My parents had a friend who owned shares in a ski lodge, and because back in the ‘60s it wasn’t popular to holiday on the snow fields in summer this enabled our family of six to have an amazing holiday at Falls Creek for a week in late December.
 
The journey from Glen Waverley took several hours and usually meant starting off early in the dark hours of the morning with us kids still in pyjamas and half asleep to continue snoozing until our hunger and the winding roads jolted us fully awake. “Are we there yet?”
 
The lodge was impressive with an unusually high front door reached by a long flight of steps; annoying for hauling luggage inside but understandable (and mind-boggling) when it was explained that the snow was often deep enough in winter to cover them completely. This explanation was backed up when we later found the ski lifts. It was difficult to imagine the depth of snow that came each year and how it would transform the area; but that was for others to experience as we never visited in winter.
 
Lazing around under the dappled shade of the Snow Gums on hot days, if I was quiet and patient, a skink or two would appear. Sleek little reptiles, tongues flicking and eyes darting nervously to check out any dangers. It would bask in the sunlight until a sound, a movement or some subtle change sent them scurrying back under their rock or into the leaf litter. However, it wouldn’t take long, if no danger presented, before the little lizard would again appear to sunbake on a rock, so fine and delicate that I could see the rising and falling as it breathed. If my sisters were about, my brother and I would try to catch them, partly to show how quick and brave we were, partly to terrorise our sisters. I learnt that you couldn’t catch them by the tail as they would sacrifice their tail to escape – I found that was appalling and didn’t do it more than the once.
 
I remember one day we found a creek that spilled down over rocks, creating tiny waterfalls, interesting nooks and crannies, and a challenging set of stepping stones enticing us to venture down under the trees and between the boulders and ferns to discover where the stream went. Occasionally the water would pool in a small dam before trickling once more over the rocks to continue its way downhill. When we became hungry and decided to end this adventure, we discovered that the journey home was not quite so much fun as it involved a steep climb, a much harder task from which we emerged hotter and hungrier.
 
Although most of our activities were unstructured explorations around the mostly empty village, I remember once going kayaking on nearby Rocky Valley Dam. The water was freezingly cold, even at the height of summer, which provided extra incentive to avoid capsizing. The water was also astonishingly clear – it was possible to see fish swimming and the stones and crags on the bottom looked close enough to reach out and touch.
 
One year, the weather was cooler than normal, so much that it began snowing on Christmas day. This was quite a novelty for us. The snow didn’t last long, melting quickly, making the ground moist and muddy whereas we were used to the dry, baked earth of other summers. That year we found a huge snow drift in one of the more sheltered areas and we had a new playground. We had snowball fights, built snowmen, and worked together to try to construct an igloo. I don’t remember complaining about the unseasonal weather, we just took this new situation and enjoyed what was offered.
 
Somedays we would set off on a walk, except that would be boring so we went ‘hiking’ instead, the only difference being that we each carried a long stick. There were many tracks to follow, and I’m surprised we didn’t get lost as I felt we walked for miles. I have a vivid memory of taking a rest on a hillside that fell away below us, and gazing across the valley to the next mountain, and beyond to another mountain range, which had more mountains behind it – we were on top of the world and the high country was endless.
 
I have fond memories of those summers at Falls Creek.

Phiona Rhodes
​October 2023

When I was young, we lived next to Canterbury railway station. The backyard had a high brick fence between the line and us; I don’t remember hearing the trains much, but Mum spoke of the house shaking as the freight trains passed. The back of the yard housed the outside toilet and the coke shed where briquettes were kept. The remainder was fenced in with 6’ high palings. Mostly my brother, two sisters and I played happily here but occasionally we would seek adventure beyond.

If the gate was locked, we would just clamber over (splinters would be dealt with later). Down the road a bit there was a wooden overpass; painted white with steep steps for my short legs and rickety enough to wobble a bit if we all worked together at it. The bridge took us safely across the line but often we would shimmy through the wire fence instead and skip across the rails to the park beyond. I learnt if you placed a coin on the tracks and waited for a train (back a safe distance, usually lying hidden in the long grass) the coin would end up flattened and distorted. As we didn’t often have money, we tried placing stones on the tracks – these made an impressive explosion when they were run over!

