Remembering Easter

The Darling Downs grain growing country lies between two weather systems. Winter rain is fairly predictable and in many seasons spectacular electrical storms bring good summer rain as well.

Sometimes heavy falls come around Easter too. Before the Condamine River was “improved” its flow ambled along contentedly with nary a hint of urgency, kept in check by fallen logs tree stumps and gentle bends, its far flung destination weeks away in the Great Australian Bight. When rains persisted water level rose, flooding the river flats, rehydrating and regenerating the deep alluvial soils. On our farm, water backed up through the Canal creek system into Dog Trap Creek and the black soil plains became a shallow sea for frogs and wading birds. It’s one of the most compelling phenomena one experiences living on the Condamine. It forced a reprieve from the endless hours of tractor work for a couple of weeks before efforts were reinvigorated to reclaim order as Bathurst Burr, Stramonium and other weeds germinated.

Change was in the air for our little country church of perhaps 60 souls. Amalgamation with the progressive Lutheran Synod had been cautiously discussed for decades. Many on our side were skeptical. Both branches struggled to get enough pastors to serve the German farming diaspora of small congregations scattered across the country side. Each pastor had a flock divided into three or four parishes that he administered to in turn. It was beyond his powers to attend to each parish every week. Sometimes a retired paster would ‘fill in’. One of our favourites from the fire and brimstone variety caught the early rail motor from Toowoomba and walked the remaining ten miles to preach and exhort the congregation to give generously to the boarding school in Toowoomba. We did.

Before my time, parishes had pooled their resources to buy him an automobile, the caveat being that it had to have a strong enough engine to drive everywhere in third gear. He had never mastered the gear change. However, the initiative proved unsuccessful. Weather was against it. There was no vehicle on the market that could accomodate both sandy roads in the dry and greasy black clay roads during the wet in third gear.Lay preachers with printed sermons were elected and stepped in to conduct ‘reading’ services. There was no other choice. But attendances suffered from shortened liturgies, which us kids found a blessing, since in the absence of an ordained servant of the word sacramental rites could not be accomplished.

Easter was as big a time for adults as Christmas was for children. Uncles, Aunties and cousins would come for a farm-stay. Mum felt the isolation of a famers wife and loved family get togethers. Eider downs would be laid out on the floors for the kids as adults spilled into the bedrooms. I had thirteen families of sixty-five first cousins, and the house was jammed to capacity many holidays, except when it was their turn to put us up in Kumbia, Brisbane or Harvey Bay. Sometimes we’d all rent a house at the beach either Caloundra or Coolum. Best of all was family camp in the Bunya mountains.

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One Easter it was our turn, and Dad been impressed on my siblings and me that we should be on our best behaviour in front of our guests. “Best behaviour” was never really spelt out. We were God fearing, obedient children on the whole. The plaque on the wall a reminder: “Christ is the head of this house, an unseen guest at every meal and a silent listener at every conversation.” We were pretty clear on the hierarchy from there down. But the fact that it had been thought necessary to remind us created an air of tension. Such occasions often didn’t end well since our fear of misstep made us timid and unsociable and given the chance overanxious to please. I, being the eldest, lead the way.

If asked what bad behaviour was I could tell you; swearing, showing off, asserting yourself, being cheeky, leaving a mess after yourself. Then there was the ill defined, “being bad”. It was really had to be a matter of trial and error. On the whole we were pretty good and happy but we didn’t operate well under pressure. Nevertheless the popular child rearing practices of expectation, warning, scolding and punishment would all pass without anyone being any the wiser. We came to understand that life surprised you with challengers for which you would be responsible. In social situations you are responsible for everyone’s reputation not just your own. Experience is a good teacher.

Lutherans are people of faith. Having faith is the key that unlocks God’s Grace. You’ve all seen it, the rays of light that shines down between the clouds on summer afternoons. And by grace we are saved through Jesus’ blood. Having faith meant that you were able to read and interpret the Bible correctly and thereby have faith. It is through faith we are saved by the blood of the Lamb. I already knew a lot but still very confused. It only I knew the questions to ask.

