Marcus Aurelius sits astride his horse,
On Capitoline Hill.
Frozen in bronze..he gazes, palm thrust forward,
As if to say; “Stop!…..
“Don’t come this way for it is wrought,
With danger and false prophesy,
Witness the terrible truth of history”.
But we cannot stop..We will not stop,
Driven by a greed of self-proclaimed certainty,
Until we too are frozen in a time-stamp
With destiny.
Salem salem.
Somewhere..
Between the soul and the Divine,
Between that love you seek,
Between the love you find,
Is a place of serene beauty,
A place concealed and undefined.
Salem salem..find in your heart..salem.
You may not touch this place,
You may not touch the divine..
Only worship the possibility,
If there is no possibility..; then desire.
You cannot own this place,
Like you cannot own grace.
Salem salem..find in your heart..salem.
As with grace..if you think you have it,
You’ve lost it.
Avalanche of emotion..ecstasy so nice,
A want of devotion, comes at a price.
And you ask ; do I desire thee?
I say..does the eagle the sky?
You wonder; will I touch thee?
I say yes..yes, there, I will touch thy..
Salem salem..find it in your heart to cry…Salem!
End of an Era.
The end of the war became a catalyst for many changes in both social and agricultural lives. The developement of the sophistacted machines of war were transferred into machines of agriculture where the tank morphed into the tractor..to replace the older cumberson single-cylinder Lanz-Bulldogs and the like..these more efficient machines spelt the end to millenia of horse-drawn ploughs and harvesters…and also, by consequence brought about the end of labour intensive farming that drove so many farm labourers into the city to seek employment..the towns changed, the Mallee changed, the river lost much of its enterprise and the riverboats and barges were moored up or broken up..
It was the end of empire.
#4 ..The Last Empire.
In the hour before the umbra,
In the hour before the gloaming,
In the hour before the sun is setting..
When the crow begins its nesting,
When the galahs settle in the mallee,
When the shadows grow longer in the mallee.
With the hardest work of the day done,
With the bulk of the fortnight work done.
This day marked the winding-up of the harvest,
This day saw the last bringing in of the grain.
End of a year’s work of harrowing,
Ploughing, seeding, praying for rain,
Watching crops grow in spring,
Watching till now, winding down,
Watching a year’s work and worry.
The crop is in, harvested, winnowed, bagged,
The carrier with his sons loaded the last bag,
To cart the bags to the railhead,
Bags to be shipped to the port.
A “paying year” for the cropping,
Not a bumper year as two years ago,
A good year for the end of an era,
A good year as far as the head of the family went.
A good harvest to finish up on.
*
The Letter from Leonard..
“Dear J…..
I have been thinking lately about my hands…
It occurred to me after reading the piece you recommended to me. I have spent some time around Adelaide and I can no longer tell people, mainly my Grandchildren that I knew the bloke who built this stone surround to the Bonython Fountain [Riccardo Carli].. it has been replaced with a non-descript piece of ,”art” As John Ruskin stated ,” and I will show my children , this is the work my hands hath wrought”. I look long and hard at my hands and sadly remember the work they have done. Each scar and knobbly joint has a reason to be there. It tells a tale of work, of time and patience spent carrying out work as a tradesperson. Should I be proud of such malformations or should I hide them in shame. I prefer pride to shame as each imperfection tells a story of endeavour. I have conquered much in life but still have more to overcome. I cannot predict my end/demise, it may be quick or slow but I know for certain it will come. I am not a morbid person or suffer from depression, I am a realist and hunter. Once I accept my human frailties there is nothing to fear. I am holding my hands out at arm’s length {no pun intended] I realise that most damage is to the left hand, the hand that holds and guides. The right hand held a saw or swung a hammer, whilst inflicting pain on its partner. They were not at war with each other, they simply played a role in my work. I have been lucky so far, I have spent 58 years at my trade, and still have all my fingers, nor have I broken any bones. Is that good I hear you say?, well it’s not bad considering my age and temperament. But my hands are more than an extension to a set of tools, they have held children, grandchildren, and the occasional glass of wine. What will be their fate ? I watched my own father lose the use of his hands .then arms and finally his lungs. Motor neurons disease is not easy to watch, but he did it all with dignity. A painter and decorator by trade he relied on his hands to guide a paint brush or roller. To hear him ridiculed for his lack of skill at paperhanging during the early days of this disease, broke my heart.”
*
Mattheus Kreuger tipped the last bucket,
Last bucket of hard-feed into the trough,
Mattheus cast his eye over the mix,
Ran his hand through to feel the texture of the mix,
Looked with the experienced eye of an old horse farmer.
Never one to over or under-feed,
His team of working draught-horses.
Knowing from bitter experience,
Knowing from days of want and scarcity,
Knowing the needs of how much,
And of what balance gave good condition,
The health of a working field horse.
“Mattheus!” the carrier called over the yard,
“Mattheus!…we’re on our way” the carrier called,
“Catch you with the receipt at home..”
“Right you are, John..Tomorrow then..”
And the truck gave a heaving, creaking groan,
And lumbered out of the farm gate,
In a cloud of dry, raised dust.
Home for the Kreuger family not these dry paddocks,
Home was in the hills above these dry paddocks,
Home, the main house and spread in the hills,
The wet hills above these dry lands.
Grazing of fat-lambs was more reliable,
Rainfall higher and the grass richer.
Big, blowsy blue and red gums grow,
Where the clouds go by like galleons,
Where the fog and mist lay thick among buildings.
Where home and family grow and prosper.
But as many Mallee farmers,
The Kreugers came to these drylands,
To lay crops of golden grain,
Rainfall high enough to grow rich crops,
Flatlands ideal for horses to pull the plough,
Turning the soil for the taking of seed,
Harrowing to turn over the soil,
Harrowing to turn in the weeds.
Whole families with workers and horses,
All the equipment to stay several weeks,
Stay to work , plough and sow the crops.
Again so when the crop is harvested,
Again stay several weeks to bring in the crop,
Winnow, clean and bag the crop.
A spacious stone hut built on the paddock,
A stone hut that housed women and children,
Where meals were cooked and were served,
Cooked and served to the workers there.
At night women and children sleep there,
Workmen bunked down in outbuildings,
Where the harness and feed-stores were kept.
Outbuildings of rugged post and beam,
Outbuildings of pug and pine infill walls,
Rustic outbuildings, but warm and sheltered,
Rustic thatched roofs giving heavy rain,
Soft, almost silent drumming sound,
As it fell…
Such was the routine for many years,
Such was the method of farming many years,
But new technology had risen over the last few years,
A new method that his sons were keen to apply,
Mattheus was troubled about handing over to the sons,
Mattheus knew the day of the horses were done,
Horse-drawn methods were redundant,
The age of mechanics had arrived,
The diesel tractor had arrived.
There was talk of “making life easier,”
Mattheus was suspicious of an “easier life”,
Time had worked its abrasive grit,
Into both patience of mind and,
Callous of hand.
*
Wagga’s Dream.
‘Twas quiet the river,
‘Twas quiet the wind,
The sloping bank was cool, green,
Wagga had chose this particular spot,
For to sleep the night as a pleasant lot.
And sleep he did, barely head touched swag,
For a busy day was done against the current drag,
A full ten miles he did row,
A full ten miles against the river flow,
To retrieve alive, Evans’ prized stud sheep,
Had been swept away on river current deep.
And this night he cooked and ate his fill,
And so to dream those dreams one dreams in full.
*
Wagga’s dream was of rowing near the reedy banks,
‘Tween The Younghusband Landing,
Old Teal Flats and the Carlet Lakes.
