Ride a Country Mile

“Remember the day Dad put you on the sheep?” asked my sister.

How could I ever forget it? We were at my uncle’s farm, when I was lifted up and gently lowered onto the fleecy seat. Without hesitation, the placid animal turned into a live amusement park ride. Head down and breathing hard it bolted away from the house and along the muddy paddock. Above all, it was my mother’s wish that we always stayed clean. I knew it was to my peril that I fell off and marked my clothes. It also might hurt.

With clumps of greasy wool in each hand, I tucked my knees in and held on. With no steering mechanism in sight, I trusted that Lambie knew where she was taking me. A leap here and a swerve there maneuvered us

Uncle Lindsay, had his farm at Nietta

around the occasional rock and large tuft of grass. We were really travelling.

Behind me, I heard shouts fading as my rescuers were left far behind. They were never going to keep up with this pace. Through the gateway we powered, Lambie taking a right turn to avoid the bog stirred up from the hooves of 40 cows heading for the dairy. Spits of mud flew from her pounding feet as she squelched her way up the slope.

With open country in front of her, she chose the most unlikely option. The narrow doorway of the separating room invited her in and she accepted. I had not expected to be steeple chasing but I flattened into a streamlined position as we mounted the steps and tore through the room at a pace. No cows were waiting at the bails as we passed, and hung a sharp left into the waiting area.

Lambie did not slow down; I did. Through the rails she dived; a drop of several feet to the ground. Indecorously I was siphoned off her back, landing on the cement platform, my pride in tatters, but without a spot on my dress.

These days, I choose other methods of transport.

Cosy and Warm

I reached into the box of goodies my aunt had put aside for me: a bunch of old cigarette lighters, a possum skin, trinkets, several boxed pens, and then I found it. It was not an item you would normally pass down the generations, but I was now the proud owner of a frilly orange tea cosy.

At first bemused, I thought about its origins. Had my aunt found the pattern suddenly when going through a knitting book and been instantly drawn to little frills or had she wavered over another style. Orange and yellow were not colours I might have chosen, but in the seventies when this was likely made, they were all the rage.

Did she feel a sense of anticipation as she slid the crumpled label from the ball of yellow? She would certainly have been aware of the softness and the unique smell of new wool as she cast on the first stitches. After the first row, it was time for the orange to make its debut. Every row was pattern: knit two together, pass the slip stitch over, make one, cast off and cast on.

Sixty rows later, all was drawn together and the top was finished with a matching chequered ribbon. Leaving holes for the handle and spout, the sides were joined. It was time for a celebratory cuppa.

Tea in this household was important. It was made strong; no golden liquid would enter a cup in this kitchen. You had to be prepared for the tannins and odd the floating ‘visitor’.

A trip to a clear mountain stream provided the water. Tap water was not acceptable. When the kettle sang, crisp dry tealeaves swirled and danced under the stream of liquid as it was poured from above. As the lid was slotted into place, they relaxed, producing a thick dark fluid. All was kept warm as the tea gained strength under the colourful cover.

If only this tea cosy could talk. How many secrets would it be able to tell? It must have heard discussions about the past, talk of the loud and riotous neighbours and expressions of anger and grief. For thirty or forty years it graced the table when visitors arrived. I saw it often and realise now, that it must have been kept for guests else it would have been stained and saddened. How nice to know that I was one of those special people.

“READ THE SIGNPOST. LOTS OF LAUNCESTON PEOPLE HAVE LEARNED TO READ IT CAREFULLY. Read the Sign-post correctly. The Sign-post of health is the back. You must read its aches and pains. You must know the language of the back. When you know it, the Sign-post reads: " Backache is kidney ache. Lame back is lame kidneys. Weak back is weak kidneys. To cure the back, cure the kidneys." Only one sure way to do this. Take Doan's Backache Kidney Pills. Mrs. George Bennett, 21 St. John-street, Launceston, says:.."[i]

Mary Ann Bennett certainly did read the sign post. She had been taking Doan’s pills since 1902. In fact, she was still endorsing them in 1925, even though she had been dead for several years! Not many medications can be that effective. She had inherited the opportunity to have her name coupled with these pills from her husband’s Uncle Henry.

Henry also found that they worked a treat, also after death. He committed suicide in Mary Ann’s home in 1899 by falling backwards onto a bradawl and severing his spine. One might have thought that that was enough to remove the pain but his advertisements continued for another twelve months!

Mary Ann’s sister in law Rose, preferred Dr Sheldon’s Magnetic Liniment. It not only cured her backache but also the gout of her adopted son. She then moved on to another product. Dr Sheldon produced ‘digestive tabules’ which really were a wonder, taking away all her stomach problems. After two years the advertisements stopped. Was she cured for life?

---

[i] 1906 'READ THE SIGNPOST.', Examiner (Launceston, Tas. : 1900 - 1954), 1 December, p. 8 Edition: DAILY., viewed 8 February, 2016,

A Useful Tool

Did my face echo my doubts when my aunt handed over the two large, rusted and dirty rings?

"They were my Grandfather's," she explained, "Parts of a maul."

In the back of my mind, I had a vague idea,  but when seeing a real one in a forestry museum a little later, I could see how the rings worked. A large cylindrical, wooden head had a ring around each end to stop the wood from splitting when the tool was hit hard against another surface.

Internet searches told me that a maul was used by circuses to hammer tent pegs into the ground. I think Ephraim was more likely to have used it for splitting timber and for fencing. It must have had a myriad of uses in the bush.

I cannot imagine how difficult it was to use such a tool. There certainly would have been no need to go to the gym at the end of the day. In fact, I have used the rings as weights. 

Texture marks spill the secret that they have been home made. A depression would have been made into sandy soil and a tin placed in the centre. Hot metal poured into the resulting circular well would have been then left to cool. 

Once any sharp edges were beaten flat, they would have been reheated before hammering into position on the maul.

I have had these a while now. They have been cleaned and de-rusted. I have no use for a large wooden maul but they are wonderful to place on slippery fabric to stop it sliding away when I am cutting out a pattern.