We were well versed with Bible readings and devotions twice daily, yet doctrinal certainty was elusive and contentious and occupied a lot of the adults free time. I’m not saying people weren’t certain, they just didn’t always agree.

From a young age I had a very active religious imagination. I grew up in a mythic world of heaven and hell with earth here as proxy. But I had mixed feelings, the idea of heaven was poorly sold, an eternity of singing praise. Frankly, I felt better where I was, the world was really good. Hell on the other hand was easy to imagine. Years later I would discover I was a mis-matcher, learning doing and eliminating the things that don’t fit by trial and error. It’s not a very efficient strategy in religious or social life and to my chagrin I found trying to not do the wrong thing was fraught. Eternity is a long time so best sort things out before we get there.

My parents aspirations were for their eldest son (me) to become a pastor and serve the congregations so in need. To visit the poor and comfort the sick and provide guidance and support to the less fortunate. Not everyone had the certainty and assurance that our little community enjoyed. We were truly blessed. And we were. In early years I though it was a good idea too, until one day I climbed up on the sofa in the lounge room, imitating the preachers I had so often seen in the pulpit, only to be shocked to find I had nothing to say.

Our rellies had come up from Brisbane early, arriving in plenty time for a late Easter Sunday church.There had been a lot of rain all up the catchment so they came around the long way over Grasstree Creek just in case the lower bridge over the North Branch of the Condamine was flooded. There was a lot of speculation about whether it would be or not, but no one had been to have a look.

Mum had a little custom for the occasions we we had to hang around waiting until it was time for church. She signalled that we were in in-between time by not having us dress in our Sunday best too early. Instead we would put on shorts and a clean white singlet. Boys being boys we would only get good clothes dirty, and we couldn’t play normally because then we would need another bath.

While the women and big girls are doing the prep for after church, Dad, the Uncles and cousins are wondering what to do. Some farm entertainment is required for our visitors. That presented an immediate challenge since regular farm stuff was forbidden during this ‘singlet time’. My father said to me, “Look after your cousins, will you and David, don’t go near the river.” Now all I heard was “River.” He might as well have said, “David do you know if the flood waters have gone over the bridge yet. It sure would be interesting to find out but don’t even think about it.”

It was about then that I though of going for a walk, not near the river but maybe in that direction. So off we went like ducks in a row, oblivious to the mud puddles and Sunday dresses of the girl cousins who didn’t know about the singlet protocol, and had left their homes dressed for church. Being girls they probably didn’t need to know about it either.

What does near the river mean anyway? Does it mean out of sight, or ear shot or the more likely don’t touch. Not that it mattered because we were not going to go near the river anyway. Yet somehow I found myself leading my little flock, with all the confidence of a farm bred six year old towards the Condamine bridge. It would be ages before we were anywhere “near” it anyway.

As we drew closer I though probably it meant not past the grid at the top of the approaches. Yet when we got that far, it seemed more likely that it meant don’t paddle in the water. I already knew how to inspect the waterline to see if the level was rising or falling. So I went for a look and perhaps all would become clear. My little flock were getting restless and wanted to go back but by now weren’t sure of the way. There might be wild bulls and other scary things too. They were from town after all.

When I discovered that water level still rising it suddenly occurred to me that I was probably too near the river. In a panic I wondered if the presence of the cousins who were now waiting for me up at the grid would alleviate or exacerbate my predicament. After all they hadn’t gone near the river, had they.

Running back home I discovered that when your feet are cold and muddy you can step on bindi-eyes and they don’t even hurt. It’s even fun.

As we approached the house we met a search party coming towards us. Someone quite unnecessarily remarked, “Boy, are you in trouble!” It made me curious how punishment worked in other families.

Within a minute our motley little mud spattered flock was gathered on the lawn by the house. Dad arrived from somewhere. I had no idea where he had been. In front of the assemblage of uncles and cousins, Dad with exasperation demanded, “David, where have you been, it’s time for church.” I looked down at my pink toe tips peeping out from mud covered legs. My ears burned with embarrassment, self conscious under the eyes of the uncles. Thankfully the mothers were inside doing their hair up. They had been dying to try the new hair drier that one of the teenage girl cousins had brought along. They intended to do themselves up at the last minute demonstrating they were across the latest fashions. It was as sort of mini hot air, reverse vacuum cleaner with a hose and plastic bag you tie on your head. It must be a city thing.