‘Twas whilst rowing near those reedy banks,
‘Twas an idle eve’ to spend, a lazy row,
“Wagga” at oar, with cat “Satan” on prow,
Not the least hurry, nice and slow,
And there on the further riverbank path,
Dainty stepping between reed and rush,
Backdrop the grey-green of mallee bush,
Softly in her long, white, cotton dress,
Broad-brimmed hat in pale, gloved hands,
The Lady of the river sveltely stipped,
As the oars of the craft quietly dipped,
The wash of evening light did show,
Last glint of sunlight bold off the river glow,
And in the time it took for his eyes adjust,
That vision of that beautiful Lady he lost.
Wagga did ponder if what he saw was true,
That vision of the Lady come into view,
Or was it a spirit of a beautiful ghost,
For haunted be when there did his round,
By the tale of a young woman lost,
From riverboat to river she be drowned,
Into that dark water..her body never found,
And he did dream on that soft, Summer eve,
‘Twas her spirit wandering, seeking reprieve,
And dreamed he did invite her aboard his craft,
And dreamed they talked, dreamed he did ask,
That he could one day join her river walk,
That they could wander river’s bank, that they could talk,
And through all time join in touching sleep,
Within the shelter of the River’s waters deep.
But as for himself and “Satan”, the companion cat,
We know that mysterious spirits do twist and spin,
With eddys and currents, past river cliffs and bends,
To lazily tease a dreamer’s dreams from away upstream, down, down, to the river’s end.
*
But he too once convinced his father the benefits
Of the mechanical stripper over stooking,
Over the old stooking..threshing method of harvesting,
He was willing to give the sons an elder’s respect.
Today was the end of harvest,
Today the family and workers would sit at table,
Today marked the relief of the end of repetitious,
Rounds of up at dawn..crack on till sunset,
The work cycle of harvest time.
Magdalena, Mattheus’s wife of forty years,
Would cook and serve the last family meal,
Would serve the last meal of the harvest.
Along with food, the end of harvest prayer,
Along with prayer, thanksgiving, and health,
Magdalena would lead the prayers.
From the foot of the long table,
Followed by a loud and solemn “Amen”.
From Mattheus at the head of the table.
This was ritual that finished the year,
This ritual finished the end of harvest,
That bound every member to home and hearth,
Bound every member to family consciousness.
Repeated by many sturdy pioneers,
So many of those gatherings,
Across length and breath of “Breakheart Country”,
The social glue that formed tie to community,
Tie to church and from there to each other.
The familiarity of like habits and procedure,
This was the culture of a community.
What food there was,
Gathered from farm garden,
Produce that bore skilled hands of growers,
Skilled makers and preparers.
Recipes for cured meats and cheeses,
Handed down many generations,
Sauces and spices made from smallest measure,
Small measure of many condiments,
Extracting from them the richest flavours,
Cuts of meat from home-grown stock,
Into the large wood-fired vault oven.
Served in the hut that held them all,
Whole family, children, and the workers,
At the one long dining table,
Groaning every night with sumptuous fare,
Groaning every night with sumptuous, frugal fare.
Not a banquet of a gluttonous merchant,
Not a banquet for the idle rich,
Necessary food for hard working people.
Such would give each person fair share,
Every person fair share of the products of their labour,
From both field and garden.
All was good.
All was well.
When an air of sighing satisfaction perceived,
Time for the head of the family to make a speech.
Mattheus rapped the wooden serving spoon from the plate of vegetables onto his plate.
*
Mattheus’s Speech.
“I make my speech to you this evening,
This end of harvest night,
Not standing at head of table,
As is the usual sight.
With cup of good cheer in hand,
Giving thanks for a job well done.
Tonight..I will remain seated,
Neither in disrespect nor indolence,
There cannot be a person in this room,
Would doubt my nature by now.
Tonight I remain seated to talk as brother,
Tonight I no longer can claim “boss” overseer.
Tonight…I hand the reins to my sons,
To Peter and Christian to take the reins,
With full blessings of myself and Magdalena.
To take the family farm to the next evolution.
That will change the entire work practice.
That will change work from horse to tractor,
That will end horse and harness era,
That begins the new of tractor and steel couplings.
Myself, now at God and nature’s allotted time,
Of three score and ten years,
I am the proverbial old dog and new tricks,
I cannot change, no right to stand in the way.
But tonight, I talk of other things,
And I trust give my sons, wives, and grandchildren,
Both warning of consequence,
And top up the cup of cheer with measure of hope.
Nature has granted her hand to us,
Given us soil, water, and sustenance.
From time immemorial we harnessed her beasts,
These fellow toilers,
These mute companions of our labour,
We have turned the soil,
We have harrowed the earth,
We have seeded our crops.
From the time when my father and mother,
First set foot in this strange country,
Drew our section of land,
Marked out the space for their home on the soil,
To now when their children sup at the table,
Of their dreams and promise,
It has been done with eyes firm set,
On that measure of a man’s worth,
On the measure of a woman’s worth.
On the measure of home and family,
On a measure of hope.
Our forebears built an empire here,
An empire upon a new country,
Not an empire of an imperial kingdom,
Nor an empire of expansive proportions,
Rather, an empire of hopes and dreams.
Their backs bent to the chores of that ambition,
Without doubt…without fail,
With high faith in their mission to succeed.
Indeed..succeed they must or perish trying!”
Mattheus paused to drink from his stein of beer.
*
Wagga’s times had also now ended, the life of idle drifting and fishing and fowling on the river had ended, new owners had taken possession of the riverfront stations, A new “market” of profit and loss now existed. Some frontages were cut into residential sized blocks and leased by the council for the building of shacks for week-enders from the city, The completion of the locks up river now controlled the flow of water and permissions were needed for both fishing and hunting of game on the river..Riverboat traffic was to be turned into tourist cruises.
Both Wagga and his cat, Satan were getting older, the living rough had left its mark on the river man, no more could he lay claim to the title of “Murrumbidgee Whaler”..for he now slept in a regular hovel of his own construction near Blanchetown..Wagga spent most of his days in idle conversation with his cat or with old aquaintances that would occasionally call on him as they meandered past in their skiffs and punts…time was drawing its cord ever tighter around that idle way of life of those old tramps and swaggies..the world after the war was changing so very fast.
*
“A parent’s greatest treasure is their children.
It is the children who carry the future,
Carry it to further horizons,
Further than can be dreamed by a parent,
The safety of children most exercises concern,
What measure of gold equals the harvest of seed,
Seed giving new life, every season to a garden?
What reward of contentment equals a full stomach,
Clear mind and love in one’s heart,
Greeting the start of a full day,
A day of productive and rewarding toil?
Why arise from bed if not to fulfill promise,
And bounty of a life of hope?
That measure of hope that is the right,
That is given to every person born,
Under Nature’s sky and God’s heaven?”
Again Mattheus paused to partake.
“When I gazed upon the healthy meal,
Magdalena, my loving wife set before me,
I saw the fair measure of meat,
Of potatoes, of the pumpkin grown prolifically,
Over old composting stable heaps,
Its tendrils seeking distant promise,
Like an arm reaching for distant fruits,
A wonderful meal.
All in good measure.
It is that measure I now speak to each,
To each and every one of my children,
To their families to heed, be watchful that envy,
Greed and envy do not cast shadow,
Over future ambitions.
Mattheus paused to breate deep..
A long life, a hard life taught our parents,
The creed of what is fair measure to aspire to.
