Songs my mother sang to me

I remember the songs my mother used to sing to me when I was small.  There was one called, "If I had a golden umbrella",

"If I had a golden umbrella
With the sunshine on the inside
And a rainbow on the outside,
If I had a golden umbrella
What a wonderful world it would be"

I desperately wanted a golden umbrella.  I would pretend I had one, exactly the same as in the song.  I would walk up and down The Terrace practising being a grown-up with my beautiful golden umbrella.

There was another song which I loved to join in.  It was called Lord Randall.  It was a mother asking her son, Lord Randall, where had he been to?  His answer was that he'd been to dine with his sweetheart who'd served him eels in broth and after every question his mother continued to ask him, he would say to her, "make my bed soon, for I'm sick in the head, and fain would lay doon".  Well, the mother kept on asking her "handsome young son" what he was going to leave his mother, should he die.  He promised her all his gold and silver and begged her to make his bed soon as he was sick in the head and fain would lay doon.  But, no, the mother droned on, question after question, till she finally asked him what he would leave his true love (should he die), and he answered rather coarsely and roughly, "a rope from hell to hang her".  Which was my favourite line.  I would join in loudly with that last chorus, and would often chant it to myself in the full realisation that it was a real and proper swear word and I was allowed to say it, if I sang it.  I would practise it often.

My grandfather would also sing to us.  We would stay with them at least twice if not three times a year and my favourite thing was to go into Nan and Wattie's room in the morning, fetch Wattie his teeth in a glass of water on the dressing table, scramble into bed with him and listen to his singing.  His two favourite songs were "Two little girls in blue" and Gunga Din.

Two little girls in blue was a rather sad song with a chorus that went like this:

Two little girls in blue, lad,
Two little girls in blue.
They were two sisters, we were two brothers,
And learned to love the two;
And one little girl in blue, lad,
Who won your father's heart,
Became your mother, I married the other,
But now we have drifted apart.

I was too young to understand the complications of love at that stage, but I did like the line that went "one was your mother, I married the other, and now we've drifted apart".

Gunga Din was an all together different character.  This was a lengthy poem, rather than a song.  All about a soldier in the war who had a manservant named Gunga Din who was much berated by the troops - the poem is rather horrifying to read today - and was often beaten and flayed by the white man.  But when the soldier was shot and dying and asked with his last breath for some water, Gunga Din gave him what he had - a cup of green, nasty dirty water, and carried him to safety.  He was shot doing this heroic thing for the white man who at last admitted "You're a better man than I, Gunga Din".

My grandfather had another favourite which was also a racist song, but this time about a little black boy whose mother told him: "Now honey, you go outside and play, don't you mind what the white chile do, go outside and play just as much as you please, but stay in your own backyard. "


"Now honey, you stay in your own back yard,
Don't mind what the white child do;
What do you think they're gonna give
A black little child like you?
So stay on this side of the high board fence
And honey don't cry so hard.
Go out and a play, just as much as you please,
But stay in your own back yard."

It felt safe when you were sung to.

Hip hop op

Two weeks ago I had a hip replacement operation.  When I came to, I thought I was lying on the beach which, come to think of it, is lucky I wasn't.  I remember a fair amount of pain, and being told I was able to self-medicate with morphine whenever I needed it.  Since I still thought I might be on this beach, I didn't really take any notice of that instruction.  Why would you?

As soon as I realised those around me weren't in swimming togs, but rather, were nurses, I took more interest in the morphine.  This was drip-fed directly to the vein and controlled by a small pressure pump which, when triggered, released a restricted amount of the drug.  'Well', I thought, 'may as well try it if it's going and legitimate.'  One quick pump and my limbs immediately felt as though they were paralysed.  Well, if not paralysed, struck by intense pins and needles.  That's when I took off.  Nothing made sense any more, just a rather disjointed feeling of not being with it at all.  Sort of like the moment when you try to drag yourself awake but keep slipping back to sleep and into a continuous stream of consciousness.  I kept trying to tell the nurses they were angels and no one else could have the personality to do their job.  Yep.  I was ridiculous.  Would not stop contributing to the 'I love Nurses, who do you love?' club.  I was surprised when they left me to it.

After a bit, and when I'd stopped making a fool of myself about the nursing staff, and stopped crying, I figured the morphine business was a little too overpowering for a sensible, if ageing, baby boomer like myself.  After that, I just relied on the heavier pain-killers that came around whenever I seemed to need them, in a tiny little plastic cup.  Do you know what?  Even these tiny little plastic cups were added up and calculated into the final medical bill that arrived in the post shortly after I'd been discharged.  Every single item down to the last swab, was meticulously accounted for which now makes me understand the comment from one of the nurses after I'd apologised for leaving half my lunch, "it doesn't matter as you're paying for it anyway" or words to that effect.

