b. My grandmother's journal (non-fiction) Pt 2

My grandmother, Hilda Norman, was born in Bow Hill - a colonial settlement on the River Murray, in the province of South Australia - in 1896.

Her parents were free settlers (rather than convicts) from Europe, who came to Australia during the late 1880's, hoping  to find a better life.

Hilda's father, Nils Peter Norman, emigrated from Sweden in his early 20's.  He was one of about 1.3 million Swedes who emigrated during the 19th and early 20th centuries.  Most of them moved to the USA, but some moved to other countries such as Canada, Australia, and New Zealand. The reason for this large scale emigration was related, at least in part, to the problems facing much of industrialised Europe around that time:  high unemployment and overcrowding.

The agricultural and industrial revolutions (better farming techniques and labor-saving machinery) - which began in England in the mid 18th century, but which quickly spread through the rest of Europe - resulted in a greatly increased supply of food - and with that, the population of Europe rapidly grew. 

Prior to the agricultural and industrial revolutions - around 1750 AD in England, and a little later in the rest of Europe - the average life expectancy had been around 35 years:  Most of Europe was starving - and most people worked on the land - as subsistence farmers (farming small plots of land to grow just enough food for themselves and their family). 

However, after the agricultural and industrial revolutions, when food became  plentiful, the life expectancy continued to increase until, in 1900, it reached 50 years.  Obviously, since that time, the life expectancy in Europe, and the rest of the western world, has continued to climb even higher. However, associated with the rapid changes in the population, during the 19th century, Europe needed to adjust, and large scale social changes occurred:  Emigration was one of them.

The other problem, related to industrialisation of Europe, was the fact that machines stole the jobs of millions of  people - on the farms and in the cities.  Poverty, associated with mass unemployment in overcrowded city slums - which became cesspools of destitution, crime, bad sanitation and disease - became another reason for many people to leave Europe and seek a better life elsewhere.

Meanwhile, Australia was encouraging Europeans to come over as new settlers:  Land was offered - to lease or buy, with loans provided;  employment was guaranteed; and the passage to Australia on tall ships was often paid for, or subsidised, by the Australian and British governments.  Millions took up the offer, and by the late 1800's, when Hilda was born, the population of Australia had reached 3.5 million. The vast majority were from Britain; relatively few were from Sweden.

Emigration from Sweden, around that time, was also related to the 'compulsory military service' which the Swedish government was enforcing from the mid 19th century.  From that time, and for the next few decades,  the Swedish conscription laws became increasingly strict and demanding.  And, it was for this reason, especially, that Hilda's father, Nils, decided to leave his homeland.

Nils was a tall and handsome man, with  broad shoulders, short dark hair,  refined facial features, and a handlebar moustache.  His eyes were green and he had a kind and intelligent expression.

He travelled to Australia on a tall ship.  The voyage would have been difficult and dangerous. And it probably felt endless - living in cramped quarters, enduring many storms, and being tossed about at sea for around four months.

Nils would have lived on the food which he brought aboard, like the other passengers, in food chests which were stored in the hold of the ship.  His provisions would have included: cured mutton, salted and dried foods, flatbread, sour milk, kegs of beer, and porridge. 

The first place that he saw, when he arrived in Australia, was the city of Sydney, on the New South Wales east coast.  However, he didn't stay there long.  He had already decided that the colony of South Australia was where he wanted to start his new life.

Why he chose South Australia is not clear.  It's possible that he liked the idea that South Australia was a 'free-settler' colony, rather than a colony established with many convicts. It could have also been that the government of South Australia simply sold itself well - in the myriad of promotional literature distributed throughout  Europe, at the time, aiming to entice new settlers to the fledgling country.

However, Nils had no problem finding labouring work soon after he arrived in South Australia.  His first place of employment was a farm in the colony's  mid-north, where he worked as a farm hand.  The property was owned by a couple of young Irish siblings:  A brother and sister - family name Teate.

The difference in climate and landscape in South Australia, compared with that in Sweden, must have come as a huge shock for Nils: 

South Australia has hot summers and mild winters.  Temperatures in summer regularly reach well into the 40's C (over 104 F).  And the heat is dry, oppressive, and exhausting - without air-conditioning.  Summers can feel endless. And the heat can extend well into autumn. Water is often scarce, especially during the frequent droughts, and settlers would have felt dirty, sweaty and exhausted by the climate.