Just reward for one’s labour,
There is no sense of satisfaction,
Shirking of one’s fair share of labour,
For where one shirks fair share,
It falls to another to pick up and carry that load.
And THAT in anyone’s sense of justice,
Is failure of duty toward brother and sister.
I hear talk of new mechanics of farming,
Having the means of “making life easier”..
And I have to admit after a bad day,
With horses, harness, and machinery,
Such a phrase would make my eyebrows lift,
Lift in inquisitiveness,
Bring a smile of delightful possibility to my lips.
“To make life easier”….
Isn’t that a hope and dream to aspire to?
To make life easier…but then I ask..;
“Easier from what?”
If one was held in slavery,
Driven to extreme by brutal master and lord,
One would indeed wish for easier life,
Such conditions are un-natural to nature and humanity,
I would trust to all of us here ;
Let no man proclaim ownership,
Over another’s life,
Lest he too be given like punishment.
But no..here, now, on these paddocks,
On this farm, in this part of the world,
What measure of life can be claimed the better,
For the making of it easier?
Will children grow less frolicsome, faster?
Will they learn their lessons more swiftly?
Will the food be more hearty?
Vegetables grow faster, sheep more wool?
Will the ache of work be more assuaged,
With a full stein of beer at end of day?
And if injured in body…or love,
Will the hurt be less?
And what of this day…this end of harvest celebration,
Will such a thing exist once the mechanics,
Takes away the shared camaraderie,
Of shared, shoulder to shoulder labour?
And what of the table of food,
As we see here in front of us..
Where waste from stables goes to heaps of compost,
Thence to the garden whence comes,
Vegetables to our table..
Where will the waste from the tractor go?
Does diesel and oil give nourishment to soil,
Or will it make waste of the soil,
Thence make life less easier,
For those who must clean the waste?
Will there be need for gathering of family,
Giving thanks for the blood, sweat and tears,
For a year of toil,
When less folk are needed for the harvest?
Will the making of life easier mean,
A lessening of rewarded pleasure, for job’s end?
Is there anyone among us not to breathe,
Sigh of relief at hard work’s end.
But also be content, soul fulfilled, satisfied,
At a job well done?
Does that not also feel good?
And I wonder on the lessening need,
For hired labour to attend the many chores,
For the maintenance of the draught horses.
The Harness repairer, farrier, smithy,
And if they go..what of the town band,
The church choir, baker, grocer?
And what of our neighbours,
Who cannot afford to tool-up to the new mechanics,
Are they to become sacrifice..
To a new world order of “an easier life”?
Mattheus again took draught and breath.
No..I cannot stand in the way of progress,
But I do give notice to you, my children,
Use caution with this new method of farming,
Let it not take control of YOU.
I know you will have to go to the bank,
To up-grade to the tractors and machinery,
Be warned about the banks…
They have no friend save compound interest,
No mercy save the court of bankruptcy,
And no soul save that traded with the devil.
No..I cannot stand in the way of progress,
So I will leave the farm in the steady hands,
Of our children and wish them well,
While myself and Magdalena seek retirement in Tanunda.
I shall perfect my arm at bowls,
And my ear at listening to the idle chatter of the town.
So let us fill our cups to give thanks,
For the measure of hope,
Promised and now fulfilled…..”
The next morning, while the sunrise was yet low,
And the morning breezes mild in the mallee trees,
The trappings of hut and camp were packed.
The women and children driven back,
To their farmhouse in the hills,
While Mattheus and his sons led the horses,
Down the whitened limestone track toward their home.
*
The passing of Wagga.
It had been a cold winter, a cold but dry winter, so the cold bit right into the bone. Wagga suffered in this now old age from the consequences of his living quarters and lifestyle. His long time companion cat, Satan, had died some three months previous and Wagga buried him nearby on the sloping bank of the river. Wagga placed a large rock over the site as both memorial stone and to protect the site from disturbance.
This night, Wagga slipped into a soft, gentle coma, from which he would not wake. In his depth of unconsciousness, he started to dream…
“Come, Satan” he called “We have work to do.”
Wagga dreamed he launched his old skiff, which in reality was in no condition any longer to be used as a flotation boat, being partially submerged on the edge of the river until only its once brave name showed above the waterline..
The “Buona Fortuna”, lay dormant for the best part of two years in that same place.
“Come Satan, we will take the boat for we have to collect some passengers downstream.” And Wagga placed the oars along with drinking water and some blankets into the boat and letting Satan leap onto the prow, edged the Buona Fortuna into the course of the Murray River for one last journey.
They cruised slowly toward the cliffs of Swan reach, where they pulled into the shore to pick up a solitary man standing, waiting on a spit of sand.
“Hello, Mr Evans”. Wagga called “Come on board”. And the man stepped into the skiff and in his hand he held out a penny, “Oh no, Mr Evans, your fare has already been paid”, the man dropped his arm and settled onto the rear seat as Wagga again pulled out into the surge of the river. After some time gently being carried by the current downstream, Wagga again pulled over to the river bank where two young children stood waiting.
“Hello Anthony, Hello Vera” Wagga called to them..The children silently waved and when Wagga held the boat secure, only the boy, Anthony climbed into the boat. The little girl held out a penny in her extended arm, which Wagga let her drop into a lidded tin with a slot in it.”Thank you, Vera.” Wagga said, then started to pole the boat away from the shore. “Well, cheerio, Vera, I’m sorry, it’s not your turn yet, we will have to see you some other time.” And Wagga again eased the boat into the river.
In this manner, Wagga picked up another passenger, Artini, the Italian..who climbed into the boat in silence, dropped his penny into the held out tin, and settled next to Mr Evans on the rear seat.That left only one more passenger to pick up and this one was the one Wagga treasured the most and it wasn’t long before he saw her standing, in her long, white cotton dress on the bank of the river. Wagga pulled over alongside the woman who smiled at him and he offered his hand to steady her alighting into the boat. She placed one hand on his shoulder and held her broad-brimmed hat in the other. Wagga settled her onto her seat and then held the collection tin out to her..into this tin she too dropped in one shiny penny. The Lady of the River sat next to Wagga and there, in that sturdy craft, the two of them took an oar each and facing to the front of the boat they eased that craft pointing toward the destination of the lower lakes Alexandrina and Albert..their final destination.
They then rowed this cargo of souls past the cliffs of Nildottie, past Greenways Landing past the long sweeping bends of Purnong, Bow Hill and Younghusband, past the Carlet Lakes and Teal Flats, down, down the river in soft but swift carriage did those souls travel, silently sweeping past The Mannum and the lower reaches of the swamplands of the Murray that had re-formed into the now River Styx .. onward and onward to their final goal, their final home out through the rushes and reedbeds of the lower waters into the vast, open waters of the Lake Alexandria-Mungkuli, where a fog of low cloud on such a winter’s day swallowed them and their spirits into the deeper world of soft eternity.
Wagga, with his black cat, Satan, and his cargo of passengers on his trusty craft, The Buona Fortuna, had passed from this world.
As the sunset upon the evening,
So a sunset closely drawing,
Upon The Mallee softly glowing,
We hear crow announce its going,
Calling, crying, lowing crrrarking!
Carrakkkk, carrrarking treetop calling,
The crow call to its family waning.
No more hear the butcher bird chortle,
No longer hear the honeyeater sparkle,
The magpie with the wagtail squabble,
Galahs and the cockatoos chatting,
The kangaroo with joey in the stubble.
Wombat and possum trumble.
We hear the wanton, woeful die ,
Of the bush curlew’s evening cry.
