When I was around eight years old, we moved out of my grandparents’ house to a little half-house in East Brunswick. We might as well have moved to another country.
Let me describe the house. It was at the back of a Spotless Dry-Cleaning agency, which was itself quite small, and looked nothing like the beautiful Gelobar that exists in that spot today. That shop had its entrance on Lygon Street, and when you walked around the back of it there was a “front door” to our house that opened up right onto St Phillip Street. When you walked through that door, you found yourself in a tiny front entrance which had a little telephone table in the front left corner and an old large brown radiogram in the far right corner. I distinctly remember waking up on Saturday the 23rd November 1963 to see my father pacing anxiously around that room listening to that radio and holding a newspaper. When I asked him what was the matter, he said “They’ve killed President Kennedy and I’ve failed Advanced Accounting B”. At the time, I wasn’t really sure which was worse.
So, on with the grand tour. On the left was my parents’ bedroom, which also housed my sister’s small bed; on the right was my tiny bedroom, which basically could fit my bed and a chair; and straight ahead was the lounge/dining room which again fitted a little table and a little couch. The kitchen was also tiny, and then……. as far as the “house” was concerned….. THAT. WAS. IT.
There was a small concrete back yard, and off that yard was an outside bathroom, an outside laundry (which used to be called a “washroom”), and an outhouse – an outside toilet. Let me tell you….. Winter was a bitch!!
There was a small concrete back yard, and off that yard was an outside bathroom, an outside laundry (which used to be called a “washroom”), and an outhouse – an outside toilet. Let me tell you….. Winter was a bitch!!
Here is a photo taken in 1963 of me and my sister outside the back door. You can see the kitchen window in the background (right behind the broom), and the outside bathroom and washroom are on the right.
But wait, there actually was more. At the back of the yard, there was a “factory” containing the six large, industrial strength knitting machines that my father slaved away on, trying to make a living, pretty much for the purposes of paying off the machines – or so it seemed.
My sister Freda and me
This is a photo taken in 1963 of me and my sister outside the back door. You can see the kitchen window in the background (right behind the broom), and the outside bathroom and washroom are on the right.
My sister Freda and me
But wait, there actually was more. At the back of the yard, there was a “factory” containing the six large, industrial strength knitting machines that my father slaved away on, trying to make a living, pretty much for the purposes of paying off the machines – or so it seemed.
My mother also worked in there, either helping him on those large beasts or working on her little overlocker. And after school, we’d often go in to the factory too, and assist with removing the next length of knitted yarn.
But there were three really exciting bits to the whole place.
The first was St Phillip Street itself. It was just wide enough for two narrow cars to pass each other plus some parked cars – in parts. You see the street changed its width every hundred metres or so. But it was also wide enough for football and cricket matches. Now let me tell you, parked cars (with big side mirrors) and football and cricket matches (played by mostly inaccurate kickers, bowlers, and batters) don’t really mix. So on the one hand, it was almost impossible to play a ball game and not break someone’s mirror. But on the other hand, you had plenty of places in which to hide when you did it. The street really was the coal face of the melting pot – to mix metaphors. And it was here that I met and made friends with my second lot of non-family friends. Life was a blast.
The second was the table-tennis table that my parents got a carpenter to make for us. It was made of the wrong wood, it was painted the wrong (ugly light green) colour, and it had not been made to be sitting outside in the Melbourne winter elements, so after a while, the wood had started curling up at the corners. This really gave me a “home ground advantage” when playing against other kids – I’d aim my shots at the curly bits, much like a spin bowler aims at the rough on a cricket pitch. They never knew what hit them. Balls would bounce off at right angles or simply stop dead. I didn’t lose too many games.
Freda
That’s my sister standing on the table tennis table (when it was still new). You can just make out the cricket stumps painted on the factory wall, right underneath the crudely drawn CFC monogram of the Carlton Football Club. You can also see the dilapidated fence and the large St. Phillip Street factories peering out over it into our yard.