Also, the Australian 'bush' and wildlife must have seemed completely alien to Nils:

Everyday he would have seen the common Australian fauna:  kangaroos, koalas, emus, kookaburras, goannas, and snakes.  And almost every snake in Australia is deadly.  So, clearing the scrub would have been a dangerous job.

Furthermore, the vegetation and the landscape in Australia is nothing like that in Europe.  Australia is an ancient continent - unlike the newer continents in the northern hemisphere.  Related to this, the landscape is worn down - with  few mountains or steep hills.  Instead, it consists of vast plains interrupted occasionally by scattered rolling hills.  The land stretches out for hundreds of miles - over distant horizons. 

Even now, there is a feeling of remoteness and isolation out in the bush.  Sometimes, hundreds of miles can be travelled without seeing another human soul - or any signs of European settlement.  Back in the 1800's this would have been even more stark:  Isolation.  Vast plains of yellow grass, and empty skies of azure blue.  Heat, dust, and flies.

The vegetation in the South Australian bush also greatly contrasts with the vegetation in Europe:   Eucalyptus trees (gum trees) dominate the landscape.  There are many varieties and they range in size from majestic and hundreds of feet high, to low shrubs.  Their leaves are olive and relatively scant - hanging vertically from the smooth white limbs of  'Ghost gums', or from the shaggy limbs of the 'Stringy-bark gums,'  or from the great variety of shapes and forms of the many other species. The eucalypts are aromatic trees with a beautiful sweet fragrance.  On warm days the eucalypt oils evaporate and shroud the bush, and the distant hills, in a smog-like mist;  a blue haze.  This is the quintessential Australian image.

Golden wattle trees are also common in the South Australian bush.  They are a tree of medium height (10 − 25 feet) and they transform into a mass of golden yellow blooms from mid winter until early summer.  Their golden colour - and the olive-green of the foliage of most native trees - explains the colours of Australia: green and gold.  The other gold vegetation, in the bush, is the grass (ankle to knee height) which washes the landscape in pale yellow from the end of spring until the next winter; most of the year, in other words.

This is our 'sunburned' country.

So, the colours which Nils would have seen in the bush are:  olive, yellow, green (in the winter alone), and, most dramatically, azure blue.  The endless open sky is the backdrop to everything in Australia:  A deep azure blue.

For me, this is home.  I love the bush. I love South Australia.  But, I can imagine that for my great grandfather, Nils, this must have felt  alien and so very far from Sweden.  I imagine that he would have felt quite homesick.  Australia takes some getting used to: The climate and the bush are harsh and unforgiving - yet, in their own way - they are also lovely.

So,  in the South Australian bush - in the mid-north of the colony - Nils helped the young Irish settlers to build the compulsory 'improvements' that the government was demanding from everyone who took possession of land holdings:  building sheds and a homestead, clearing the land, fencing, digging a well, and so forth.  It was all labour intensive, back-breaking work - made worse by the heat and the flies.

Yet, in spite of this, Nils managed to find the time and energy, at the end of very long days - six days of each week - to acquaint himself with the young Irish sister: Margaret Teate. 

At the time, in the new Australian colonies, men greatly outnumbered women.  Competition for brides was high.  So, if men wanted to find a wife - they needed to be able to convince a woman that they would make a decent and successful husband:  hard working, reliable, mature, kind. Men would then need to stake their claim, fairly quickly, and seal the deal (get married) before any other men came poaching their girlfriend.  

Nils was handsome, hardworking, intelligent and kind.  Yet, he knew that he needed something to put him above any other potential suitors. And, he knew that his family heritage might be the thing to do it.  So, he explained to young Margaret that his family in Sweden were wealthy aristocrats. They owned a large estate with, among other things, a grand hotel and, on at least one occasion, his family had entertained the king and queen of Sweden.
 
Nils explained that he had left this wealthy life mostly because he disliked the increasingly difficult and oppressive 'compulsive military service' which the Swedish government was forcing on all men.  He wanted to be free from that.  The demands of the government, in this regard, had been getting worse and worse over the years:  The compulsory military service would have gone on for years - and he would have had no choice but to serve it - had he stayed.  So he left.  He had decided to build a life for himself in a free country. 
 