So we will leave our story telling,
Our story of our ancestors telling
That came from afar seas a-sailing,
Their story is done telling,
As are their lives done living,
Only the shadows now remaining.
Now, I have told you of their stories.
(Nb. This is a “work in progress” and could be subject to change and/or alteration any time).
Cliffs of the Murray River.
Riccardo and Rosaline.
#3...A New Generation.
East of the Murray River from Blanchetown, there were sited several charcoal burning camps through the war years. In one of these camps, many Italians were held as “enemy aliens” and employed in the cutting of mallee wood to burn in pits especially dug for the making of charcoal..Riccardo was one of the many Italians in that camp, and he would go to the Murray River once a week to pump water into a tank on the truck for use back in the camp.
Driven to even further places,
Into the Adelaide Hills they went,
To Lobethal, named valley of praise.
To Hahndorf to join their others,
Further East to Hamilton, Victoria,
Where verdant fields and fruitful crops.
Set up their Lutheran Faith and churches,
On more rich and promising pastures.
Still they, these tenacious pioneers
Stepped off ship with their families,
Stern determination of a surviving peoples.
Nothing could deter their ambitions,
Then came the wars,
Then came again the oppression,
Then came again the name changes,
Towns named of German favour,
Family names of German ancestry,
“Department of Nomenclature” opened,
A ludicrous absurdity of a spiteful government.
Forced German names to French.
Rhine River becomes The Marne,
Rhine Villa becomes Cambrai.
Hahndorf becomes Ambleside.
Steinfeld is twisted into Stonefield.
Sedan remains Sedan..
The French name chosen by German folk,
In mockery of French defeat there.
So Sedan remains unsuspected,
One parliamentry fool calls for Tanunda to be changed,
Unaware that it is Aboriginal, not German,
Mockery of the department of nomenclature,
Mockery of the government historical knowledge.
But the family names change,
Umlauts are dropped,
Letters in names are erased,
Anglo first names used to ameliorate hate
Of anything resembling German.
Then came the second world war,
Then came suspicions much deeper,
Then came recriminations,
Then came arrests,
Then came the internment camps.
*
He was interned as an “enemy alien”as soon as he stepped off the boat at Outer Harbour, Himself and any Italians that came on “The Rina”, departed Genoa 1939…Riccardo was given a choice, he could be interned in a camp in The Riverland, or, because he was a skilled mason, he could go to Darwin where workers were required to prepare the town for military deployments for a possible theatre of war..
Riccardo chose Darwin
He worked on the wharfs there till the town was bombed out by the Japanese and the citizens were evacuated..but not Riccardo..he had to have permission to travel, so the man where he lived asked, would he stay in the house there and look after his chooks…and he said yes, he would..but then there was no food to buy so Riccardo ate the chooks..one by one..and it haunted him many years later so he asked for forgiveness in solemn prayers for not looking after the man’s chooks..
Eventually, he was given permission to travel and he made his way down south through the outback, through Leigh Creek and Copley and the mid north untill he turned up at the Italian charcoal burning camp owned by a Mr. Foxx and run by Riccardo’s cousin and sponsor who brought him to Australia in 1939..The camp was inland from the Murray River near Blanchetown, where many more Italians were interned to cut the mallee and burn for charcoal for use as fuel in the trucks and cars that couldn’t get petrol to run them on account of the war.
*
What dignity the Great Depression,
Had not destroyed, tyrannical Government did.
Unity and community not only victims,
The mechanics of war machines,
Perfected the motor tractor.
Horse farming was then broken,
Horse trades were dismantled,
Gone the harness makers,
Gone the saddlers,
Gone the blacksmiths with the farriers.
Gone with their families from the towns.
Gone in almost the blink of an eye.
Come then the diesel tractors,
Come then the motor mechanics,
Come then motor garages centre,
Of the town’s chattering activity
Alongside church and hotel.
Gone also were the town bands,
Gone the church choirs,
With them went the cultural songs.
With them went small bakeries, butchers,
Haberdashery….gone,
Saddlery….gone,
Day labourers….gone.
But the smell of petrol and diesel remain.
And the lending banks came to town.
Like the parasites they ever are.
And compound interest came into farmer’s lives.
Tooling-up is expensive,
Family farms were regretfully mortgaged,
Bad years for cropping came and went,
Families mortgage payments came due and went,
Family farms became bank hostage,
Families became hopelessly indebted,
Families then went to bankrupt.
Whole era drew to a shuddering close.
Enter this community the wily Cornish,
Enter also the carefree Irish,
*
It wasn’t the most salubrious welcome home for the prodigal son when he turned up at the Moonta, Yorke Peninsula, home of his parents. He returned from his speculative jaunt to Sydney where he intended to start a new life away from the copper mines, the blacksmith forge and the horses..for Tammus had trained as a blacksmith, his Cornish family along with many other Cornish people were brought from England to work the copper mines at Moonta…But Tammus never grew to like the town, the work or his trade..
He landed in Sydney and immediately bumped into his future wife who also was rubber-necking on the marvellous sights..SHE, Alice, was in Sydney to join a convent, having had her heart broken by a lover she came out to marry, but who had got tired of waiting and married another..her heart was broken, but Tammus’s was just then ignited and he waited outside the convent Alice had entered, patiently waiting for a sight of his new love, living off oranges and other fruits hanging over the convent wall..and bread and dripping secreted to him by the sympathetic nuns..till the Mother Superior, becoming alarmed at the handsome man hanging around the front gate of the convent, advised the novice Alice Jones that..;”Some of us are called to serve in the house of The Lord, sister..while others are destined to shift in the world of men…”
A child followed soon after marriage and the young family made their way back to the family home of Tammus Hocking, where he introduced his unannounced wife, new child and marriage and then promptly floored any remaining standing by informing his severe Methodist mother that he also had converted to Catholicism to marry his beloved.
“Oh faith!” she cried “Oh Lord God Almighty!” she lamented “Tammus has brought The Pope into our house!”..
The young couple soon parted company from the ungratious family and made their way at the start of The Great Depression to camp with so many other in the “susso camps” along the Murray River.
*
Enter those Italians interned as enemies.
From that new world war.
Step into the picture a Cornish Tinker,
Step into the picture an Irish Mother,
Step into the picture an Italian mason.
Step into the picture the maiden he woos.
“Fair maiden” Riccardo calls “wither goest thou?”
Riccardo’s hand flat, inquisitory,
Like so many Italians do.
Rosaline instinctively understands,
Like all fair maidens do.
“I go walking in the evening air, sir”,
She replies……He nods his head..smiles.
For this maiden was as beautiful as a rose.
As serene as a pasteled sunset,
As welcome to the Italian’s eyes as song to his heart.
“And a beautiful evening it is also, my lady”
“Yes…good sir…I mark how the evening light,
The pale pink of evening air, throws gentle shadow,
On the soft, flowing waters of the Murray River.”
Rosaline dreamed to become a poet,
Riccardo just wanted to become employed.
“And you wander here every evening?”
“Yes, kind sir…for now is the time of my rest”
“From the big house?” Riccardo asks, pointing,
“From the station house” Rosaline replies nodding.
“From the Charcoal Burning camp, I come”,
“From the deep mallee of the Italians, come I”,
“You are then of the people of Italy?” she asks,
“Yes, fair maiden…I am of the Dolomites” he replies,
“You are one of the interned Italians?” Rosaline asks,
“I am of those same ones” Riccardo answered.
“I come to this place twice a week”, he tells,
“I come to this place for water of the camp” he tells.
“I come to this place for the pleasant scene” Rosaline says.
“Then when here next I come..” Riccardo says..