“ Did you take these kids to the river?”

I was shocked by a question so completely without nuance and honestly think my reply was not so much a lie as a plee for more time to prosecute my case.

“No…”

There are moments in life when in the blink of an eye your destiny is realised and all chance of redemption is forfeit.

“Well actually,” began an older cousin who knew from experience that a lie was a lie, and intuitively reached for his lifeline, said, “he did.”

The girls were sent inside to the horrors of “What have you done to your clothes? You’ve nothing else to wear!” and roughly tugged to the now overflowing bathroom. They should not have to witness what was about to happen.

A child’s behaviour is a yard stick by which his parents are measured. His father, ultimately responsible for his child’s training and direction is on public display and in a case such as this provides an inexhaustible case study for disciplining children. I pictured being sent inside to retrieve the leather strap or perhaps a bare-handed walloping.

I had placed my father in an intolerable position; he was called upon to urgently administer stern discipline in a perfect storm; the kids are a mess, your late for church, you are under close scrutiny by your brothers in law and your eldest son has lied, been defiant and left you exposed. Incorrigible!

“ Get inside and clean yourself up. Stay in your room.” Now I was confused. This was new. The strap I understood, it was administered swiftly and you could just as quickly return to living on the edge. I found disgrace and banishment the harshest punishment of all.

My relationship with Dad would never recover. Mostly we were respectful to each other, nothing more. We were simply at odds. He was admired even revered in our small community. He was a stalwart, a temperate man, dependable, reliable.He answers were clear and certain.

I, though it would take many years to discover had a kind of naive curiosity that abhorred predictability. In school holidays it fell to me to drive the tractor round after round yearning to see beneath the endlessness of it all.

I loved my dad, and told him so. His reply didn’t satisfy, correct though it was. It wasn’t his words I wanted to hear, I hopelessly craved the emotional connection between father and his eldest son, but not like crucifixion and stuff. And banishment reminded me of the Israelite priest putting the sins of the people on a poor goat then sent out into the wilderness.

Self imposed banishment would in time become a reminder of irreconcilable disappointment. Our clashes would become more intense and less frequent.

Twice we briefly broke through to each other, the first time during a heart to heart when my first marriage disintegrated. He when he told me how he was unable to take on the role of brass band leader for the men of the congregation, he simply didn’t have the confidence.

The second time was as he lay in hospital, broken in the car accident in which our beloved wife and mother died. He surfaced out of his delirium and asked, “Was I too harsh on you?” Shocked by the unaccustomed candour I said, “what did you say?” When he replied I was no longer afraid of him, “Dad, it’s Okay. We do the best we can.”

From time to time I would revisit this memory and reexamine it with the unflattering lens I had become accustomed to, that of the misunderstood country yokel. For many years I had taken refuge in self pity believing I was powerless to do otherwise. The view of this world as a vale of tears was deeply rooted.It was a kind of negative fractal that crystallised on relationships with authority as it wrought havoc on my personal and professional relationships as I became ever more reactive and defensive.

I knew I was in trouble. I went searching for answers both in science and religion. Years later I experimented with different religions.For a time I was for a time a eucharistic minister in a the local Catholic church. The priest was one of the earliest to be jailed for pedophilia. I was briefly a member of a lay Anglican order based in Kent in the whose founder was caught up in a scandal for being in a same sex relationship with one of the other founders. At around the same time I visited a Yoga Ashram. There the director was later convicted of sexually abusing the teenage girls of members under the guise of spiritual practice.

As I sunk deeper and deeper into desperation and that utter conviction that I was irreparably broken, hopelessly trodding a rocky path to nowhere. Nevertheless there was always something of value to be gained in each of these encounters. Even though their overall trajectory revealed an unpalatable truth they led to new alternatives.