One day, it must have been during school holidays, my brother decided he wanted an ice-cream, and not one from the local milk bar, but one from the “Fancy Ice-cream Shop”. This was a place our parents occasionally took us to for a treat on the way home from visiting relatives (possibly used as a bribe to get us to behave while we were out). It was also several suburbs away. I’m not sure how Robert figured out how to get there but I was happy to tag along. We boarded the train, a Red Rattler which had hard leather seats, brass fittings and windows that opened and closed using a leather strap. We set off on the first leg and soon needed to change at Camberwell onto the Alamein line. Luckily the ice-cream shop was not far from Hartwell station and choosing which flavour became the hardest part of the day. Heather loved licorice ice-cream and I remember how much was on her face and hands by the time we got home. I was probably much worse but that wasn’t apparent to me. I don’t remember the return trip, being focused on eating a quickly melting ice-cream, but thinking back I am amazed that my older brother and sister didn’t lose me along the way.

Phiona Rhodes
​September 2023

When I was almost five, my oldest cousin was to be married and I was to have a new dress for the occasion. My mother was a seamstress and made most of our clothes, although there were more hand-me-downs than new ones. My dilemma was I that because I was nearly as tall as my older sister I often missed out and the items went straight to my younger sister – frequently I won my older brothers hand-me-downs, so a new dress was pretty special.

The chosen fabric was a tightly woven, shiny, satin material, smooth and cool to the touch. Red and pink spots scattered on a white background. The circles were paired together, one slightly overlapping its partner. It seemed to have the right ratio of repetition and randomness. The dress had short, puffed sleeves and gathering at the waist. I remember having to stand on the table and slowly turn as Mum pinned the hem at the correct length. Looking back, I think mum’s decision to dress me in white was very brave or quite optimistic – I was not a neat and tidy child.

At some point there was a scarlet velvet cummerbund added – I don’t think it was in the original design but probably attached to hide the letting out of the dress needed to accommodate my growth. Although I can only remember wearing the dress once, it is possible it came out on again before I grew out of it.
​
I don’t remember Sue and Graeme’s wedding ceremony and it's possible I didn’t attend; my younger sister would have been only three, so we were probably considered too young to behave in church. I do recall the tall red brick exterior and the wide steps leading down to green lawn area and the wedding party appearing at the top of the steps amongst huge smiles and ringing of bells. I was given a box of confetti, most likely half a box as we would have had to share, and it was quite a novelty to be allowed to throw something at grown-ups. Afterwards, we kids gathered fallen confetti from the steps and path and threw it at each other. The confetti was mostly white, but also pink, yellow, pale blue and green circles. On closer inspection some of the circles were incomplete – moon shaped. They were just like the spots on my dress!

​Phiona Rhodes
August 2023

'My Family and Other Animals' is the title of a book by Gerard Durrell, which was given to me one Christmas. The title amuses me, and I loved the story so much I saved my pocket money to buy the sequel.

But let’s focus on the four-legged members of my family …

When I was about six, we were visited by a happy Labrador who seemed as pleased to see us as we kids were to meet her. “Can we keep her?” was the question we urgently needed answering. Dad looked at her collar and explained she already had an owner. Somewhat downheartedly we asked what her name was. Dad read off the dog tag – “City of Camberwell” he said with a straight face – and I believed him!

The next year on Christmas morning I woke to find a puppy at the end of my bed – the best present ever. I was only slightly put out to find I had to share him with my siblings. Snoopy, as he was named (after a popular cartoon character of the time), was a beagle x fox terrier. He was quite a character, growing up to be an escape artist who could scale a 6-foot fence with ease. Once, he was caught by the local dog-catcher but then escaped from the pound, much to the council’s embarrassment! We gradually found out some of the places he travelled to – he acquired two best friends: a young golden Labrador, Honey, and a Bassett Hound, Sally. Occasionally they would also visit us; there’d be a rattle at the gate and Mum would let the visitor into the backyard where the dogs would have fun until another rattle at the gate revealed it was time to go home.

Some of our holidays were spent at “farm stays”, a novelty for a suburban family. We went to a Gippsland farm during lambing season and delighted in bottle feeding lambs. Somehow, we managed to convince our parents to let us take two home who we named Sally and David. Such a fun novelty, but of course over the next few weeks Mum ended up doing most of the work, cleaning up after them and waking for the early morning feeds, while us kids took them for walks to the amusement &/or amazement of the neighbours. When Sally and David were a little bigger we surrendered them to a friend’s farm where they created havoc by not being intimidated by sheep dogs.

Around this time Mum took up spinning, which led to her deciding to buy a coloured sheep and grow fleeces to spin. There was a succession of sheep but one in particular I remember was a black ram named Tuddawali. Tuddy’s favourite trick was to come galloping down the path, usually when I was preoccupied carrying the washing out, lower his head and bowl me over! The only way I could escape was to grab onto his horns, hang on tightly despite his wrestling to get free, and yell loudly for Mum. I was so glad when Tuddy eventually left!