“Pray tell me you too may join me,
In admiring the pale colours over tranquil waters”..
Riccardo smiled the smile of an admirer.
Rosaline blushed the blush of the admired.
“If good fortune allows, kind sir……I may.” she replied.
For Rosaline admired the form of this man,
Admired his calm confidence,
His strength of body,
Happy disposition.
“Addio till then fair maiden…addio!” Riccardo waves.
*
The Charcoal Burning Camp.
Rosaline’s diary..
“It Happened Nearly Day. . .The sun rises over the scrub and shows it is day, Magpies warble yonder, Galahs screech over the way…The camp begins to stir, the men are up and about, somebody waves a flagon…another a shout!
There is a clatter of dishes and mugs, campfires begin to flare, wood is cut and broken, cooking odours fill the air…Breakfast is over and done, a glass of wine is drank to ‘help one through the day’…Artini is off to do his cutting, his mighty axe on his bike slung…Gemano follows along walking and from him a song is sung.
The kitchen is cleaned and tidied, and mum is deep in her prayers, The children climb the trees, pretending they are steps and stairs…Edgar’s truck is ready and off to the scrub he goes, he takes so long out there, what he does, no-one knows..
Then all is still in the camp except the axes going afar, the children climb down from the trees and play around Mr. Foxx’s car…Then the clanging of iron tells that lunch is ready to have..
Lunch is over and done, and father takes his hat again, looks out to the heat and says..”I wish it would rain sometime.” Then off to work he goes..”lessons, children” mum calls, pencils are borrowed and lent.
NOW..at last I am free!
Off through the scrub I run, where sheep tracks only are seen, nothing but bush and the glaring sun..till all of a sudden I come to where an axe swings free and his watch hooked on a branch that stands nearby…Then the owner looks up of a sudden and gives me a happy smile..and says; “I hoped you would come”..and…..I stay there…quite a while…Then his watch from the branch is hastily taken down and we both heave a sigh..Quarter to three, oh my!…there is no time to waste..a kiss and I am gone so to be back before father’s work is done..I get back before him and panting I have not a word to say..the watch must have been slow (“you’ll have to put it on a touch, my lad”) I’m thinking..or we’ll both get caught and the game given away!
Then we wait for the butcher, who comes to the camp selling meat, he then goes to Blanchetown and gets there very late..We hear a curlew calling out loud to a faraway mate..
When tea is over and done, and we, the dishes clear..”Hallo!…scusa mei” a voice calls, and his head in the doorway appears so we then play at cards..and not before long I receive a soft and gentle kick, and I nearly play the card wrong..and I often think and wonder if it was me he kicked by mistake, somebody else perhaps was it meant to take?
Well…it is getting late and it’s time to say “Addio” and he smiles and goes his way…but one thing I will make sure, is that we will meet again tomorrow!”
*
A passing moment a lifetime make?
A moment’s passion a lifetime’s mistake?
An Italian from the Dolomites,
A maiden from “breakheart country”.
A Maiden from the Murray Mallee.
What can be their union?
What can be their fate?
Can a moment’s passion become a lifetime’s mistake?
Riccardo to speak barely a word of English,
Rosaline not knowing one word of Italian,
But they met and exchanged pleasantries,
As only such attracted, diverse strangers could.
For what speaks clear the language of love,
Better than those who are clearly loving..
So will we listen in to their idle talk,
With the knowing ears of that universal language.
As even their difference in age vanished,
As even Madam Time is paused,
Her dead hand held fast as woman slips past,
With but a glance, a wistful smile,
To those who adore.
Touch not vain man lest the moment spoil,
To but gaze upon and weep with desire.
And so they met, this diverse couple,
And Rosaline taught Riccardo the song of echos
Off the cliff-face over the river,
And there they sang songs of love to each other,
As the afternoon sun dipped into the Mallee,
At first their songs were for their own laughter,
And then their songs were for their own tempting,
And then came songs for their teasing,
And then came the songs of their loving….
Tender songs whispering to the swirling waters,
Humming the touch of breeze to leaves of the gum trees.
He sang the folk songs of his people,
Rosaline sang the song of her liking..”Thora”
Riccardo sang into the deep echos..
“What a lovely girl as she does pass,
Oh how beautiful she steals my heart!”
Oh how well you dance, my bonny lass,
How you dance so well your part.
See the Wren in the tree,
How beautiful it sings, it steals my heart!
Come, bonny girl..come dance with me.”
The words reformed and reverberated to Rosaline’s ears,
As a deep swirl of manly delight.
And then Rosaline sang into the echos..
“Thy voice in mine ear still mingles
With the voices of whisp’ring trees;
Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles
At each kiss of the summer breeze;
While dreams of the past are thronging
For substance of shades in vain,
I am waiting, watching, and longing —”
And her lyrical voice thrilled Riccardo’s ears,
And filled his heart with longing.
Each to each they sang into the echos
Of the cliffs over the river,
Over the soft swirling calm of the river,
Over the evening light of the river,
And the reverberating echoes mixed their songs
Until the words blended together in soft harmony,
Until the words filled up with gentle beauty,
Until the words flowed back to their ears,
Each to each filling their hearts.
Each to each filling their desires,
Each to each the words filled their senses,
In gentle, joined ecstasy..
And their eyes met each to each,
And their hands joined touching each to each,
And their arms reached to hold each to each,
And their faces turned to each together
And their lips touched in a kiss…
Each to each…kiss to kiss,
Riccardo gazed in loving embrace to Rosaline and spoke;
“Oh woman..thine eyes alone would tempt,
Greater gods than man’s humble creation,
To lay a king’s treasure at thy feet,
Thy beauty, even if only beheld in mine eye,
Enough to blind the honest to thievery,
And if thou desires,
Let thee accrue the price or cost,
Beholden to no man’s pitiful measure..
For thine is the cup that pours the bouquet,
Let know that YOU will choose the bloodline,
Your body the time and place..no disgrace”
Rosaline pulled Riccardo close to her body,
So her breasts were hard against his chest,
She looked up into his gaze and smiled,
And then placed a drop of her saliva to tip of her finger,
And lifted it to the lips of Riccardo,
Who parted his lips and took her onto his tongue.
Rosaline took Riccardo’s hand and placed it on her breast..
And there under the fall of the evening light whispered;
“Come to me Ricci’..come to me..here..now.”
And so they lay together on the banks of that mighty river.
On the grassy banks of the gentle, swirling river,
Under the pale pink of the evening air on the river,
Under the soft evening glow by the water.
And the woman made her choice,
Her choice..glory or vainglory,
Time can grow jealous, men grow old,
Let her choose to look to either,
Heaven befits a granted grace,
And such beauty will reach even the heart of a stone,
But the moment loaned of a woman’s touch
Is enough for a wanting man,
To satiate his thirst for a sensual desire,
To satiate any longing hunger for Heaven’s Gate.
(Nb. This is a “work in progress and may be altered or added to at any time….J.C.)
Wagga and His Black Cat.
#2 ..A New Homeland.
They rolled across the flatlands of the Murray River plains like an unstoppable force of nature..unfortunately, so many of the farming plots leased or sold to the Murray Flats farmers were too small to make a living off, so they had to clear-fell any vegetation fence-line to fence-line, creating future troubles when the topsoil blew away in the drought years. So many were forced by circumstance to sell their small plots to neighbours and move on to greener pastures, while the remaining families worked and toiled at getting a hang of farming these new drier farms than they were used to back in their German hills and valleys.
They rolled with tenacious persistence,
They then forged a new Silesia.
