DOWN MEMORY LANE
Young children waving at a steam train in the fifties is a nostalgic reminder of simpler kinder times. The frantic pace of today’s life where greed and the “bottom line” seem to have become paramount is certainly not improvement of life for ordinary hard-working people. This at times it is salutary to take a trip down memory lane.
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IT was fun growing up in a tiny Western District village even though my family – and quite a few others were fairly poor – though certainly not poor in spirit.
Hexham by the River Hopkins in the forties and fifties was a good place to be. It boasted a fine little school, three churches, a grand double-storey bluestone pub and a wonderful general store which almost sold everything from a pin to a battleship. Mr and Mrs Harding were great shop-keepers and they had two fine kids, Bruce and Valda. Bruce was my school pal and his sister was – well, just gorgeous.
Opposite the pub was my grandfather’s blacksmith shop. He was always busy and it was a warm place on cold winter days. Horses were plentiful on the squatters’ runs to north, south, east and west.
The football and cricket clubs were vibrant and there was tennis, occasional horse-racing and polo was popular.
All the aforementioned have gone. Like similar villages and tiny towns across our vast land. Hexham declined slow but surely as progress grew apace. Only a trip back half a century in a time capsule could reveal to the modems what life in Hexham was like.
In winter it would be observed my grandfather walking the fair distance, bell in hand, to time keep for the football club.
He lived his whole life in the village and loved footy. He played for the club, worked on committee; goal umpired and for years rang the bell. It was a lifetime of devotion and sadly he died just before the club’s first premiership. The time trip visitors would marvel at the life and vitality of the time and its people – concerts, dances, school plays and genuine community spirit.
Primary school days were mostly happy, particularly the last half hour of each day when the teacher would read to us such books as the Billabong series – tales set in the Australian bush by Mary Grant Bruce; and the rousing Biggles stories about the ace pilot. Christmas time was a great occasion, eagerly looked forward to. Unlike times today it was the one time of year when there were presents. Sometimes there was a birthday gift but not often. Some days in term breaks dad would take us to the shearing sheds to help pick up or sweep.
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From tiny Hexham, our family moved to Mortlake and a couple of years to finish off primary school in the close-knit town at the foot of Mt Shadwell saw some good outcomes.
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Pick-up games – footy all winter and cricket all summer – were the staple, and the town’s footballers and cricketers in the Hampden Leagues asswned folk-hero status.
There were no junior XIs in those times but after turning up to training from age 12 it was a thrill to make the Footballer’s Cricket Club team at 15 and travel to almost exotic destinations like Terang, Cobden, Camperdown and tiny farming hamlets Bookaar, Boorcan, Choclyn, Cobrico, Kolora, Glenormiston to play.
One October Saturday at Boorcan, with the outfield nearly foot high grass I recall batting all day for 79 – 73 singles and a lone six.
Country week cricket at 16 was a thrill and there are memories of facing Warrnambool speedster Harry Herbert who later played football for Geelong.
Herbert was very fast – so lively that 1954 English Test skipper Len Hutton labelled him the fastest bowler seen on that Australian tour. Herbert had played for a Victorian Country XI against England at Ballarat.
Those were the days when all visiting Test sides played an “up-country” game in each state.
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I really wanted to be a teacher but circumstances directed me towards a brief stint as a cadet surveyor with Mortlake Shire followed by an even briefer time working in a roadhouse.
By good fortune, though, I met up with another magnificent and indeed inspiring man. Lex Arthurson, decorated in the Second World War, came to Mortlake as headmaster and we met through cricket. He loved the game and there were many evenings when we bowled to each other in the old school-net.
Lex and his lovely wife Agnes had ten children and the Arthurson name still resonates proudly in the fields of education via some of the clan. I still keep in touch with a fantastic person and thank him for getting me into the teaching game.
He took me on as a student teacher, guided me wonderfully well and fast tracked me through the old Teachers’ College qualification period. I owe him much, – along with my Anglican friend, and my parents. They were strong, principled people, totally selfless, and always “giving” to others.
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The era of the fifties in the Hampden region was an outstanding one for football.
Some tremendous names from the Big League came west to play and coach – and to inspire youth. The list is a formidable one – Don Grossman, Fred Hughson, Fred Fanning, Jack Murphy, Jack Cassin, “Binger” McLaren, Maurie Heam, Jack McNally, Stuart Spencer, Harry Mears, George Collard, Ted Ryan, and many more.
But my ‘hero’ was ‘Gentleman Jim’ McLeod, a Shadwell Hill farmer with a war service and rugby background. He was a superb centre half-back with a long penetrating kick, and decades on I still see Jim breaking time and again from defence to put his team into attack.
