Recalling the richness of a poor part of history

Ruapehu Bulletin, Volume 13, Issue 628, 19 March 1996, Page 14

Recalling the richness of a poor part of history

By ex-Ohakune resident Gerry Cranston After 50 years of wandering it never ceases to amaze me at the clarity with which I am able to recall memo ries of my childhood days in Ohakune. My father and mother on their arrival from an easy lifestyle in England purchased a 1 20acre dairy farm, completely covered in logs and stumps, on the Rangataua Road. My father, being inexperienced in the ways of nurturing the land and unaware that it was to prove to be an uneconomic unit, slaved his heart out for about 30 years for very j little financial reward. By the present day's high standard of living we were very poor indeed, my mother often having to go without to satisfy her brood of seven hungry children. During the depressions of the late 1930's when I was a child, it was a continual struggle for our parents to feed and clothe us. We had insufficient clothes to keep us warm at night. My mother would tuck us in by candle-light, putting any old coat over us to try and keep the cold out. We were able to buy stale bread from the bakehouse in Ohakune for one shilling a sack. Toasted in front of the open fire on a shrewdly shaped piece of No.8 fencing wire then covered with beef dripping, it filled many a hungry child' s stomach. Despite being so hard up, I can never remember feeling insecure and only as my own life unfolded was I able to understand how insecure my parents must have felt, particularly without the back-stop of Social Security which we have in this golden day and age. We boys learnt at a very tender age to assist my father on the farm, chopping wood for the open fire and the range, which we were completely dependent on for cooking and heating. We milked cows from the age of seven, when we could only milk one cow in half an hour, but as time went by gradually becoming capable of eight to 10 cows per hour. My mother frequently remarked on the lovely soft skin of our hands. For no particular reason that I know of it was one of my jobs to get the cows to the shed each morning to be milked. My father called me each morning on the dot of five o'clock, wet or fine, seven days a week with one word — "Gero". It was out of bed, with hand-me-down clothing, bare feet and away I went. Barefoot and icey The farm had a stream at the front near the house and cow bail, and as our bridge was often washed away in floods we more often than not had to go barefoot through this icy cold mountain stream. It was and still is beautifully clean and fresh, not very wide, and if you got a good run on, you could cross with only four steps into the water, then down to the night paddock (all named) to race around to gather the cows. Cows which have been lying down, immediately on standing drop a cow-pat. What joy to stand in these and warm the bare feet! My father in the meantime roused my two brothers, who had their tea and slice of bread and butter at the house, mine being brought over to the shed, and milking began. My younger brother Tony would start separating the milk with a hand-driven Alfal Laval separator, which had a warning bell that rang quite loudly if he slowed down a bit and got below the correct speed. Early nights every night As we started at 5am every morning, "lights out" was 8pm, my mother and father staying ifp until 8.30 pm on special occasions. It was an impossibility for them to wait up for the nine o'clock news on the radio. I can well remember my mother and four sisters doing dishes after dinner at night, (we milkers being exempt!). We had no sink so water was heated on the stove and the dishes were done in a basin. They then came to sit around the fire-side with us all as a family unit. We talked together and often said the Rosary. Poor mother could never stay awake until 8pm and with the warmth of the open fire would doze off in the middle of a family discussion. I learned many years later my grandmother had 'shouted' and we had the power installed to our home, when I was about 10 years old. I must state here as we got away from the depression days of the 1930-1936 period, so clothes and gumboots, blankets etc became more readily available. Oh, the luxury of gumboots for that walk across the creek ! I do not want you to form the impression that we were the only poor family of that time; practically every family was in the same boat. My father erected a log, high above the creek for us to walk over in our school boots. My brother

Tony, who purchased the home farm from my father, still uses a similar method to cross today. As children in summer, we continually played in or at this creek, making dams, paddling, digging caves in the banks, catching trout etc. As I hope you can readily imagine, the creek played a large part in our young lives. A huge Maori man, Jimmy Coffin, who lived nearby, taught us how to tickle trout and how to eat raw birds' eggs by making a hole in each end on the spike of a barbed wire fence, and then giving them a hearty suck! We often filled a fry-pan with these eggs. Tastiest morsels Mum was very fond of crabs, which were easily caught in the smaller streams on our farm. We would set off with a treacle billy (a most useful container when we attached a wire handle) and when we returned home later with our catch, mother would heat a large pot of water, and when it was really boiling she would drop the live crabs in — they were killed instantly and immediately turned bright red! They were given three minutes to cook, a dash of vinegar, salt and pepper added to the edible pieces — tastier morsels I have never encountered. My mother would often pack a picnic lunch and take us to another creek at the back of the farm fpr a picnic. What simple pleasures of a by-gone era! We played cricket on the banks with home-made wooden bats and wickets, (Dad would stop work

long enough to have a bite to eat, and a game with us) paddled, explored up the creek and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves at no cost whatsoever. I still have a photo of my mother (taken in later years) sitting with her feet in the creek, and a ldok of sheer happiness on her face. A Chinaman who lived nearby (the Chinese leased the ground from the farmers to grow vegetables) owned quite a few ducks, which would wander over during the night and lay their eggs in or beside the creek. Our own ducks were fed on curds after milking and locked in each night. How clever we became at getting those eggs in the dark before his day began, and without a very strictly honest father being too aware of what was going on! I remember the excitement watching him (while we were milking) come along the creek to find any we had left. He must have thought he had mostly drakes! One of our favourite trips was to cross the railway line at the back of our farm, and go through a patch of native bush, through which was then a government block to a mountain stream, a distance of three miles. Our fishing rods were made of lancewood or some similar small native tree, with a length of string and one yard of fishing gut and a small hook - no reels or nets or anything fancy ! I remember the gut was one penny per yard and hooks four a penny . By catching a grasshopper and attaching it to the hook we were able to catch up to one hundred 6inch trout in the day. I think my younger brother Tony held the record with 165. These fish were

taken home to our mother, who cooked them in a fry-pan. As they were so small we did not gut them - those parts just being left on the plate. Free lumps Another favourite past-time for us boys was to gather lumps of coal from alongside the railway line to take home to Mum who used them with glee when baking in the wood range oven. On looking back, I feel some kind fireman on the train guessed what we were up to and must have chucked some of those lumps out for us boys. All transport was by rail, people as well as freight. A slow train left Ohakune Junction at 7. 1 5am each morning (I can easily see in my mind the importance it generated as it came into sight, smoke billowing out in a huge cloud, really black if pulling a specially heavy load) passing along the back of our farm with the bush in the background. My father always tried to let us leave the shed when the train had gone, to go over to the house and get ready for school. We went to the Convent School and were taught by the nuns of St Joseph. The school has long since been closed. School commenced at 9am, but being young and extremely fit, we tried to get there by 8am for an hour's sport. The view from our cowshed was second to none, and sitting there on a three-legged stool looking down at the paddocks, the creek, the steam-driven engines pulling large loads of timber, firewood etc, Goldfinch's Mill, the native bush and in the background, often rising through* the morning mist, Mount Ruapehu, were scenes I shall never forget.