They then forged a new Posen.
They then forged a new homeland.
From the Vistula River valleys they came,
From those fertile river flats and valleys,
From The Oder River they came,
From those snow-clad hills and mountains.
Where myths and eagles flew,
Where Roman legions once fought,
Took their dreams from their own land.
To this wild and strange country,
To this strange and distance place.
Where other dreamtime and eagles fly,
Where the indigenous people danced.
*
Wagga would discuss things with his companion cat; Satan…of course, he never expected Satan to reply nor converse back to him in any cat language he, Wagga could understand, other than Satan’s uaual plaintive cries, growls or purring..so instead, he, Wagga would supply both the point and counterpoint reason of conversation and then supply the answer best suited to what he would expect Satan to reply..and, instinctively knowing the intricate thoughts of Satan, he reckoned to be pretty accurate as to what the cat was thinking.
“What do you make of this family in the rowboat, Satan?”…Wagga ruminated as he passed a fresh-cooked piece of fish to his cat.. “You don’t know?….What?…yes, I agree..and I don’t think they do either..they are not very used to rowing a boat on the river.”
Wagga remained silent for a while as he ate his fish dinner near the campfire on the banks of the river..” I reckon tomorrow I’ll introduce myself and give them a few tips…they got two kiddies with them and I’d hate to see them come to grief”….”What’s that…none of my concern?..No, I ‘spose not, but there they are and here I am, so it’s no bother to me…and I do like a bit of company now and then.”…”Yes..I know I got you..no need for the growl..I wasn’t ignoring you, I was just sayin’ I like to chat to others once in a while.”
“Let’s see, the father’s name was Tammus..or was that Thomas..said he was Cornish, from Moonta…is Tammus ; Thomas in Cornish?…She is called ; Alice…Did you see the wife jump when I told her that spot where they were going to camp for the night was haunted…she’s a superstitious one, she is..Irish, I’d say by her accent…and well and good too, because this is just the night for that young lady’s ghost to come to the river bank..”…”No, I expect no ghost could ever scare you, Satan…YOU own the night, you do!” and he gave his cat a finger rub behind its ear.
Wagga then went silent as he kept tucking into his dinner..Satan hewed away silently at his share of the fish and the night closed in on the river.
*
Sang their own songs to a new land,
New life gifted from their own God,
God of one people, one faith, one fortune.
So they were told by their pastors,
So were foretold by their gospels,
In the faith their version of religion,
Twisted, shaped to fit their character,
Shaped also to fit their culture,
And also to fit their nature.
No deviation would be allowed,
No forgiveness those who fell from grace.
No forgiveness for not pulling their weight.
A weight owed both community and Pastor.
Pastor’s words were the words of God,
Words of their God were to be obeyed.
Churches were there quickly built,
Churches were there proficiently built,
On that land that still held such scent,
Scent of wild animals so hunted,
*
5) “Blessed are the meek; for they shall inherit the earth.”
“It won’t be a palace, not even much,
Pug, native pine with a roof of thatch,
But it will be ours and an even match,
For the grandest residence of Kings,
Even bigger, for our court, vast forest be,
Shared with but nature’s creatures, thee, and me.”
*
6) “Blessed are they which hunger and thirst; for they shall be filled.”
“There, under the shelter of daeh and faeh,
Will our children be birthed, raised,
Under the shelter of the mallee canopy,
We will farm the soil to provide us plenty,
Grains and greens and pumpkins many,
Though our purse be thin, our self be healthy.”
*
[ For my lover;
How many seeds are sown to the wind,
From Mallee tree and flowering vine?
As many as stars in night time skies,
Reflecting the produce in a garden filled,
As many as dreams in thou’s sleeping eyes..
As many as notes from a fiddle played.]
*
Hunted and held and so respected,
Hunted by the indigenous peoples
Totems of the indigenous peoples,
Held sacred by the indigenous peoples,
Indigenous peoples who were driven away,
Driven away at gun-point,
Driven from their hunting grounds,
Driven from their living lands,
Driven from their ceremonial grounds,
Alongside cool stream and river,
Along those deep hills and valleys,
Driven from their own particular “churches”.
*
“How many canoe trees have you counted now?” Wagga called across the narrow stretch of water to the oldest child in the back of the other rowboat.
“Fourteen.” the child called back..then the child asked Wagga..”Why do you row facing the front?”…”Because I like to see where I am going.” Wagga replied…then he asked the parents..”Where did you get the boat?”….”We swapped our family tent and some chattels for it at the “Susso” camp”…the father replied.
All the while this back and forth chatter was going on, the two boats travelled parallel to eachother as they rowed upstream..
“Where are you headed?” Wagga asked..”To the Riverland…to try to get work.” The father answered. “Do you mind me tagging along for a bit?” Wagga asked..” I’ll show you a good, quick way to cook river food…the native way.”
“You’re welcome…be good for some company…the river can get lonely, can’t it?”
“I’m never lonely on the river”..Wagga said..”The river has a kind of voice, I think…I feel it speaks to me..and I can feel it breathe….and I also have Satan to keep me company.…But I will only go as far as the first Riverland town as I am not that welcome further up the river”.
“And why is that” the father asked “Have you murdered someone?” and he laughed. Wagga went quiet and then began to sing, his strong voice echoing off the sheer heights of the river cliffs…
“Oh I once kissed-a Blocker’s-daugh-ter,
She said-‘twasn’t something-I oughta,
So then when-I kissed her-again,
She said I better be-her man..
Oh never presume on a Blocker’s daughter,
It’s not something a man of my skin oughter,
For every Murray River, Blocker’s daughter,
Has an armed, keen-eyed watching father.
So I had-to make-a decision,
My life-or the kissing-maiden,
Now that-pretty kissing-maiden,
Is but a regret-of what-I’m missing.
So I no more presume on a Blocker’s daughter,
It’s not thing a man of my sensitivity oughter,
For every Riverland Blocker’s daughter,
Is as well-armed, and a dead-shot, like her father.”
And Wagga laughed so loud that his rollicking voice rolled around and over the cliffs and washed over the surface of the river, and the family in the other boat wondered on this strange man, so tall and straight despite his apparent years and with a thick, black beard and long, thick locks of hair…and there was his pitch-black cat..; Satan..
*
The settlers had arrived in numbers,
Didn’t understand the indigenous peoples,
Themselves forced from their own lands,
Forced at gunpoint from their Homeland.
Kaiser’s army breaking up the towns,
All the weavers and crafts people,
All the tradesmen and craft people,
Despised also for their culture,
Despised also for their nature,
Farmlands enclosed by cruel governance,
Work-skills torn from their hands,
Forced to re-make their religion,
Forced to re-learn another language,
Forced to change their family names,
Forced at gun-point to flee their country.
So they come far away a sailing,
Far away sailing to this new country.
Far away fearful to this strange country,
With their folk their clatter and cluster.
A desperate people with nothing to lose,
A determined people with little choice.
To create a new home from memory lost.
*
7) “Blessed are the merciful; for they shall obtain mercy.”
What more do I need tell of their story,
Enough has been writ of pioneer history,
Not for nothing is this named ”Breakheart country”,
Backs, hearts, limbs and bank accounts,
Still they persevered with their conviction,
Matched their draught-horses in strength and action.
*
8) “Blessed are the pure in heart; for they shall see God.”
“Hymns we will sing to the glory of ages,
Songs from our lips writ by wise sages,
That beseech God of feast and famine,
Spare these humble servants the glare of mammon,
Grant instead good health, long life,
Equal exchange for disdain of pelf?”