Nils told Margaret that he'd simply packed a couple of changes of clothes, including a 'good' suit, and his silver Christening-spoon - which had his name (Nils Peter Norman) engraved on it.  He had brought the spoon, he said, because he thought that it would be useful as a form of identification during his travels.  Other than that, he had decided to leave his life, his family, and his wealth behind - to make his own way in a new country. Leaving all of that would make him equal with the other new settlers working hard.

Margaret liked Nils. She liked him regardless of any wealth he might have back in Sweden.  She knew that he was hard working, kind, responsible (he rarely drank liquor), and intelligent.  He was what she would call a 'decent' man. So, when Nils asked her to be his wife - Margaret agreed.  And, they were soon married  in a simple ceremony.

Around that time, the young couple read about new landholding being surveyed, and then sold - in the east of the colony - on the River Murray (Australia's longest river).  The settlement was called Bow Hill. Nils had managed to save enough money to pay the required deposit for the land.  The rest of the land's cost could be paid off, with a government loan, over a number of years.

Nils and Margaret knew that there would be a lot of work to do.  The government of the colony had strict rules about the necessary improvements which must be made to purchased land within a limited time frame - or the land would be forfeited:  A well must be dug; a homestead built; the land must be cleared and fenced; and so forth.  However, Nils and Margaret welcomed the challenge and the opportunity to establish their own farm.  They were hopeful for a happy life together, and a successful productive farm on which they could raise a family.

                                             *

My grandmother's mother, Margaret Teate, moved from Ireland to the Australian colonies - as a free settler - with her older brother in the late 1880's.  She was in her early 20's, at the time, and she was a hard working, strong and determined woman - ready to meet the challenges which the new colony would require.

Margaret was a plain woman:  She was short and stout with long dark hair which she pulled up into a bun. Her facial features were course, unlike her handsome Swedish husband:  her nose was long with a dorsal hump, her right eye diverged slightly outwards, her lips were thin, and her manner was cool and dominating. 

At the time that she and her brother arrived in Australia, the Irish settlers made up almost one third of the Australian population.  Most were free settlers.  The reasons for emigration from Ireland were similar to those occurring in the rest of Europe: overcrowding, high unemployment, and poverty.  In Ireland there were also issues related to oppression, and religious persecution.

The South Australian colony had been settled in 1836 - only fifty years before Margaret and her brother arrived.  The colony was still in the process of being surveyed and, as it was, the land was sold and distributed to European settlers. 

Margaret and her brother purchased acreage in the mid-north of the colony - and established a farm of their own.  Soon after this, they took on a farm-hand to help with the labor intensive work required.  His name was Nils Peter Norman.



Bow Hill:  Hilda's childhood on the farm: 

I will continue my grandmother's story in the next blog.  A four year drought and a major economic depression - in Australia in the 1890's - would demand dramatic changes for the six colonies, which then constituted Australia - and it would also have devastating effects for Nils and Margaret.


But, for now I will continue with her journal (1948 − 1963):




HILDA'S JOURNAL



Tuesday February 15th   1949

We had such a nice weekend together dear, you had only a little studying to do as it was the end of the first week back at school, so you got with your calendar.  You are right into October now. You have shown me a few leaves of it and they are delightful.  I am looking forward to having it and enjoying a new verse every day. 

I had my hair permed yesterday.  It was getting like a young girls with the waves creeping down my neck.  Now I look more like Queen Alexandra did with close curls at the side and piled up on top.In a month or so I will strike the happy medium but alas!  It grows too fast and I change from Queen Alexandra to the style of a teenager.  I am thinking of giving up perms.  If only it would stay the happy medium - when it looks nice.

We had tea at Balfours and then went to see "Julia Misbehaves," when I met you after school.  You looked so nice in your uniform with your pretty curly cut.  I always feel so proud of you when I meet you in town after school.

Now that I have had a little "talk" with you I will get on with a few jobs.  I feel rested.

More later in the week darling.   xxx



Wednesday  February 16th    1949

My old darling, before I start work I want to "talk" to you.  You went off to school with case, lunch, tennis racket (it's sport's day) complete.

I can hear a child crying next door in old Mrs Ferris - Gloria I think. I fancy Mrs Ferris doesn't spoil them so much of late.

