Tamworth pensioner Dallas Briggs keeps hearing how tough life is for others – so he just needed to have his say.
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It’s time to re-aquaint all those whingers out there with the true meaning of the word “tough”.
To do this, come back with me to early 1945 as a young mother brings home her first born, a son.
This home on the outskirts of a country town was condemned as unfit for habitation. There was no electricity, a single cold water tap with a kitchen that was little more than a lean-to at the back.
A dirt floor, hard as concrete from constant sweeping and this kitchen also doubled as a bathroom.
Mum would fill the galv tub with hot water heated on the wood stove nearby.
Dad made a small wooden pallet to step onto so as not to overly wet the floor.
The laundry was an old copper tub propped up on bricks. Mum would light a fire under it to boil the clothes – any stains which survived the boiling were removed with a bar of Sunlight soap and a lot of elbow grease on a washboard.
The one thing you could not avoid was the toilet, though back then it was referred to as a lavatory.
Built by dad and light enough for he and mum to move around as the hole filled up, it produced many challenges.
For the sake of modesty the door comprised a wheat bag slit down both sides, nailed across the top of the opening and along the bottom a piece of timber to control it’s movements on a windy day, though you still had to sit there holding a stick against the bottom of it to stop any collateral damage to shins.
On a stinking hot day the air inside was so thick that even the flies refused to go near it.
It was mandatory prior to sitting that you light a rolled up newspaper and wave it around under the seat to despatch any redback spiders who obviously had no sense of smell.
After use you had to pour a little liquid phenyl into the hole to supposedly reduce the smell. It didn’t work, but it was very flammable and one day my mother accidently dropped the still burning newspaper into the hole. Course the whole structure went up in flames.
The next one dad built was luxurious ... it had a door that you didn’t have to hold shut with a stick. It had an incredible locking system ... eight-gauge fencing wire that hooked over a nail.
It’s amazing what a country bloke can do with a handful of nails and a few old fence palings.
Hang on! Haven’t hit tough yet, so far life was a bed of roses.
Because most of dad’s wage came home in a bottle, the table menu was limited. Offal was all mum could mostly afford but what she could do with it would shame these so called MasterChef’s.
On occassion dad would bring home ’roo after a days shooting on his friend’s farm.
No fridge of course, so mum would hang it out the back and cover it with a wet wheat bag. It would last several days and she would just cut away any that was fly-blown and retrieve the meat beneath.
Christmas was the one day of the year we looked forward to.
The tree comprised a small branch off a gum tree, secured in a bucket of sand and mum decorated it with strips of crepe paper.
Underneath sat two presents handmade by mum, but we were over the moon.
No birthday party’s, no money, nor did we attend friends’ parties for the same reason.
I was 40 before I had a party – a surprise from my wonderful wife. That night has never been topped.
I suspect room is short so I won’t go into the nightmare of primary school, that’s a whole new story on it’s own.
With the arrival of our first child, and indeed the following two, mornings would find my wife washing piles of cloth nappies, no complaining.
A child in a pram and two in tow when grocery shopping, struggling home with the addition of several brown paper bags (no car) – no complaining.
Ran a loving and comfortable home on my meagre wage – no complaining.
So, the next time you turn off your satellite TV, grab your $30 packet of smokes, kick your way through a pile of empty beer cans at the back door, slip into your 4x4 and hare it down to the Salvation Army and demand they pay your power bill because “times are tough”, reflect a life in my shoes.
That’s tough!