*
So the English governors of the day,
Knowing their plight,
Knowing their flight,
Knowing they had no rights,
Used them to open out that wild country,
East of the Ranges, West of the river,
Open out those wild hunting grounds,
Open out those wild indigenous lands,
Used them to push deep into, force unto,
Confront the wild indigenous peoples.
Confront the original owners of the land,
Force confrontation, force the hand,
To “Justify” indignation.
To “Justify” retaliation.
To “Justify” brutal militia assignation,
By the governors of this new nation.
A collegiate corps of criminals,
A speculation of prospectors,
A fascist corporate state,
With no regular military,
No sober police force, only delinquents.
Seeking any excuse to break,
The agreement of The Letters Patent.
The Letters Patent that gave right,
That granted indigenous people’s rights,
Signed by the King it granted those rights,
Signed by Parliament it granted those rights.
Signed, sealed agreement for those rights,
Directed precisely to the Governors,
A betrayal then of King and Parliament,
By the Governors of the Province.
“Governors”?..better called lazzeroni!
Betrayed!…..
*
Wagga edged the clay-encased callop out of the coals of the campfire…He and the father had that day raided one of the set-lines across the river and taken a medium sized callop from the hook and prepared it for the night’s meal…He did so by covering the raw fish entirely with clay thickly, and then placed it into the red-hot coals of the fire..
“Here..you see..when you break away the baked clay, the scales and all comes away with it…no need to even clean it as the fire and the baked clay does it all for you..it works just as well with any birds..the feathers and all come away with the baked clay”..and Wagga laid the two halves onto a large, flat stone and the family tucked into the food.
Later, while the billy of tea was being prepared, Wagga said he would tell them a yarn about the owner of Portee Station..so the whole family and Wagga gathered around the campfire of glowing coals and every now and then a stick was thrown on to keep a steady flame burning on the bed of coals to hold out the pitch, dark night.
“He was a dead-shot with a gun, y’know…every time..then one day out of the blue, he stopped shooting…anything…locked the gun away and refused to shoot any more..”He’s lost his eye!” some would say…”He’s got the shakes in his hand.” said another..But no..it was deeper than that an’ he told me one day.”
Wagga nudged the coals in the fire so a shiver of sparks shot up into the night air, dancing like firey dew-drops on a wire…
“We were here like we are now..not exactly HERE..but up the river there a ways, near The Washpool, but talking around the fire like we are now, an’ he told me of his dilemma.”
“He told me; ‘One morning the missus says that Uncle Charlie and his family is coming up for the weekend and would I go shoot a couple of wild ducks down by the river so as to have a nice roast come Sunday. They always said that: “George, go shoot a couple of ducks…George, go shoot some bunnies for Christmas… …’cause I was a good shot, you see.”
“I’m down near ‘Westies Billabong’ there at seven in the morning and my breath’s steaming.. I’d spotted a couple of ducks by the reeds there so I got into a crouch…and was working my way bent-backed ’round the billabong real quiet when suddenly all hell breaks loose…and these two cockys come twisting and screeching in the air above me…must’ve had their nest in a hole in a tree there and saw me as a threat. Any-road, they were making a hell of a racket so it scared the ducks who flew off, which meant I’d have to go walking further up along the river to find some more..and I was that angry with those bloody birds that when one came swooping and diving then twisted side-on to me…just above, I quickly just swung the shotgun in its’ general direction just to scare them away and let fly…boom! ”
“Well, I hit it, unfortunately, and it fell to ground over near a red gum and it lay twisting on the grass so I started walking casually over to it all the while pushing another cartridge into the breech of the shotgun…”But as I came nearer, suddenly..I hear a voice…call out ;
“Poor cocky.”
“What’s that!” I called…again I hear it…
“Poor cocky..poor cocky..” repeated.
“Who’s there!” I called…turning around to see who it was…I thought someone was having me on.. but there was no-one there, nothing but the screeching of that cocky’s mate weaving and diving madly in the air above, around the branches of the gums…Then again, that same voice calling weakly and I turned to the direction of the sound and there it was, on the ground in front of me, the cocky I had shot, calling….’poor cocky’ it was saying, ‘poor cocky, poor cocky’ over and over till it’s voice faded..It dawned on me that it must have been someone’s pet bird that had escaped and gone back to the wild..I bent down and lay the gun on the grass, then raised the body of the bird close to look at its’ eyes to see if there was still some life left in it..but it was dead, and I stared and stared, but all I could see in that dark pool of its eye was the reflections of passing clouds overhead…and there was something about that…that killing of the bird, it threw me…maybe something to do with it gaining it’s freedom and then losing it perhaps, and I couldn’t even let a poor bloody cocky have a bit of life but I go and kill it!….Killing, killing… George kill this, George kill that and I was so sick of it, sick of the killing…” he let his arms fall to his sides wearily. “…I dunno…just…sick of the killing…so I went home, threw the gun in a locker in the corner of the shed and I haven’t shot it since…
“It was the killing, I think…I just got sick of the killing….’
*
The lands of the Ngayawung,
Betrayed!…..
The Ngawait,The Ngarrindjeri,
Betrayed!…..
The Ngarkat of the mallee region,
Each with its own beliefs and laws,
Each with its own concise language,
Each with its own concise culture.
Driven out from their homelands,
Driven at gun point from their living,
If not guns then swamped and ruined,
By the running of thousands of sheep,
Through their open hunting grounds,
Over their open living grounds,
Through their open water holes.
Tens of thousands of sheep and stock,
Ruining feed, ruining quarry, water..
Ruining the bloody lot not left a jot!
When the indigenous stood ground,
They were shot…..
They were small-poxed,
They were deliberately diseased,
They were deliberately given alcohol.
The women corrupted, prostituted.
Their whole system was betrayed,
Religion, laws, ceremonial culture,
A society guarded by exacting kinship,
Knowledge passed from the Elders,
Knowledge passed to the younger,
Exactly as is our “civilized” culture,
All this was lost in the melee.
Hunting grounds and boundaries lost,
A network of mutual respect lost,
A network of exacting ritual lost,
A network so lost and destroyed
With the coming of the speculators.
White men with their property boundaries,
With their titles of land ownership.
With their stock grazing erosion,
With their stock grazing destruction,
The end of many millennia way of life.
Of corroboree and of songlines.
It is gone,
It is gone,
It is gone.
Then……
Came the Silesian settlers who could not know other,
Who too were fighting for their lives,
Used as blunt-instruments to confront,
Used to clear-fell the vast mallee,
Clear-fell too small blocks of land to farm,
Allocated to them from far away.
“Trees don’t pay taxes” they were told,
So the taxes were there eternal,
But the forest of trees were not.
Some there will have to break,
The weak will fall, strong take all.
“Let the strong swim,
The weak may sink”.
*
9) “Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be called the children of God.”
For myself, I witnessed first-hand the grief,
When a thirteen year old boy, I played midwife,
To my mother, of my own sister, died at birth ,
Only me and my mother in house that day,
The others in the fields stooking hay,
The sudden birth making for a desperate play.
*
10) “Blessed are they which are persecuted; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
No, no..I’d rather not dwell if you please,
On that day, that moment ‘twill bring me to my knees,
Such a sight, is for a young boy not ready to see,
The mad panic, the fumbling, the screaming agony,
I had not the slightest idea the weight on me,
Would bear so heavy..heavy, until eternity…..
*
[ So yes indeed:
How many seeds ARE sown to the wind,
From Mallee tree and flowering vine?
As many perchance, as the stars in night time skies,
Reflected in lonely billabongs stilled,
As many as tears in my recollecting eyes..