And the third great bit was that over the back side fence, just near our toilet, was the back of the Italian espresso bar whose front was next door to the dry cleaners on Lygon Street. When you walked in to that place through the front door, you were greeted by several unique sensory experiences.
First, an overwhelming aroma of strong espresso coffee (way before coffee bars were so plentiful in Melbourne), then the sight of the beautiful rich Italian pastries, the sound of men playing a strange card game in which it seemed that the intent was to throw down your picture card with the biggest flourish and the loudest “thwack”, and last but certainly not least, the promise of a small lemon and chocolate gelato cone.
But when you got up on the roof of the little cubby house near our outhouse and looked over the back fence, you could see the old paisanos playing bocce – a quaint old Italian game that resembles lawn bowls but without the hats and not quite as gentrified. I used to sit there for hours watching them casually playing, smoking strong-smelling cigarettes, arguing and swearing in Italian. My parents weren’t too happy about me hanging around the back fence, although I’m sure they thought it was infinitely better than me being at the front, or heaven forbid, inside the cafe. I think they had visions of me being swept up in a strange and dangerous subculture a la Calogero in A Bronx Tale.
And indeed, as my sister reminded me recently, very soon after that, my parents got us our first television set. We couldn’t really afford it at that time, but my sister and I didn’t think about those kinds of things back then – we were just glad to have our own TV!!
When I went there a few months ago to see what the little shop and house and the corner looked like – WOW, what a shock!! The Spotless Dry-Cleaners is gone (along with our house), replaced by a “Gelateria”, a big gelato shop serving up around 35 flavours. And the Foodland grocery store, the Italian espresso bars, fruit shop, delicatessen, and barber – all gone! All replaced by cool little bars, coffee shops, and restaurants of every possible cuisine (Thai, Lebanese, Spanish, Vietnamese…… perhaps even some Italian). And all of them with al fresco options – tables and chairs out on the street.
St. Phillip Street now
It was so unfamiliar, and even sad in a way. The loss of an old world. On the other hand, the community spirit was still just as evident – hundreds of people sitting around eating, drinking, talking, and laughing. If I would’ve looked harder, I may have even seen some kids playing in the street trying to avoid hitting car mirrors.
Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
15 Responses
Really enjoy your writing Moshe. It brings back so many memories. As your mum said hard times but happy times.
Thanks Val. I remember those birthday “parties”. Me and my sister plus all my parents’ friends. And we’d go to bed early. It was probably the same for your birthday too. :):)
Very evocative Moshe. Really enjoying your writings.
Thanks Mich. Enjoy writing them. Hey, maybe we could do some write & illustrate stuff together…..
It’s brining tears to my eyes. They were great times.the excitement of having a TV ,WOW
I know. Everything was exciting – a new TV, a threepenny gelati cone, a one shilling jigsaw puzzle as a birthday present…..
Moshe, It’s beautifully written,
These were atrocious living conditions but wonderful and happy times!!
I read it at about 2am and got a bit emotional!!
Mum
Don’t get too emotional. But yes, it can have that effect. more coming….
Beautifully written. You forgot to mention that during your lunchtime breaks you used to come from school and Mum and I often used to take a break from the knitting machines and engage you in table tennis games.
Otherwise your memory is phenomenal.
Dad
Hehe. Yes I did forget. But now that you mention it, I think I won most of those games….
and that’s why you forgot…
You brought back a lot of memories of my earliest days in Oz, BUT was your house really so small? Somehow it was big enough to fit and make welcome an extra two kids every day.after school.
Yes it was small, but I DO remember lots of people there and it was certainly a happy house.
Love it. So I think the final straw re the TV was that mum found me inside the espresso bar after school watching their TV.
Another event that came into my mind when reading the part about playing in the backyard was that someone once threw a bottle over the fence and it hit one of our friends. I Think it might have been Hersh but I’m not sure.
Oh and the mad dash from the washroom into the house brrrrr.
Hehe. Yes I’d forgotten that. I was playing table tennis with Hersh, and a car sped past on St Phillip Street and someone threw an empty large Melbourne Bitter bottle straight over our fence and hit Hersh on the back.
Lucky it missed his head…..