The early days.

I was born in the early 1950s in Sydney, Australia. I had a twin sister who was 20 minutes older and a brother 10 years older.

My parents were party animals I suppose, because they laughed about the first time my sister and I got drunk ... it was after a big night and they had both slept late.  We were toddlers and started exploring the debris left over from their party, drinking the dregs left in some of the glasses.  By the time our parents arose, my sister and I were staggering around the room, quite ill.

Yarranabee Road, Darling Point.

The first memory I have was when my father picked me up and pretended to throw me off the balcony.  It was night, we were very high up and I was so terrified I clung to him as he laughed his head off.  He was never a cruel man and probably had no idea that I would remember that fear.  We moved from the house in Darling Point when I was 2 years old, up into the Blue Mountains.

We lived in towns such as Lawson, Warrimoo and Wentworth Falls, where we saw snow for the first time. Dad stood at the open front door with a huge grin on his face and as I walked down the stairs he pelted a snow ball at me!  We loved it, even when the snow melted in the spring because the grounds of the Convent next door transformed into a massive field of large daffodils.

A newspaper photographer snapped us as we welcomed our Aunty L home from New York.

After my paternal grandfather died leaving some money to Dad, we moved down to Wallacia. It was nestled in the foothills beside the Nepean River, where our parents leased/managed a guest house and riding school.  To this day I still love the smell of horses, chaff and even the odour of fresh manure is tolerable.

The guest house had two maids who nicknamed us "the Duchess" and "the Gypsy".  We even had our own small playground with a type of merry-go-round and a swing.

My grandfather had also left us his pacer, a magnificent animal that my sister fearlessly rode.

Our only entertainment in 1956 was the radio, records and the occasional Ball my parents would host in the ballroom attached to the main building of the guest house.  I will never forget the magnificent ball gowns or cocktail dresses ladies wore, nor how handsome the men looked in their dinner suits (tuxedos).  Dad would let me dance with him while I stood on his shoes!  I can still remember the beautiful smell of Mum's red lipstick, something I've never smelt since.

My favourite radio show was a mystery called "No Holiday for Halliday" and the first song I fell in love with was Mahalia Jackson singing "Whole World in his Hands" (click these green links to listen on YouTube).  When some Americans came to stay with us they played and sang "Jamaica Farewell", "Island in the Sun" and the "Banana Boat Song" introducing us to Harry Belefonte, who I immediately fell in love with ... although I tried not to be unfaithful to Nat King Cole whom I adored!☺  They also taught us to make delicious iced tea!  As you can see from one of the following photos, I had a black doll and I couldn't understand why anyone would want to wear this pasty, white skin.  I wished I had been born with black skin until much later when I first heard about racism ... then I couldn't imagine that I would ever have the courage to stand up to such mindless hatred!

When I was 4, I was poisoned.  I don't remember how it happened, but I vividly remember Mum and Dad, with me sitting between them in the front seat of the big, black Buick, racing to the hospital.  We picked up a motorbike policeman who, once he heard Dad's story, gave us an escort all the way.  My head was drooping as I drifted off to sleep but Mum kept slapping my face and yelling at me to stay awake.  This was the only time I was ever hit by either parent.  At the hospital, I gagged as they shoved a rubber tube down my throat and pumped my stomach.

Later my parents told me the background story.  Apparently my sister was very sick and was prescribed small doses of medicine, ie. half a teaspoon.  When not in use, this bottle was placed on top of the wardrobe, but it seemed I wanted what my sister was having so badly that I pushed my bed over to the wardrobe, climbed up, grabbed the bottle, opened it and drank half the contents.  Strangely, I remember everything else including all the people at the guest house lined up outside as we drove away, but not this incident.
Not long after, I was thrown off a horse and, catching my foot in the stirrup, got dragged for some way before my brother could catch up and stop the animal.  From that day on I was terrified of heights and the only horse I could ride was "Snowball" ... she was as wide as she was tall and could never do more that walk at a sedate pace. ☺ My brother and sister teased me of course, but that's perfectly normal in any family.

That December my brother died; he was only 15.  I have no memory of his death so I'm sure that I've blocked it out.  All through our childhood Mum and Dad insisted that he died of pneumonia, but their level of grief was so high, they went into deep mourning every Xmas.  My sister and I knew they were lying, but it wasn't until after I was married that I demanded to know how he really died.  They told me that they found him in a wardrobe ... he had hung himself with a dog leash!  I can't even imagine how any parent could cope with the death of a child, but to find your only son hanged?  Unimaginable!  Only then did I begin to understand all the drunken, depressed Xmases in our house, their violent fights and my mother's agoraphobia.

Mum told me that my brother had become deeply religious, spending his free time with a Catholic priest, keeping many bibles and other religious texts.  He also criticised her for wearing make up and for the way she dressed.  This is why I find his suicide so hard to understand, because it's supposed to be a mortal sin.  Although our family was Anglican, Mum said the only thing that saved her sanity after J's death were regular visits from that same Catholic priest (his guilty conscience?).  I will never know why J died, but I've speculated over the years.  He was an only child for 10 years ... did he feel neglected when his twin sisters arrived to claim all the attention?  Could he have been gay and too afraid to go on with his life or was he molested by that priest who helped Mum with her grief?

Back to 1956 and we moved away from Wallacia for a while, but Mum and Dad returned to give the guest house another try.  Sadly, the dry winter brought bush fires and I remember Dad leaving with the other volunteer fire fighters armed with only wet, Hessian bags to beat back the flames while Mum, guests and the staff hosed down the roof and gutters.  The sky was full of sparks and we could hear the roar and see the glow of the flames on the other side of the river.  We accommodated everyone who had lost their house or been evacuated.  There was no money to help with expenses, so when the floods came in summer and the guest house was again full of refugees, Mum and Dad became bankrupt.  Dad had already traded the Buick in for a two-toned blue Zephyr and we watched sadly as it was repossessed.  Later I remembered that the rubber inner-tube we used for swimming was still in the boot of that car.

Our Dad always tried to do the right thing by Twin and me, but sometimes we just didn't cooperate.  For example, the time he took us to the movies to see Pinocchio.  We were enjoying ourselves right up until the giant whale swallowed Geppetto then we lost it!  We were terrified.  I was crying and shaking but Twin was screaming so Dad, utterly embarrassed, dragged us out and rushed us home.  Another time he took us to the Circus ... an enjoyable night out, surely?  And it was until all these little people (we called them Dwarves in those days) rushed out into the arena wearing cowboy outfits and shooting guns.  I nearly died of fright and tried to climb my Dad like a ladder, hanging over his shoulder so they couldn't get me.  Again, we beat a hasty retreat and I think Dad swore he would never take us to another show.  ☺ 

He would come home from work every Friday with two Golden Books and strange as it may seem, Twin and I always picked different books.  We never fought over toys or other possessions because we had completely different tastes.  Everyone kept giving me stupid dolls when all I really wanted was a train set or a chemistry set, but I loved it when our Aunt, who travelled extensively, sent us a parcel from Hawaii.  It contained real Muumuus and two fresh Frangipani Leis, packed in dry ice.  During her travels, she also sent us silver charms from all around the world and dolls in their national costumes, which I've kept in excellent condition to this day.

My favourite charms are a tiny roulette wheel that actually spins and a set of real playing cards, enclosed in a miniature silver box from Monte Carlo.

My favourite dolls are a Native American girl in a beautifully beaded, fringed, leather tunic and pants and an Hawaiian girl in a flowered top and grass skirt.  Twin's favourite was an Eskimo in a lovely, furry hooded jacket and pants.