As many as pious, hymn’d words at funerals played.]
*
Underestimated were the new settlers,
Determination, perseverance in measure,
Already had they been well tested,
By their own cruel German government
Had they not been harried, shot,
Chased from their own homelands.
Compelled to “Germanise” their surnames,
Their own religion, their own cultures..
By the new Republic of Germany.
That, or suffer the consequences….
So they came a sailing,
A multitude came a sailing,
With their Pastors they came,
With their gospels they came,
With their songs they came,
With the whole village, they came,
To a new land…to South Australia.
Right to the end of the century,
They came….
*
Wagga came back to the boat..”Did you hear that, Satty’…No?..well, that was Jim Carmody I was talking to…you know, the storekeeper at Nildottie..an’ he tells me there is trouble over at the Italian internment camp…one of the men, a chap named Artini, tried to escape..yes..you can be shocked, Satan..and it is rumoured he was crossing the river at a secret ford one of the Aboriginal girls told him about…and between you and me, Satty’, I know just the name of that girl….”
Wagga untied the boat from its mooring on the bank of the river and climbed in to row out into the stream..
“And if you promises to keep it a secret, I’ll tell you!”
Satan the cat slipped to move onto Wagga’s lap as he rowed..
“Oh!..all sweet and familiar now are we…?…is that your way of saying “trust me”…I’ll bet it is…and yes, I trust you….after all, you know ALL my secrets…Well, her name is Tess..and she’s almost as dark as you!…She had arranged for him to come to a certain spot on the river bank where the ford was.. as you know, Satty’, Tess couldn’t be caught on that side of the river after dark because of the curfew the natives live under..and he was to wait there until Tess made a prearranged call of a cockatoo to tell him it was safe to cross..but in Artini’s impatience and fear, he mistook a cry from the bush stone curlew as Tess’s cockatoo call and went into the river..and as we of the river know, the curlew’s call is one of danger and even death…and the water was deeper and stronger just then, as the lock at Blanchetown had been opened to release water down the river..and Artini was swept off the ford midstream.”
Wagga rowed the boat out toward the deeper water so as to avoid snags along the banks.
“I tell you, Satan..while you and I say the lock is to blame, there is opinion in the native camp that it was the fault of Artini in trying to smuggle his mighty axe secretly across the river, that axe that has cut so many mighty ancient mallee trees that they then burnt for the charcoal..that made the river spirit angry and it was they which sent the water rushing down as punishment…any road..he drowned..and they have yet to find his body.”
Wagga rowed on in silence while he gave some thought to the situation.
“But you and I, Satan…we know where he will appear, eh?…we know where he will come to the surface..; The Washpool…where the river eddys and swirls as it slows at the river bend..it is there we will find him soon..’cause as you know, Satan…it is a fact that all drowned people eventually come to the surface of the water…they come up to catch one last sight of the sun and the wide world that has been taken from them before they disappear forever…and some of them weep and you can hear the wailing…some say it is but a curlew’s cry..but you and I know it is the lamenting wail of the drowned..Come, Satan…we must hurry to be there when he rises.”
The Sorbs……
The Wends……
Slavic peoples rich in ancestry,
Germanic peoples in nationality,
Eastern European in geography.
They came, veni.
They saw, vidi.
They conquered. Vici.
Three waves of Germanic migration,
The Eastern farmers and skilled crofters,
They brought knowledge of animal husbandry.
Then came the educated Urban Middle-class,
They brought high opera to the state.
They brought the vineyards to the state,
Then came the proletariat industrial workers,
Brought their skilled metal trades.
Privately held themselves to themselves,
Settled quietly in The Barossa Valley,
Settled on the St. Kitts, Kapunda lands.
Farmed the gibbered Steinfeld,
Farmed the hills of Truro,
Farmed the hard Murray Flats,
Farmed from Eudunda to Sedan.
Worked their tynes knife-blade thin,
On that “Break-heart country”.
Spoke their own native tongue,
English in their homes a second language.
As any families who have lost everything,
As any who had been granted second life,
They took no prisoners, social, pragmatic.
Ghettoed,
Clustered,
Protected their own.
Small hamlets scattered on the mallee,
Small hamlets sheltered under one pastor,
Families there all working together,
Families there all praying together,
Their land leased from a tyrannical master.
A fascist corporate state,
A fascist South Australian Company,
Even before the name “Fascist” was defined.
Cruel landlords keen on speculation,
Keen on grasping entrepreneurship.
Using the German pioneers as cheap labour,
To clear that land so recently stolen,
Stolen brutally from the first peoples.
Northern clans and tribes driven,
Massacred by advanced weapons,
Weapons imported without restraint,
Weapons of the American carbines,
Carbines replaced the black-powder muskets,
Muskets that needed close-quarter contact,
Close contact that at least gave a chance,
To the skilled indigenous spear throwers.
To at least give chance to fight back.
Then on it was shooting fish in a barrel.
It was all over, bar the lamenting,
New hamlets come to grow,
More children come to grow,
Hamlets come spread into towns,
Farmlands start to produce profits,
German peoples start to organize,
Civil governance, local councils,
Town bands, choir, theatre they made,
Organised around church and pastor,
Liaison with central state government.
But kept there at arm’s length,
Kept away from state intrusion,
Kept themselves to themselves,
Still suspicious of the English landlords,
Still wary of the English system.
Still leery of the hard hand,
Hard hand of the ruling class.
Ruling class that valued little,
The use of an alternative culture,
The songs of a cultural people.
Would cast adrift any such group,
Any peoples hindering their path,
Toward total capital domination.
Suspicion from both parties ruled,
Little done via civil intrusion,
Intrusion into health or education,
The Germanic clusters with own schools,
With their unpronounceable names,
With their inflexible natures.
Watched them with suspicion,
Watched warily from afar,
Left to seek their own devices,
So when disease swept the clans,
So did the central administration,
Did what they did to the indigenous peoples,
……….They left them to rot!
So these crofters drained the swamps,
So these crofters farmed the flatlands,
So they farmed the stoney flats and hilltops,
Draught horse teams and harrow,
Picking up the stones by hand,
Making piles from the back of a dray.
Farmed their lands with wood and iron,
Wood, iron and blacksmithed ploughs,
Till the tynes and shares were worn,
Worn to a slither, blunt as a gibber.
Farmed the wild, wind-blown flats,
Sang songs to the billowing clouds,
Even as their families died with the fever,
Even as their children died with diphtheria,
Or harrowing births gone wrong,
Attended only by young girls as midwife,
Too frightened by ghastly complication,
Of a childbirth gone so wrong,
To do little but weep in deep shock,
What could very well be their own fate.
They died in fires and accidents,
Too frequent too often collate,
On a statistician’s slate,
Too far from medical assistance.
Left buried in sad cemeteries
Serenaded through the fall of time
By lonely, sighing sheoaks around the perimeter of the church yard..
“Peter’s Hill”,
Under the lee of Marschall’s Hut,
Under the soil interred sixty-eight souls,
Forty two of them are children.
What can a people do with an “unholy site”,
That has taken so many of their small ones,
The count of tears becomes so high,
The count of tears becomes so intolerable,
Move away from that “unholy” place,
Move over the flat-lands of the Murray Plains,
Their names spread like Summer chaff,
Place to place,
Town to town,
Dutton,
Steinfeld,
Sandleton,
Sedan.
Driven by a fervent faith unstoppable,
Driven by a fervent courage inviolate. . .
(Nb. This is a “work in progress and may be altered or added to at any time….J.C.)
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