What I'd done was get ahead of myself when I realised the daily menu covered far more than just jelly and ice-cream, and I'd ticked several of the boxes with great glee and anticipation.  What arrived that particular afternoon for lunch was a feast that would have kept a village in Biafra happy for a fortnight.  Of course I couldn't eat it.  In fact, even now, the thought of egg and ham club sandwiches with white bread and lettuce, sends a shudder of nausea through my body.  What I did like best though, was that first night's meal after the op, which had the most delicious sticky date pudding. All the food on that plate was wonderful and for the first time in my life, I actually ate slowly, savouring each mouthful.  I asked the nurse whether I could have the remainder of the sticky date pudding for breakfast, but I think she thought I was joking.  She later was kind enough to respond to my request for something for nausea, with an immediate feed-in to my vein.  Thankfully, it worked, as I had no intention of releasing that sumptuous first meal.

My stay in hospital cost more than a stay in a four star hotel.  Mind you, I doubt very much you'd get quite so much support in a four star hotel during the night when you were desperate for a pee.  A ring on the bell might have brought room service, but I imagine a further request to help one to the lavvy might have been turned down out of hand.  You see, once the nurse had removed that wonderful catheter which gave one complete freedom from having to pee - and guaranteed a dry bed into the bargain - I had to go through a huge procedure to get to the loo.  First came the ringing of the bell which brought the nurse.  Then a slow manoeuvring to sit position, swing both legs together (gripping a pillow between the knees) floorwards, followed by the adjustment of crutches and a shuffling to bathroom, thankfully ensuite.  Then a careful manipulation of tiny turning manoeuvres until nearly seated.  Finally a quick whip-up of nighty, a lowering of bum, and then, relief.  But the infuriating thing was that this happened nearly every half-hour.  Probably due to the enormous amount of liquid pumped into me via the entry point on the back of my hand.

It's a shame, in a way, that the last couple of days of my expensive stay in this four-star hospital was taken up with the desperate urge to pee, which needed to be calculated according to the amount of time it took to get through the entire procedure, but that's what happens, I guess.

After four days, I'd covered the menu options, learned how to manipulate the crutches, including how to climb stairs, and the bed was starting to feel rather hard and resilient.  It was also difficult to sleep in one position - on the back - without wanting to turn.  Time to go home.  With last instructions on how to get into a car (still gripping aforementioned pillow between knees) and admonitions not to bend, twist, lean down, cross knees or ankles in case the new titanium and ceramic joint should pop out, I waved farewell and was driven home to a comfortable bed and lots of post-op TLC.

It takes a while to recover, and recovery cannot be rushed, so I spend quite a bit of time reading or watching daytime TV.  The latter is mostly some excruciating cookery show designed to show up a person's failures, particularly if there's a spot of emotion, rather than instruct the viewer on how to cook better.  I still have to try to sleep lying on my back with pillow between the knees, which means the night-time is very broken, but the rush to the bathroom is not quite so urgent, fortunately.  Luckily I have my trusty laptop right beside me to help while away those long hours between pill-popping.

Recovery, though, is a good state of affairs and highly recommended.

Growing up in the 50's

I grew up in the 1950s.  That was a decade which, as far as I was concerned, was just wonderful.  Mum was home and in the kitchen making all the foods that I liked, Dad was at work and I would walk down The Terrace to the steps where I would meet him each night as he walked home from Parliament.  Everything was just right, and everyone was in his or her right place.

Of course, today, so-called experts look back at the 50s and see a decade of oppressed women, tied to the kitchen sink;  of 6 o'clock closing (pubs, in those days, all closed at 6pm, and that's quite another story - men would roll out of them, drunk, and go home to "beat up their wives".  Not all men did that, of course, but it's a colourful notion of how it was in the 50s)

Looking back at that decade, it was directly after the end of WWII when women held down jobs on farms, in factories, offices, joined the army, navy, and airforce, and supposedly found their own individuality.  After the war, they went back to the home. Supposedly, they lost their so-called individuality, but had it been worth fighting for?  They still had been  looked upon as second-class citizens; the men still dominated on the farms, in factories, offices and in the forces, so although they may have had a taste of 'real work', it was mainly in the labour force and not in a career that women found themselves. For many of them, when their menfolk came home, there was a huge desire for normality, and they were glad to go back to a family life that had been snatched away so suddenly.

So, back to the kitchen.  Newly married, both Mum and Dad had lost loved ones in the war, but now were making a new life, in a small two-bedroom flat in Carrigafoyle flats, 193 The Terrace, Wellington. Both my sister and I were born there.  I was born in Ghuznee Street in a private nursing home.  My mother was there at the same time as her close friend, Nell, who was pregnant with Anne.  Although we weren't born in the same place, as Anne decided she'd come into the world via caesarian section, we claim to have known each other since we were both embryos.  There are only 12 days difference between us, with me being born on 12 May, and she on 24th which was, in those days, Empire Day.  My sister was born three and a half years later on 9 January.  I can remember back as far as that.

I think Mum was really happy.  I remember she and Dad had the same nick-names for each other - "Hank" which I suppose was an Americanism.  They socialised quite a lot; went out in the evenings, with Mum having to come into us before she went out and give us a "swirl".  Her dresses were beautiful.  Organza, full skirted, boat-neck, or square-neck, pretty colours, strappy high heels, a clasp bag, nylon seamed stockings, and masses of jewellery given to her by Dad.  She looked lovely.  

