Category: writer

My Mumma loved babies-she had four of them.  I was her first born; born in a little Central Queensland hospital, just short of her 21st birthday.  By the time she was twenty-five, she was the mother of four children under four years old.  If she was still alive, she would see her youngest baby turn fifty this year.

The first ten years of motherhood were spent in relative isolation for my Mumma.  She would care for her babies in an old wooden Queensland home, surrounded with verandas and big wide paddocks filled with grain.  The nearest neighbour would be miles away, accessed only by dusty-sometimes boggy, narrow country roads, across bumpy cattle grids and through multiple farm gates.  When her babies were old enough, they got the job of opening and shutting those gates.    

Mumma had to be brave. She would wrestle a gun to shoot snakes that threatened her babies and kangaroos that threatened my Daddy’s crops.  She was paranoid her babies would get bitten and would insist we stay nearby.  Some nights, when Daddy came home, she would show him the snake she had shot that day. Its tail touched the ground one side of the fence she had slung it over. It’s head touched the ground the other side. 

Before my Mumma could cook, she had to stoke up the fire in the old, cast-iron, slow combustion stove, that was tucked away in the recess of her kitchen. Daddy would chop the wood, and often light the fire, but she had to keep it from going out.  The big, cast iron kettle would sit at the rear of the stove, filled and warm; ready to bring to the boil again when the workmen returned or a visitor turned up.  The warmth of the stove would raise the most amazing bread dough and sweet German Kuchen.  The same stove would keep rescued baby ‘roos warm in their hessian bags, little chicks alive at night and many kittens purred in it’s glow. 

My Mumma’s babies were bathed in a little, plastic tub atop the melamine kitchen table, alongside of the warmth of that stove.  When we were older, she would often place all four of us in the enamel claw foot bath. The bath sat on top of grey, cold concrete in the roughly built bathroom set down four stairs below the kitchen. Sometimes the neighbour’s kids would end up in the bath with us, when they came to visit.  Especially when we all came up in welts from the itchy grubs that lived amongst the brigalow scrub we liked to play in. 

Water was precious.  Our family of six relied on rain to be caught and stored in the attached corrugated iron tank.  The harsh, mineralised water pumped from the artesian bore was available but rarely used.  Maybe my Mumma used it in her shiny, new, Simpson wringer washing machine that stood proud and centre of the open laundry, alongside of our little bathroom. On a cold winter’s morning the water was often held hostage and frozen in the old lead pipes.  Warm water was only possible and available in the bathroom, if the fire was hot and water passed by the heater attached to the stove. 

Mumma had to be strong. If Daddy wasn’t home by dark, she had to visit the garage, with its dirt floor and smell of diesel-and always the threat of snakes, to crank the generator.  The steel wheel with its attached handle, required a firm grip and strong arm to turn the crank handle and fire the diesel generator.  (Wealthier neighbours could afford a press button generator.)  She sometimes cranked the generator during the day, if she wanted to use her Sunbeam mix master to mix cakes and cookie doughs to bake for her babies and my Daddy.  At night, the generator would provide the electricity for our single, incandescent bulbs that glowed in each room.

Mumma had to be careful. She was a Mumma before child restraints were mandatory in cars.  Her babies were transported in a wicker bassinette that would sit on the bench seat.  Her toddlers would usually stand on the same bench seat, no doubt distracting her while she drove and shifted the gears on the column. On Sundays, Daddy would drive our family wagon, giving her a rest.  One of us could sit on the front bench seat between Daddy and Mumma. Mostly, her bigger babies sat wearing their Sunday best on the bench seat behind them.  On special occasions and long distances, we would get to lie down in the back of the wagon. Daddy would carry the sleeping babies inside, when we got home to the dark homestead.

There are many more things I remember about my Mumma and my childhood in that country home.  They are distant but good memories.  Mumma was mostly happy in those years.  In her latter years, she was mostly sad until she left us far too young at sixty-six. 

Today, is Mother’s Day and I choose to remember her in those early years, when she poured out her life caring for her babies, including me.  In these years she stood shoulder to shoulder with my Daddy in outback Queensland, when they were share-farmers.  I choose to remember her as our loving Mumma; brave, strong and full of care.  I love you Mumma. Happy Mother’s Day.