This is an extract from ‘The Long, Long Road – Isa to the Burma Railway and Back’ written by George Beard (founder of Playtime stores) and reproduced here with kind permission of the Beard Family.
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Because the butcher killed a beast only at irregular times, much of the meat we ate was corned beef, which would remain fresh for a week or more.
When word was heard that the butcher had ‘killed’, my mother would take off at great pace in her sturdy walking shoes, to be early for the better cuts.
You had to move quickly because the butcher had no cooling, and sold the meat on a first come first served basis, and it could be kept fresh for a couple of days in a well-constructed and well positioned Coolgardie safe.
The fact that to buy it represented a two mile walk each way, did not seem to faze her.
Her walking shoes, which she wore all the time, are the focus of some of the most vivid memories of my Mum.
They were a most important part of her wardrobe, for wherever she went, it meant walking – a visit to Church, school, butcher, baker, or grocery store meant a walk of about two miles each way.
She was an amazingly quick walker and this ability stayed with her most of her life.
She must have been most healthy because I do not recall her being sick.
If she was off colour she kept it to herself, which was not strange, as the nearest doctor was in Cloncurry, 100 miles away over a rough bush track.
One of my father’s party tricks in those early days, after we had goats, is worth repeating.
Being the eldest, I was usually given the task (not really easy) of bringing our ‘best milker’, called Butter (because she would butt at every opportunity), up the stairs.
Here I would be instructed, “Put some milk in my friend’s whisky, George”.
So I would milk into the glass with the whisky already in place.
Although this rather offbeat exercise caused great amusement the first time it was seen by my father’s guest, I fancy it wore thin after the first demonstration.
My mother was annoyed with this nonsense so that after Butter had a ‘call of nature’ whilst upstairs, an end was brought to the practice.
Apart from potatoes and onions, fresh vegetables were non-existent, but we could buy dried mixed vegetables.
My mother used these to make stews or soups.
Kaiser the baker made excellent bread which was priced at one shilling per loaf, but there was no delivery so buying bread involved a walk of a couple of miles each way.
Eggs were difficult to obtain and quite expensive.
In the very early days our groceries were sent to us by Samuel Allen & Sons of Townsville.
Later we bought our groceries from George Milthorpe, who set up a small store about where the Leichhardt Bowls Club now stands.
But because of the extreme shortage of water, gardens in the early days were only a dream of distant times and places.
All cooking was done on a wood burning stove, and quite good lighting was provided by carbide burning lamps.
The principle was to wet the carbide slight; this creates a gas, which smells rather strongly, and even today I can conjure up memories of that strong smell.
The lamps were mobile, standing about one foot high.
Washing was done by boiling those clothes which could accept the treatment, in wood-fired copper boilers, with other clothing washed by hand.
It was hung to dry on a rope suspended between two trees.
Ironing was a real challenge, as it was done with ‘Mrs Potts’ irons, heated on the stove top.
When the iron was hot, it was lifted off with a small detachable handle, a then returned to the stove when the heat had dropped.
Using the handle, it was replaced with one of the other hot irons on the stove top.
I started school in mid-1926, at the Mount Isa State School, then the only school in Mount Isa.
Ted – then almost sex years old – did not start school until 1927.
I walked two miles each way to school, on what was nothing more than a bush track.
The hot ground played hell with my bare feet, especially in the summer months.
I did own a pair of shoes, but they were for Sunday best.
I was in good company, for none of the boys and not too many of the girls had shoes to wear to school.
The one teacher was, so it was said, suffering from gas inhalation, which he had endured whilst serving in France during the First World War.
Quite often there was no school, because his poor health made him unable to be present.
Aged seven and a half years when I started school in Mount Isa, I was, so it seemed, a fair way behind the other kids of my age.
This first day at school, the teacher had one of the boys read a poem from one of the school books.
He read in a loud, confident voice, and I was amazed at his performance.
Just fancy being able to read a poem from a book with no mistakes.
He was at the time, in my eyes, a genius.
I still remember the poem, which went like this:
In the heart of a seed, buried so deep,
A dear little plant lay fast asleep.
‘Wake,’ said the sunshine, “and come to the light’,
‘Wake’, said the raindrops, soft and light.
The little plant heard, and rose to see
What the wonderful world outside might be.
I am sorry to say the boy was a long way short of a genius although he did have, in my eyes at least, his moment of glory.
Researched by Kim-Maree Burton.
www.kimmareeburton.com
Photographs courtesy of North Queensland History Collection and MIMAG
Further extracts from George Beard’s memoirs will be regularly featured in the History Page of the North West Star.