The M.o.t.h. (Man of the house) was part of a big family and extended family. As was his father, who had nine siblings, all of whom were raised on a large dairy farm in a rich, agricultural valley in country Queensland, the so-called Sunshine State.
Both households were a sea of children, tiny legs scurrying about the house and lots of conversation and activity. By contrast, my home life was pin-drop quiet. I had one other sibling and little extended family as did another of my hubby’s in-laws.
Initially, the two of us found marrying into this big family atmosphere daunting, (we confused names for the first few months), but quickly became accustomed to Sunday night dinner with 35+ people and countless grandchildren and the dishes and dishes of food.
Morning tea was always an art form in that family.
Even more so, a generation back at the M.o.t.h.’s Grandparent’s house where the entire extended family would gather once a month, on a Sunday. Even today, an old Aunt says if you are going to have morning tea, it has to be a [family name] styled morning tea.
A Country Morning Tea Worth its Weight in Cream and Butter
A morning tea at the Grandparent’s house consisted of featherweight sponge cakes with lashings of freshly whipped cream, straight from the dairy, endless batches of scones with jam, served hot from the oven, biscuits (read: cookies), and pots and pots of tea in china cups, not mugs. The sound of tinkling spoons bounced off the walls amidst the conversational prattle of brothers and sisters catching up on gossip.
[I have written about the famous scones and that cook once before – recipe included]
One of their adult daughters had married another farmer who grew watermelons on his farm. Thus, the pack of grandkids would sit on the stairs, eating freshly picked watermelons and spitting the pips out onto the ground. No doubt there was a competition to see who could spit the pips the farthest.
There was always plenty to do at the farm, plenty to eat and no shortage of kids to play with, according to the M.o.t.h.
An old Aunt recalls one of the farm horses fondly. The horse was more human than horse. – so much loved by the kids and considered part of the family.
The old horse, let’s call him Tom because his name escapes me. Tom would participate in the morning tea rituals too. He’d invite himself up on the verandah of the old house and join in with some morning tea treat through the open door. For him to reach the verandah entailed negotiating a flight of stairs! No mean feat for a horse. But what would I know, I was only a “townie.” We had no horses.
My husband’s Grandmother – an extremely capable but rather stout woman of Prussian origins had raised ten children of her own and breastfed them all whilst running a large dairy farm.
She easily managed a Roast chicken lunch for 50 or so folks, an hour or two after morning tea. The eldest son – who had never married, had the job of killing four or five chooks and plucking them, ready for roasting. Vegetables were served along with cauliflower submerged in a bath of bacon and cream sauce. Dessert featured more artery-blocking dishes of cream and butter. It was hearty food.
The morning tea and lunches had long ended, when I arrived on the scene, as both Grandparents had passed on by then. I envied my husband’s tales of these cholesterol-filled extended family feastings with their convivial, country atmosphere. Horses on the verandah and cows in the pasture. Idyllic when compared to Sunday afternoon with my widowed Grandmother and one sibling who annoyingly refused invitations to play.
But,
I have it on good authority that there was one ritual this large country family followed that was at odds with the wholesome country values they seemingly represented. One that I thankfully avoided.
And that came to pass only after lunch was over.
Once the dishes were done, (of course), the T.V. was turned to the World Championship Wrestling. Skull Murphy was a favourite competitor.
My sister-in-law informs me no child would dare speak a single word during the wrestling show. If any child did speak, they were brusquely ushered outside to play. Staying meant you were required to watch the show in reverent silence. Skull Murphy was their absolute favourite.
Even as a young fella, my M.o.t.h. could understand that much of the wrestling program was entertainment and certain scenes were staged. But try as anyone might the old grandparents refused to believe the show wasn’t 100% genuine.
To suggest otherwise was sacrilegious.
Granted, Sunday matinée television viewing in country Australia in the late ’60s and 70s was probably limited to one station with no other choice of program, in any case. But I still can’t come to terms with the juxtaposition of wrestling with mild-mannered, hearty and gentle, country folk.
What were visits to your Grandparents’ like?
Did they have a regular family observance or tradition?
Happy Australia Invasion Day
Some cheeky Australian humour for you . Like the wrestling – it is not all true, (some is), but here to entertain:
Something to Ponder About 