Mum went back to school to train as a wool classer, then she and Dad bought a sheep farm on King Island and bred Border Collies. When I married, we visited at Christmas, and after the second visit we moved to King Island ourselves. We had orphan lambs, an angora goat, a couple of guinea pigs and several dogs in the five years we were there before we reluctantly moved back to Melbourne’s suburbia.


Phiona Rhodes
​July 2023

There was a rule in our house that you couldn’t leave school until you had a job.

I had enjoyed school until we moved suburbs, and therefore school, when I was seven and a half, part way through grade three. Not good at making friends and trying to adjust to new classrooms, teachers and methods of teaching made school a painful challenge.

High school was better, a fresh start with all our year level being newbies. However, being one of the youngest, already socially immature, along with all the other teenage issues I began to struggle again by Year 10, or Form 4 as it was known then. Being good at schoolwork was a mixed blessing – I could pass tests with little effort and minimal study preparation but when the curriculum changed to assignment-based assessment I didn’t do so well. I gave my parents and the school a conundrum when I both failed Form 4 and aced the scholarship exam. They finally let me go up to Form 5 on probation; I wonder what would have happened if I’d instead repeated the year.

Another issue for me was that I had no direction, the question “what do you want to be when you grow up?” had always perplexed me. At one time I thought I might be a vet as I liked, and related well to animals, but when I found out the length of further schooling ahead to qualify, I wrote that off.

I couldn’t see myself completing Form 6’s HSC as everyone was saying how hard it was, and university didn’t seem to be in my future. At school there were few subjects I really enjoyed and although my small group of friends were wonderful, I began to focus on the negatives. I experienced failure, anxiety and confusion, unwanted attention from a few boys, unwarranted bitchiness from a couple of girls, unfair treatment from some teachers and high expectation from others!

It was all too much – I had to escape. But the escape route could only be reached by finding a job. And so, not long before I turned 16, that is what I did.

I quickly found a job working with horses and even got paid for the privilege! Unfortunately, this role didn’t last long, but after an even shorter stint in retail I began work as a printer’s assistant.  It was there that I met my husband-to-be and started another chapter of my life.

​Postscript: A decade later I changed my mind on the subject of schooling when we had a small business and I needed to learn bookkeeping. I found that tertiary qualifications at TAFE, even as a mature age student, could be fun, interesting and achievable. Over the years I have added a university degree, a second diploma, several work-based certificates, other learning credentials and now, U3A!


Phiona Rhodes
​June 2023

The first neighbours I remember were the Misses Brooks. They ran a shop in Theatre Place, and we rented the house behind and above. They sold baby clothes and I only remember venturing into their shop once, marvelling at the fine knitted, frilly bonnets and booties. There were pastel dresses with smocking and tiny buttons – beautiful, but not interesting enough to a six-year old to hold my attention for too long. Miss Brooks and Miss Brooks were sisters, petite and quiet, Mum described them as genteel, which was probably why my single visit was enough.

Living in the middle of the Maling Road shopping strip some of our other neighbours were the Russos who were greengrocers and very friendly; then I don’t remember the names of the others but there was the service station (Neptune fuel), a fish and chip shop and a mixed business (that had exciting items in the window such as pens with nibs and ink in various colours) and of course a milk bar where the eye-level lollies were the focus and not the people who served me on the rare occasion when I had money to spend.

Our move to Glen Waverley into our newly built home gave us new neighbours. On our left was the Erlandson family and on our right was the Jacksons, directly opposite was the Longs and next to them the Brace family. None of their children were my age but we all got together in early November to build a bonfire on Guy Fawkes night and to share fireworks in the empty block on the far side of the Jackson’s house. Other times we would play together in school holidays until we grew old enough to venture further afield with school mates.

Mum and Mrs Jackson soon became the best of friends, and us kids could almost treat next door as our own. Mr. and Mrs. Jackson worked at the Tax Office, while my dad had an engineering business and Mum occasionally worked from home as a seamstress. Anne and Anthony Jackson attended the local Catholic school while we went to the State school. The Jacksons barracked for North Melbourne while we were Hawthorn fans; in the 70s there was great rivalry between the two teams, yet this and the other differences didn’t overshadow the friendship between us. Mum kept in contact with Mrs. J. for nearly 50 years even though we moved away after ten.

Further down our street were the Whites, not my favourite family as Mrs. White once told Mum I was doing something I shouldn’t have been (possibly hanging out with boys). For the younger generation the friendliness in the neighbourhood had its drawbacks but we also knew that we could depend on them if Mum wasn’t about for fixing a grazed knee, providing a restorative drink and biscuit, or helping to catch a run-away dog.

