And the way I’m thinking about the days of yore dear reader - thinking back to a time when, in early morning weekend light, kids, en masse, would decamp their houses and commence their miniature migrations through the streets, lanes, paddocks and parks.
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And there was great richness and reward in a river-town childhood such as that. A great joy in being loosed from the domestic confines of one’s abode.
How as the sun traversed the sky, we made tentative barefoot forays into freedom, independence and adventure.
And how for me there were always two iron-clad rules: ‘and stay away from the river me boy, and be back when the street lights come on.’
And so it was back then dear reader: stay out of the river and be back for tea.
And I remember returning home aching with hunger after a day of play and run and bikes and grassy levee dreaming. I remember the light shining warm through the windows of the houses as I slumped home in the gathering dark.
Remember the feeling of bliss and anticipation at the smell of the kitchen and the cooking. The warm womb safety of being home …
And that tea-time hour still gives me an almost unrivalled sense of pleasure and psychological ease. How the ritual and mood of a tea-time hour turns houses and shelters into homes.
And the home-made meals we had dear reader - and they come back to me now, staples and specialities and recipes from lean-times, from war, depression and flood. Kept warm over a saucepan of simmering water and covered with a tin plate while it waited for a still-out-playing son, or an up at a pub High Street drinking father.
And our amazing, sainted mothers - how they could manage everything they did, in spite of the wicked insouciance of the men, in spite of all that…
And there on all the days of the week, Maitland tables were furnished with: rissoles and gravy that were beyond compare, chops, mashed pumpkin and soft fragrant peas, braised steak and onions, steak and kidney pie, mince on toast, thick curried sausages with halved potatoes in giant simmering family of nine sized pots; fried river mullet and home made chips on Friday nights, sausages and gravy on a Saturday morning, boiled choko with pepper, and cabbage and spinach and green beans …
And such were the things that back then, with love and never a mention of toil, would wait for us on table-clothed timber tables.
Such was the way we lived and shared back then.
And with those beautiful meals we talked the moon across the sky, and kept the world and darkness from our doors. Goodnight.
