Good quality toys in post war years
When both our boys were born
Were priced beyond our means, me thinks
But we managed, given corn.
"What is corn ?" you well may query
Twas the extra hours we worked
When we were weary
We toiled each day
For eight hours, fourty-eight
For weekends then
Our wifes could hardty wait
We found a ready answer
Our wifes could mow the lawn
We would provide our kids with toys
Work corn.
Waddling ducks and a double decker bus
If the foreman came around
There really was a fuss
Tables and chairs for the painter's brood
In return. our toys painted
We'd set the mood
Freight cars trailing
A puffing billy train
Wheelbarow for the boys
To feed the chooks their grain-
Our creative imagination then
Really knew no bounds
A range of toys designed
Just for merry sounds
Image pride and joy
When we rise on Christmas morn
The kids are happy
But the wife is so forlorn
"Yes, the toys are very nice,
But you still must mow the lawn".
The watchman sitting at the gate
Was dozing in the sun
As the workers stream on by
Their homeward joumey, now begun
The masses passing through the gate
Seldom raise an eye
All are tired and weary
As the shuffle slowly by.
"Now what's this ?"
The watchman stirs
Rising to his feet
"A Wheelbarrow, a fitted tarp
How's that for prime deceit ?"
What'ss in the barrow ?"
That is the watchman's query
"Where's your gate pass ?
You blokes make me weary"
"It's only firewood,
Off cuts from the mill
The foreman said OK
The barrow I could fill"
"Alright for now"
The watchman snarls
"But next time, bring a paper"
"You will not pass by here again
Next time you pull that caper"
The barrow trundled round the bend
His mate Jack was in the rear
"Toss it in the boot" said Jack
"Now let's get out of here"
Jack said "How did you go with the watchman ?
You never got caught
"No" I replied 'He questioned the firewood
Never gave the barrow a thought".
In June 1991, a former work mate, Stan Cook, passed away.
We had worked at Clyde together, that was Nineteen Fourty Five,
The cards we played, the toys we made, it was strive, strive, strive.
Our Sawtell holidays brought our families together,
We fished the Hawksbury, Friday nights, no matter what the weather,
He lived, those days, in Lidcombe, I saw him every day.
We would often dine together, until he moved away,
June began a Business in Boambee, it's now called Boambee Bay,
Stan took along his hammer and saw, he worked most every day.
A letter from Sawtell in June, said Stan had passed away,
"I miss him, Greg", is what June wrote, "For me, I beg, you pray".
Whilst on holiday at Nambucca in 1992, June Cook drove down from Boambee to relate the details regarding Stan's demise. June invited Glady and myself to epend time with her at Boaanbee. We accepted her offer and had a week with her in 1992, another week in 1993.
It was during these visits that I renewed my acquaintance with Marge Dillon, who I first met in 1937. Marge and her husband Lloyd (since deceased) lived on the Sydney side of Boambee Creek. As outlined in Terry's book "Up Boambee Way", Dad camped on the other side of the creek, just down from Boainbee Station (long since unused and removed).
Marge recalled the days when the family would camp on the other side of the creek, just down from Boaanbee Station. Marge would have bread and milk delivered to her place. Later in the day mother would row accross the creek to pick it up. (In those days there was no walkway on the bridge and mother just would not cross) . Mother was often teased, "Give us this our daily bread and milk", but she refused to see the humour.
Now let us go back to Boambee as it was in nineteen thirty seven,
Come back wi th me to the on ly p lace th at s tarts to rival He aven ,
Row with me to the Jewie hole where the food chain first is born,
Where weed and moss and fungi gather like a paddock full of corn.
Little fish have tiny fish amongst their shoals to bite on,
And tiny fish have smaller fish and so on infinitum,
T'he larger fish themselves in turn, which other fishes dine on,
While these again have larger still, and larger still, and so on.
The most rewarding fishing was Nigger fishing off the rocks.
At the entrance or mouth of the creek fishing off rocks which became
submerged as the tide rose, scrambling higher as large waves crashed
ashore, desperate to maintain a foot hold despite the raging surf, we
would often swim a hooked Nigger until the swell abated (you are not
allowed to call them Niggers or Black Fish now, they have been renamed
Ludrick).
A sugar bag full of Niggers was common. Uneaten Niggers would be used
to bait the crab traps and usually two or three crabs to a trap. One
would be more than a reasonable meal. Another rewarding venture
was fishing off the beach into the surf for Whiting .
Boambee today is unrecognizable from the days of 1937. A walkway is
now attached to the bridge, Housing Development engulfs the area. A
large shopping complex [Tormina) supplies the needs of a thriving
population.
The road from the township of Sawtell appears to be shorter and not
as steep as it seemed when we first walked it back around 1932. Time
Share cabins now adorne the clift top along side Cookie's shop which
bought by the Time Share group. The foreshore has been fenced off,
wi th provision for car parking with an entrance fee attached. The
creek is silted up and narrowed. Quite different to the beautiful
Boambee we once knew.