I sat up late last night writing to Jack,  Davies, and Mrs Vincent. I'm glad I got that off my mind. I think the happiest of those three is the Davies family in spite of their troubles. Jack is a dear boy but, I think, restless and moody.

Poor old Mrs Vincent with so many troubles.  But life hurts more when one is so young than when one grows older; also happiness when it comes is more intense to the young. When you get older you realize that some things do not matter as much as you thought they did when you were young.

The grapes are nearly ripe now, some of them quite ripe.  And the almonds are opening too, some of them matured almost.

It is another lovely cool day, a blessed relief from the dreadful hot and muggy weather we had just before Iris and Ray left for Victoria. I'll never forget them going off ; all the belongings! Boxes, cases, string bag (one of the biggest I've seen holding all it knew how to), basket, handbags, dolls, and so on. They overflowed the carriage and the remainder was in the passage. The two little girls were clutching their dolls. Sandra with her doll, two handbags, a basket with jumpers dangling from it and in tears because she didn't have her pusher with her too.

However, they arrived safely with their belongings and had quite a good trip.  I had a letter from Iris, up on her father's farm near Mt Buffalo.  Ray had turned into a farmer's boy, for the time being, milking and so on. Iris helping housekeep while her parents went on a holiday taking sandra in their new Vauxwell (or a make of car with a name something like that).  Sandra certainly gets about.

I expect Iris and Ray will soon be in Melbourne while the little girls grow fat and healthy on their grandparent's farm.

It is a grey day.  I can hear Mrs Ferris talking, and the birds chirping … very quiet too.  I haven't heard wood doves lately.  I wonder where they have gone. They are great thieves and have lots of young ones - but they have a lovely soothing call.

I have been writing this off and on during the morning.  I have a little rest  - now writing.  

You are thinking "How many cups of tea?" 

Only two and a half, darling.

Well, Alan has brought me very nice pickling onions. So, now I will enjoy myself pickling onions and feel quite pleased with myself for being so domesticated. I am wound up with this jam making and pickling.  I don't seem to be able to stop. When I think I have finished, I think of something else that would be nice to make. I have made 31 pounds apricot, 18 pounds plum, 12 pounds raspberry, 6 pounds blackberry jam.  Also, tomato sauce, plum sauce, and chutney.

You stoned all the fruit for the jam, poor love! I can still see you there with piles of fruit in front of you. And all those little Early Violet plums.  That was the worst.  But you wanted to do it all yourself. 

I missed you the day I made apricot chutney.  That was the day you went to Glenelg with Jane.  You came home all sunburnt, darling, with your pretty curly cut all roughened with sea water.       xxx




Thursday 17th February   1949


We had a visitor last night - young Mr Shirley.  We didn't know he was over from Melbourne.  He came to see us before going back tonight. 

I would say he is a thorough gentleman.  While inheriting fine qualities from both parents, he has education and polish as well, which probably his parents never had a chance to acquire. He is modest and unassuming, intelligent and ambitious. I hope he does well in his new job.  If he has reasonably good health, I think he will go far. 

Yes, I like young Mr Shirley very much. It is nice in these days to meet a young person so thoughtful and courteous as he is.  The young people of today are to be admired in many ways, but many of them are lacking in thoughtful courtesy.

My pickling onions are in the course of pickling.  I asked Allan to bring me small ones and My Goodness!  He did. It took me an hour to peel them. Allan is a nice boy but I wish he didn't drink. I think he is easily led.

Your typewriter is behaving better now and you are settling down to school again. 

The lovely cool days follow one after the other.    xxx




Monday 21st February   1949

Lovely cool weather continuing.  We have had rain too, which was badly needed in the country.  At  (illegible) they were so short of water mothers found it hard to keep children clean.

I have been at the jam making again. Mr Shirley  brought over some figs, so I made fig jam.  And Clara sent up some passionfruit, so I bought 4 pounds of pears from Allan today and made pear and passion fruit jam. I have been intending to make the pear and passionfruit jam for about 15 years.  Someone as long ago as that told me how nice it was. It is nice too, and I think it would be lovely for a filling for a sponge cake.

Dorothy has partly made your blue dress, dear.  You were happy over the week and doing the calendar and homework.  Do you remember darling how we laughed about the passionfruit and about my attempt to help you with your book-keeping?

