very own secret place.

By nine and ten years, kids from the neighbouring farm and I would ride our horses or bicycles off into the bush for a day’s adventure amongst the tall eucalypts.  With a packed lunch and crystal clear creek water, we explored the bush all day surrounded by majestic trees.

Then the fires came.  Mum was in hospital, Dad had no one to leave my sister and I with, but he had to help fight the bush fire that was sweeping towards the farms.

So, in the car we went, bottles of water, wet woollen blankets and instructions not to get out of the car at all.  Other cars parked on the side of the road around us, as all the men hurried into the bush with water pump knapsacks on their backs and wet potato bags.

It seemed like such a long time, the two of us alone in the car.  Then we heard it!

The trees screaming in pain as they burned!  Fireballs created by eucalyptus oil exploding above the tree line.

The roaring noise!

The orange colour, the flames, the heat!

The terror!

And Dad!  He and the other farmers running away from the angry trees, back to the cars.  Driving in a fury to escape the fury chasing behind us.

 
The cypress hedge along the road at the front, was always manicured by Dad into a long, rectangular bouffant of greenery.  It was hollow inside and the hedge trunks were close together, so it was a great hidey spot as well.  The dry stems of cypress down our backs were dreadfully itchy, though, and we sneezed for a long time afterwards.  An unfriendly tree, in my opinion.

I was perched in the middle of this hedge calmly observing the quietude of the dusty red road, when the School Council’s President arrived.  My grandfather lived with us and he reverently took the big box proffered by the President, who was proudly telling him that it was a brand new costume this year.  At eleven, I discovered that the Santa at our school concert for the past six years was my very own Grandpa!  I never recognised him!

At sixteen, the fragrance of the purple lilac trees outside of my bedroom window, was the perfect backdrop to my dreams about newly discovered boys. 

At this stage I was helping Dad cut fallen trees in the bush into firewood.  Even at the end of their days, I discovered that the once mighty trees who housed koalas and parrots, were now sheltering possums and kangaroos.  They provided my family with warmth and cooked our food.

When I left home on the farm, I travelled a great deal overseas.  Trees were always there of course, the tropical palms of Fiji, Hawaii and the jungle species of Papua New Guinea.

But my heart was caught once again, when I lived in Switzerland, by the beauty of trees throughout all the seasons. 

My beloved, unchanging gum trees, with their fairy dress flowers of pink, scarlet, crimson and cream had dominated my life until Europe.

The stark bare branches, exposed and shivering in a coating of winter snow.  The same trees bursting with the most luminescent green buds in Spring; the fully clothed, dappled shade they provided in summer.  Finally, the most spectacular display that I had ever seen by my tree friends.  Autumn!  A patchwork of hills covered in reds, oranges, yellow!  An explosion of fiery trees again, but this time in beauty, not terror!

Trees are a constant in my lfe
. 
You can tell your secrets, burdens and joys to trees (and dogs).

Trees make me want to sing.
​
 
Jill Gaumann
29 March 2022

Mum and Dad had prepared us that Grandpa, who was 69 years old, had stopped working because he was not well.  He had lost a lung and an eye in World War I and now may not have long to live.

I didn't know Grandpa very well - my grandparents lived three hours away and he was always working.  Nanna came to visit us and I loved her.  The plan was that when Grandpa died, Nanna would come to the farm to live with us.  

Then the sudden shock!  Nanna had gone to hospital and had died unexpectedly during the operation!

It was Grandpa who moved to the farm for the remaining 10 years of his life.

Grandpa was a product of the Victorian era, born in 1881 - children were seen and not heard.  He had fathered 12 children and his role was that of provider and disciplinarian; he was the king of his own castle.

Where did he fit in his new environment with a busy housewife daughter, non-stop working son in law and four grandchildren - an 18 month old baby, 5 yr old grand daugher, 13 year old grandson and a 19 year old granddaughter?  A family who was expecting a loved Nanna and instead found themselves living with a relatively unknown grandfather.

Fortunately, my Dad was a very easy going man who didn't engage in a power struggle with Grandpa.  They obviously worked out their positions in the household as they were very close when Grandpa passed away.

As the years went by I got to know and love Grandpa too.

He had his basic education and left his home in Talbot at 9 years of age to get employment as a boundary rider.  He was an excellent horseman (he'd been in the 8th Lighthorse Brigade in WW  I) and it was he who took over teaching me to ride my horse.  None of this show riding style with Gramps though, proper bush riding style!

He also took over and enlarged the vegetable patch to over an acre.  I learned to love flower gardening with Mum, but Grandpa was the king of the Veggies!  I still remember him picking young carrots for me, washing them under the tap and telling me if I couldn't find any rabbits, I'd better eat them myself.

Every week when he went to Colac with Mum and Dad he bought my sister and I one Violet Crumble and a packet of Smarties - for years!  Grandpa was very generous, he bought us a TV in 1957 and bought Mum a new washing machine.  He was the Santa Claus for our little school concert every year.  He was wonderfully warm and 'Ho Ho-ed' so well.  I didn't realize he was Santa until I was 14 years old.    Guy Fawkes night was wonderful as Grandpa made the best Guy's, with our help of course.

Every April, we would pick mushrooms in the paddocks with him for extra cash.

He always kept an eye on us around the farm (he'd take his glass eye out and put it on the table to assure us that he had his eye on us!)

It was useful for Mum and Dad to be able to have some time to visit friends, with Grandpa at home with us.

His handwriting was exquisite copper plate and he wrote to all of his children fortnightly.

But reading?  Never!  My Dad was an avid reader and encouraged us to be the same.  Grandpa was appalled that I would walk the long drive way to collect the daily paper and would settle in to read it as a young child.  The audacity!  Before a man could read the paper first!

Of course, when my older brother went to Melbourne to study at University, Grandpa was horrified that a grown man was still at school.  He used to tell my sister and I that our brains would explode if we kept reading all the time.  Luckily, Dad over rode him in this matter.

Grandpa was a stickler for punctuality. He would be dressed in his suit and hat ready to go into town an hour before Mum and Dad were due to leave.  He'd sit on the verandah checking every few minutes, muttering loudly.  He never swore, neither did my Dad.  But if Grandpa was really upset you could hear him exclaim 'Je---rusalem!'... That's as bad as it got.

Grandpa had a crook knee and he would rub liniment on it each night.  Whew!  I much preferred the smell of his pipe tobacco or the occasional cigar that he would get in a box for his birthday.  I still have a small dutch wooden cigar box he gave me 60 years ago.  The faint smell reminds me of him.

Grandpa would occasionally tell us stories of the first world war, but we often didn't want to hear.  I wish we could have that time again. 

Grandpa worked hard all through the Great Depression to keep his large family housed and fed.  After the war he did not return to the country, but got a job as a fireman at the Sunshine Potteries, working there until he was 69 years old.  He continued to work around the farm and, In the fresh country air, his lungs improved.  He was nearly 80 when he passed suddenly in the dairy.  He had a horror of hospital after the war, so it was good that he wasn't hospitalised ever again.

A strong man who lived and loved through a number of very tough times in the world, a man who is still very fondly remembered as a big part of my early life.

I'm so glad I had the opportunity to get to know Grandpa Bunting.


Jillian Gaumann
April 2021


This story was originally written as a family story for Family Research, however as the same topic is on our list of memoir story suggestions, it seemed a wonderful way to commence Jill's stories for 'As Time Goes By'.
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