I remember helping Dad make their bed each morning - he slept late because of the working hours when Parliament was sitting.  I would stand on one side of the bed, smoothing, straightening, and tucking in sheets and blankets, all the while talking to my make-believe friend, "Roddy".  I used to make him stand back from the bed in case he got in the way.  

We didn't have a car, so we would walk everywhere.  I guess I would have been in a pushchair, and Mum would walk down to the Boulcott Street flats to meet Nell who would be pushing Anne in her pushchair.  They would go into town, along Lambton Quay; to the library, to the park.  There were no supermarkets, so Mum would shop every day, either at the dairy where Nell lived, or further up The Terrace where it turned into Salamanca Road.  Bread was baked by Denhards with a large D on the side, imprinted from the baking tin.  You would buy a double, or just a half loaf.  Bread came as a double and the shopkeeper would break or tear the fresh bread in half down an imprinted groove.  The two opposing sides would be ragged, soft, and oh, so delicious.  Called the 'kissing crust', it was irresistible not to pick at.  You ask any child of the 50s if they picked secretly at the kissing crust.  It also made the best toast, too.  

The dairy still had some shelves boarded up where stock that was hard to get was kept and sold to 'best customers'.  Coffee (instant) for example, various tinned goods.  Mum once told me she spent no more than 10/6d on a week's groceries.  Today's rate that would probably be around $1.50 - including the Sunday leg of lamb for roasting.

I used to go to Sunday School - the nearest one being the Baptist church down Boulcott Street (it's still there).  Anne and I would go, and sometimes Colin would be forced to join us.  Usually he ran away.  To me, Sunday School was always connected with the lovely roast lamb, gravy, roast potatoes, and mint sauce that was only an hour away.  Colin lived in the block of flats next to Boulcott Street flats.  Embassy Court.  It was much smarter than our flats and had a lift.  It had a clanging metal gate that you closed first, then the inside sliding wooden door with a tiny window at the top.  I have an image of Pru (Colin's mum) always waving us goodbye as the lift slid back down to the ground floor.  Pru was lovely and I adored her.  She was the woman you always wanted for your mum when you were in trouble with your own.  When she was pregnant with David, she used to let us look down the front of her pinny to see if we could see the baby.

I loved her.

Colin and Anne used to play together a lot, and would try to convince me to join in their fun.  One day, to prove my worth, I did as they told me, and pee'd behind the sofa.  Got in for it, too.  I suppose I was about 4 yrs old.  Probably the same age when I decided I wanted to be a dog and just pee in the street, instead of having to go indoors which always took so much time.  I distinctly remember taking off my knickers, lifting my leg and trying to aim a pee down the lamppost.  Of course all that happened was I got warm wet socks and shoes.

I can remember quite clearly when Mum was pregnant with my sister.  I used to play outside on the street, with dire warnings about going onto the road, and would wander up and down The Terrace picking weed flowers.  Oxalis, some other red-flowering weed, and present my posy to Mum.  I distinctly remember her saying to me, "I wish you could stay like this forever". 

When I started school, it was only a moderate walk away at a small model school called Clifton Terrace.  I started there with Anne, and Miss Finity was our first teacher.  We used to sit on the mat at her feet and listen to stories.  I can remember her ankle boots with fur around the top.  I also remember wetting my pants at school and Mum coming and taking me home.  I didn't like the school toilet block with its cold concrete walls and floor, and the tiny little dunnies with wooden rims like brackets, and no doors.  The teacher had a big toilet with a door that shut.  

Anne didn't stay at that school for long, as her family shifted to Karori, but she would talk home with me after school where, once opposite the Flats, and to our personal  endless embarrassment, I would have to blow a whistle loud enough for Mum to hear and come out to escort us across the busy street.  I would wait until there were no cars then blow my whistle, hoping no one saw me.

On Saturday mornings, Dad would take me down to Adams Bruce' corner.  They had the best ice-cream in the world.  Served in double cones, the flavour was only vanilla as I remember, but dipped in melted chocolate that immediately formed a thick, cold cap over the ice-cream and would crack resoundingly as you bit into it.  Often Dad would take me to the Press Gallery on Saturdays where he would finish off his work, allowing me to sit at the next typewriter and clack away writing my own 'letters'.  Old, black Imperial manual typewriters with round discs and bold white on black letters.

... more later, maybe.

Grumpy Old...

There is something to be said for joining the ranks of Grumpy Old Men and Grumpy Old Women.  At last you are in a position to be able to tell the world where to get off, and, by dint of age, be able to do it with aplomb.

You go to a restaurant, you wait, others come in, and you find they are being served before you, so with the utmost dignity and, fuelled by the drink you ordered -and which came with undignified haste - you simply leave the table, paying for the drink and complaining about the service loudly to anyone else who is keen to listen.  The staff, who are of course, way younger than you, look at you with a mixture of total dislike, and servitude since you are the ones who are paying their salaries.

But you win.  You walk out of the restaurant, hopefully leaving the chef in the kitchen on the point of delivering the plate of hot food.  You wish.  The bastard hasn't even started your meal.  For some reason, being old means you are totally valueless.  Lygon Street, it was, Melbourne.  Supposed to be the eating street in the city.