Now I must do some ironing.  You need shorts for something or other.  I have hunted up a pair of khaki ones that Dorothy wore a few times. I'm afraid they won't be big enough.  I must see you have a good pair of anklets for tomorrow too, when you will be doing eurhythmics without shoes on.  You describe the eurhythmics as a very silly thing.  I imagine you all prancing about to music - more or less as you please.  I wish they would teach you dancing properly.  It would be so nice.

Goodbye darling    xxxx



                                   *                                *                                *


That will be enough for this blog.  More in the next - along with stories from my grandmother's childhood in Bow Hill.

a. My grandmother's journal (non-fiction) - Pt 1

                          

I've always felt close to my maternal grandmother - despite the fact that she died when I was only five years old.

My grandmother, Hilda, suffered with multi-infarct dementia during her final years.  And, related to this, I never got to have an actual conversation with her.  Not one that I can recall, anyway. However, I did visit her often - with my mother, and my two siblings - until her death in 1971.

I recall travelling across Adelaide (the capital city of South Australia) - on two separate buses - during the late 1960's, to visit her each week. The hospital ward in which she stayed - blind, paralysed, and bedridden - was part of a single-storey complex set on a large expanse of lawn and surrounded, at the periphery of the grounds, by rows of pine-trees.

As I was so young at the time, my memories about the interior of the building are scant:  Although I do recall a large dimly-lit room; very high ceilings; off-white walls; rows of metal-framed beds with taut white blankets, sheets and pillows; a clock ticking from high up … and an atmosphere of sadness, loss and silence.

My mother, Anne, would sit, during those visits, on a chair beside her mother's bed, and she would talk to my grandmother for about an hour.  I don't recall my grandmother ever replying.  The 'conversations' were more like softly-spoken monologues by my mother. Yet, in such a quiet room hers was the only voice. The only sign of life.

I recall being aware that my mother put a lot of effort into trying to sound cheerful and happy.  Maybe, like me now, she was imagining her mother as she had been - before the strokes - when her mind had been bright and happy and clever.  Maybe, she hoped that her mother could still hear her. Still understand what she was saying. Still exist as her mother, from somewhere deep within the wasted shell of her worn-out body.

Maybe - this is why my mother went to so much trouble to visit my grandmother so regularly - until the inevitable phone-call, that is.

I can still see my mother, in her mid 30's, holding the phone receiver as she stood in the dark hallway of our house. The phone-call was short.  My mother didn't scream, or cry, or even speak much.  Silent tears were the only clue to the  pain she was feeling.  She thanked the caller and then escaped to her bedroom - where she remained for many hours.

However, I think that my mother knew that the worst of the suffering was over:  For both herself and her mother.

And that is my relationship - and my 'experiences' during my life - with my grandmother.  That's all I have.

Yet, in spite of this, I have always felt very close to her. I have always felt like we are kindred spirits. And, for some reason, that I don't understand, I have had the 'feeling' that she is watching over me - since my teens.

Why?

Well, in part I think it's because of the many stories that my mother told me, during my childhood and youth, about my grandmother.  My mother's stories allowed me to see her, hear her, understand her, admire her, and even love her - because I got to know her.  And she was a woman I am proud to call my grandmother.

Stories … words … can do that.  Words are powerful.  And, my mother was a very good story-teller.  Her words were colourful and vivid.  Her stories, about the family of her childhood - all dead and gone during my own life - were filled with love and life. 

I also got to know my grandmother from her own words.  Her journal. A journal which she wrote, in secret over many years,  to one day give to my mother as a gift. But the gift was also to me, her grand-daughter. Without her journal, I would have never heard her voice.  I would have heard my mother tell me 'roughly' what she said.  But, in her journal, I can hear her voice.  I can feel her soul and I can know her more intimately.  Before the strokes took her voice and her mind away.

My mother gave me the journal, to read, decades ago - when I was about eighteen.  I loved it.

I then lost the journal, for many years, forgetting that I even had it in my possession. By chance I found it again, while cleaning out a cupboard, about a decade ago, and returned it to my mother. However, I first made another copy of it for myself and my children to read. I wanted to keep a copy of my grandmother's words.  I wanted to be able to hear her voice again - some time in the future. Her words were like a window to her soul.

I then lost the journal, and forgot about it, until a few weeks ago - when it resurface during a house move. This time,  I gave it to my own 18 year old daughter to read.  She loved it,like I had at her age.