At the head of our street lived Mrs. Marriott, we didn’t associate with her, but Mum was on speaking terms. She had a large block with an established garden having many fragrant roses and a manicured lawn. Mrs. Marriott also owned a pet cockatoo, which I found fascinating, and occasionally I heard him as I walked past. Before our street and the surrounding area was subdivided the Marriotts had market gardens on the site, and our street was named Marriott Parade.

There was a court off our street where the Treasaders lived, not convenient for us kids as Mr. Treasader was our high school principal. Even worse, Mum and Dad became friends with them, which was not cool at school (and didn’t make me immune from detention). As a family we were very involved in the school community, Dad chaired committees and Mum volunteered to sew the curtains for the new hall; we all attended working bees and spent many weekends helping set up the new school camp at Nayook.

We were lucky to have good neighbours and one of the great lessons I learnt from our next-door friends was to accept differences in culture, religion, and lifestyles; also, that a dividing fence shouldn’t be a barrier.


Phiona Rhodes,
​April 2023

​Sometime after his parents died, my Dad gave me their wedding ring, the one Poppa gave to Nana in 1917 on their wedding day, the one she wore for 65 years, the one I wear now. For me it is a tangible link to my grandparents and a prompt to the memories of a special summer in the mid ‘60s.

Summer school holidays can seem to drag on forever; my brother, two sisters and I could be quite a handful so maybe Mum needed a break, or maybe this was a special treat for me, but sometime in January I was packed off to spend a few days with my Nana and Poppa.

​My grandparents lived in Bowen Street Camberwell, a lovely weatherboard house on the high side of the road. The front fence was made of stone in slate grey, rusty ochre and warm brown, the smooth faces contrasting with the rough sandy mortar which in some places held moss and in others became a highway for ants. Towards the right the sloping concrete driveway led up to the now empty, cavernous garage. But we turned left before reaching that, up two steps onto the porch which had been glazed to create an inviting sunroom. Nana was there to greet us - this was going to be a very exciting adventure – a sleepover, just me and my teddy.

The evening routine was very different to home; it was organised, sedate and quiet, a nice change but I felt a bit uncomfortable. After the evening meal I helped Nana with the dishes, put on pyjamas and climbed into bed. Not used to being by myself, the dark and the quiet were intimidating but I bravely cuddled teddy and listened to the grandfather clock, ticking away the time.

Monday was washing day. Nana had a large copper in an enclosed area off the kitchen and she grated soap which dissolved in the hot water. The first batch of clothes were shoved under the water with the aid of a thick wooden stick. After stirring and soaking the material was lifted out and transferred to one of the concrete troughs, then dunked into the rinse water to remove the suds. The heavy mass was put through the mangle, a pair of rollers that were operated with a big handle (which required more muscle than I had) and dumped into the laundry basket; this process was repeated many times in the hot, humid laundry. Handing out wooden clothes pegs to Nana at the washing line soon lost its appeal, so I wandered off to explore the garden.

​One afternoon Poppa invited me into his garage which was lined with wooden shelves holding tins and boxes neatly stowing many treasures. We found a tin of white paint and some paintbrushes. Poppa showed me how to stir the paint to mix the layers which had separated over time. He decided it needed thinning with some turps, so I needed to stir it some more. Finally, we could begin painting the wooden fence that ran along the driveway. He instructed me on how the paint preserved the timber as well as looking good. At the end of the exercise there was a fair bit of paint on me that wiping with a rag dipped in turps didn’t clean off. I was sent inside to Nana who decided a bath and scrubbing brush was needed.

Another day, we had a shopping trip with Nana that involved catching the bus at the stop a few houses along the street. I was allowed to give the conductor the coins which went into his leather pouch.  He dutifully wound the handle on his ticket machine and it spat out a paper ticket. I was impressed that he could maintain his balance walking up and down the aisle while the bus drove to the next stop. Nana pointed out the lawn bowling club that Poppa went to. The Camberwell market was crowded with shoppers pushing through the narrow lane between the market stalls. Nana bought various items, mostly wrapped in paper which were then stowed in a string bag.

Nana also taught me to crochet, although I didn’t master the skill on this occasion, I made a start and on other visits would bring unfinished pieces, with many mistakes, to continue the lessons. Nana made many colourful crocheted rugs; there was one on my bed which kept me warm but also amused as I wove my fingers through the holes and admired the colours and patterns until I became sleepy.

I can’t remember how long I stayed but too soon it was time to go home – I had mixed feelings of relief, as I was young and homesick, conflicting with regret that my adventure had come to an end.

Although I often saw my grandparents at family gatherings and on Sunday afternoon visits, that summer, when I had Nana and Popa all to myself, gave me a strong connection to them both.


Phiona Rhodes
March 2023