Fast forward to about 25 years. I came upon the recordings of Jean Houston’s three or for day seminar on Pazival and the search for the Holy Grail. By this time I discovered that my relationships with wise women teachers were positive experiences. Through the cassette tapes I met with Jean’s treatment of Pazival, a country bumpkin, unskilled in the ways of the world and unaware of himself. I found his casual attitude to tradition appealing and his naive curiosity familiar.It would be a significant turning point and life line.

Later I attended many ofJean’s seminars and began to reconstructed my world view, my relation to it and my own, shall we say, operating system. Amongst a wash of nourishing ideas and psychodramatic exercises she declared what I thought to be an improvable claim. She said, “I am fortunate to have had a blessed childhood.”

But this time I had heard her tell a series of childhood stories and knew them well. They were revelatory and inspirational but in my mind to claim them as blessed was either a misrepresentation or delusional. Yet in the wallow of heavily disguised self pity the idea struck me, of how fortunate one would be if you were one of the lucky few, unlike me, to have had a blessed childhood. I didn’t reject Jean’s claim outright but was in a state of unbelief. My attitude shifted from “o mea miserum!” to “what about me?” Parzifal’s awareness of his unschooled and unskilled experience combined with his naive curiosity left him in a perpetual state of me too to any new or broadening experience. I found some of that in myself too. “Me too.” I want to have had a have had a blessed childhood too so I set about finding out how to acquire one. From what I had learn about neuro-plasticity it was all a matter of brain rewiring. There was no in function between a brain that had resulted from a blessed childhood and one that behaved as if it had. I would be more than content with the second. How to go about it.

I had heard that studies of memory had discovered that we don’t actually remember an event as a fixed entity but rather our memories drift over time and we recall the contents of a memory as it was at the last time we thought about it. Eureka! I would rewrite, as if in the draft of a movie script, as many debilitating memories I could find. The tools I would use were those I had read about in Neuro-Linguistic Programming many years before, but had been too frightened to use.

Tags: farm life, hero/heroines Journey, nostalgia

By the time I showed our documentary, "Two Brothers Walking" to the senior men and women at Umuwa we had been working on it for about five years. It was a time of discovery for me. I was acutely aware that I didn't have any experience of how first nations peoples see the world. I knew that interpreting what I heard and saw in terms of what I knew would filter out the most valuable insights. I was on a journey of discovery. The big question was, "How do you discover new things when being there stops it happening?"

The colonisation of Australia was as brutal as ...

Tags: APY Lands, davidsalomon, farm life, nostalgia, Pitjantjatjara, storytelling

There's an old bridge on a farm where I grew up. The approaches have grown over and the deck is in a sorry state of disrepair. (Link to Google Earth Image) Every flood demolishes it further. Locals with wheat crops on both banks of the Condamine used the gravel road to get to their paddocks and bring in their harvest. When public demand for the bridge subsided, a few local farmers still needed it.

So ownership was passed to local interests on the proviso that ...

Tags: davidsalomon, farm life, nostalgia, storytelling

That's my dad, Arnold Salomon on the right with his poddy calf at the calf show in 1938. He didn't win. Notice the footwear (or lack of). From this we can safely assume he is still at school and dairy farming and raising poddy calves is a part time pursuit.

The milking shed photo from the previous post turned up when we were going through Dad's things. Looking now, I realise I hadn't really looked at it before. The people had caught my attention, my granddad in the right milking stall, and my dad, or so he told my sister, is in the left. It was his eyesight that grew dim in later years, not his memory. Grandad's about the age of my children now, perhaps a bit younger and Great Granny Goos with camera in hand, was then about my age now. I remember the Box Brownie she passed on to Grandma. We only see her shadow, her back to the morning sun.

Tags: davidsalomon, farm life, nostalgia

The photo was taken of morning milking on a typical morning at Proston in 1938 by Great Granny Goos. By the look of her shadow, she's most likely using a Kodak Box Brownie like the one I first took photos with. It was a useful camera with two viewfinders.

Memories of old women with thin boney hands and skin incapable of thermal retention. In my farming community, men's hands and women's hands were oh so different, men's, growing thick and calloused, like a pair of bricks as their lady's hands grew thin and wispy.

Life on the land wasn't for me. Mum said ...

Tags: farm life, nostalgia