My grandmother's journal is from a different era in Australia.  A simpler era - from 1948 − 1963. And, because I think that my grandmother speaks for women at that time - and because she was such a kind and intelligent and loving woman - I thought it might be a nice thing to share on my blog site.  Along with some stories about her (told to me by my mother) with each journal entry.

So, here it is.

I'll tell a story or two, and give a journal entry or three, with each blog.

I find, practicing Medicine, that every single person has an interesting story to tell: A story about love, tragedy, struggles, loss, happiness … and the accumulation of wisdom.

This is my grandmother's story: 



My grandmother's journal - written to her daughter (my mother) Anne:  1948 − 1963.

I've written enough for this first blog entry, in this series, so I'll get straight into my grandmother's first few journal entries - without further ado.  Although, I will firstly list a few basic details about my grandmother - to help set the scene:

My grandmother, Hilda Norman, was born in 1896 in the rural South Australia town, Bow Hill.

She had a twin brother, Walter (country policeman), and an older sister, Hannah (teacher).  Her mother was Irish ( Margaret Teate), and her father was Swedish (Nils Peter Norman).  Both of her parents migrated to Australia during their early 20's, leaving their parents and families behind in Europe.  They had hoped to find a better life in Australia.



HILDA'S  JOURNAL


November 23rd   1948

Darling -

That line stands for our favourite name for you. I thought of writing "my darling daughter" (which you are) but, being at heart a very sentimental person I (sometimes) try to hide the fact.

I want to fill all these pages and give the book to you for a surprise sometime.

How did I come to think of doing this? I thought of it about fifteen minutes ago when I was down by the fowl house.  I looked at the chicks, the hens, and the new laid eggs in a box in the corner, simple things, but they gave me suddenly a feeling of pleasure and satisfaction. The simple things like that and all nature, all growing things seem so right and good.

I wanted to talk to you about it, perhaps I will. One wants to share one's thoughts with those we love, and one's pleasures and happiness too.

I would like to write more now but you will be home from school soon and I have some work to do.  Goodbye.

(Do you ever think what a beautiful word that is? It means "God be with you".

Goodbye then until I write again -

Tomorrow I hope, darling little old teenager       xxx and my love.



February 9th   1949

I didn't think it would be so long before I wrote again dear, but it has been school holidays and I had this  hidden away.  Since I last wrote we have had a happy time together at home. We didn't go out much.  A few weeks ago you started making a calendar to give me for my birthday, finding a verse or two or a few lines for each day and a little picture for each day too.

You showed me a few verses and pictures and they were lovely. When I have the calendar it will give me fresh pleasure each day. You have been so busy and happy doing it dear.  That has pleased me very much.

Before the holidays there was Speech Night. I was there. You looked so nice in a pretty new white silk dress and you wore your first pair of stockings. (silk)

I felt so proud of you as you went up to receive your prize (a book) for coming second in your class and first in English. You got five credits too in your examination.

You looked very nice, dear, going off to school yesterday with your uniform, especially nice for the first day back at school and your hair in a new style, a very pretty curly cut you had done in the holidays.

Well, I must leave this now and do some more work.  Allan has just brought me blackberries for jam

- More soon.

Goodbye darling little old teenager.




11th February 1949   Friday


A lovely cool day yesterday. I went into town, the shops were close because, through power restrictions, no fans were going. We are having a lovely cool February so far.

Last month was very hot, muggy too. I felt the weather a lot and thought wistfully of winter's cool fresh air and cosy fires.

You met me after school, dear, and we had a nice time together looking around shops and having chocolate ices and cool drinks.

I will have you home from school the next two days and you will be glad of the rest from school. This cool change has tired you, and fixing up about new books and getting used to Miss Balch has been trying too, as well as a new make of typewriter that won't work properly for you.  Next week you will be more settled at school.

Now I must get to work and start my blackberry jam (it is lovely).

I can hear Pop Eye cutting his fancy pines at the back.

It is nice to sit down and write like this like talking to you. Now I can go along cheerfully with the work of the day.

Goodbye darling until next week.  xxx





I'll continue the journal and my mother's stories of my grandmother, Hilda - in the next few blogs in this series.

I find the pace of life so different to today.  Simpler.