ROAMING FREE AS THE BREEZE
- catepatterson9
- 15 hours ago
- 30 min read
by Gordon Plowman 2025
Flaxton
When I was very young, the place I called home was my Garden of Eden. I belonged to it and it belonged to me. Now I am old, the glorious memories of childhood remain as fresh as though it were yesterday.
The towns of Maleny, Montville and Mapleton and the farming districts in between nestle
right on top of the Blackall range which rises abruptly 258 metre up from the coastal
plains. My Eden, Flaxton, was the farming and sawmilling district between the towns of Montville and Mapleton. From Flaxton’s eastern escarpment the views of farms and tiny towns dotted across the coastal plains below are exceeded in grandeur only by the distant scene of white-capped waves of the Coral Sea crashing onto sandy beaches extending from Noosa in the north to Caloundra in the south where a streak of water shining silver separates Bribie Island from the mainland. Tiny islands rise from the sea like the arched back of some sea monster. On steep slopes bananas grow, their sail like fronds waving in the breeze. Elsewhere dairy cattle graze contentedly on grass-capped hills. From up here, even on the hottest summer’s day, a sea breeze blows in your face.
From Montville to Mapleton, a strip of red road runs along the edge of the range and on either side pineapple plantations and orange orchards flourish. When the shiny green of orange trees flush white with orange blossoms, the air is filled with its heavenly scent billowing in the breeze.
The Flaxton Provisional State School once stood for 45 years upon an acre of land beside this same road. This one-roomed, one-teacher school was where I began primary school and my sister and two brothers before me. Built by the residents of Flaxton in 1923, it became the hub of the Flaxton community, the glue which held us all together through good times and bad. Children attended Sunday school; the Red Cross and the Country Women’s Association met here; fetes and dances, tennis tournaments, and even church services happened here. Soldiers going off to war were farewelled and welcomed back home from this plain little building we all came to love.
In the evening, looking seaward, a silver moon rises over Bribie Island. One by one the lights come out in tiny towns and farm houses far below. The powerful light from the Caloundra light-house pierces the darkness at precisely timed intervals. Electricity has not yet come to Flaxton and there is little ambient light. Above our heads we gaze in wonder at the starry sky and revel in the sight of the magnificent Milky Way.
In complete contrast to the open farmland and views to the ocean, our house is situated on the western side of the range amongst a wondrous forest. Here, the rock-strewn slopes sweep down into the Obi Valley. In places, thickly timbered ridges of tallowwood, grey gum, pine and crows’ ash rise up in a sheer wall and their canopies shut out the sun. Waters of half a dozen mountain streams, their waters as cold as if they had come from melting snow, trickle down to fill the rock pools on their descent. Birds and creatures of the bush come here to drink and azure blue kingfishers dive upon them to catch a meal. In the mornings, from the sea of mist, the crisp notes of whip birds echo up the valley. The call of the thrush and the yodelling magpie fill the forest with music. After dark, dingoes howl and curlews scream their blood-curdling calls into the otherwise silent night.
From a ridge beyond our house, we can see through a break in the trees, the Obi Obi Creek winding through the forest and descending via cascade after cascade as it flows toward its confluence with the Mary River.
This is how we came to live in this magnificent forest:
My father owned and ran a dairy farm in Flaxton and in 1934, he acquired a fairly isolated but heavily timbered block of land adjacent the Flaxton State Forest. He and his friend, Horrie Hingston, decided to harvest some of the timber from the block and so they set about building a case mill on the site. Farm produce including citrus, pineapples and bananas were packed in wooden cases for despatch to the various markets and sawn timber to make the cases was in demand. Dad built a cottage near the case mill to house the family; I was not yet born.
The case mill remained productive for two years when, with different partners, the decision was made to build a larger steam-driven hardwood sawmill. The Department of Forestry gave the Flaxton hardwood mill the rights to harvest logs from the State Forest providing they paid an agreed royalty fee. This partnership worked the sawmill until 1938 when Hamilton Sawmills, a company owned by the well-known engineering contractor, M.R. Hornibrook, made an offer of purchase which they accepted. Hamilton Sawmills already owned sawmills at Mapleton and at Conondale near Maleny. Dad stayed on as manager and general factotum.
The house to which I was born, situated not more than 30 metres from the sawmill and where I spent the first few years of life, we called the Gingerbread House because the weatherboard exterior had turned gingerbread brown with age. Also, it settled in amongst the forest trees surrounded with scrubby undergrowth and Its location was sufficient to give credence to the tale of the gingerbread house of Hansel and Gretel fame. I have only slight memories of living here except that it was situated a short walk from the Flaxton sawmill in one direction and a gently flowing stream in the other. But sometimes from the vastness of thought and mind, glimpses of childhood float into consciousness with echoes of dreamland to bear them along. Through thoughts and feelings and recollections of times long past you live once more in the realms of your childhood. Many a day blurs into the next but through the faint manifestations of time come memories so dear, so precious, so indelibly etched in the sub-conscious mind, they can never be erased.
My earliest recollection remains as strong today as it was when I was no more than three years old. It has little significance to others but I express it here to show how a vivid memory from childhood can endure for a lifetime.
I remember sitting on a brick path dampened by morning dew and gazing at yellow flowers beside the way. My mother was hanging the washing on the clothes line when she said, “Those flowers are called ladies’ slippers.” I distinctly remember the ‘powder-puff,’ shape of those yellow flowers which, years later, I realised were calceolarias.
One other slight but enduring memory was of my father teaching me to dog-paddle across the open-topped tank at the sawmill. I was completely oblivious to the two metres depth of water below me.
With money from the sale of the sawmill, my parents bought a mixed farm situated half a kilometre from the sawmill. These were really subsistence farms where farm produce provided much of the food for the family and the meagre income paid the bills with, hopefully, a little money left over. Dad stayed on as sawmill manager and with the help of my two older brothers, David and Harold, ran the farm as well.
The land included two blocks, one cleared and grassed which supported about 20 dairy cows, a small piggery and about eight hectares of arable ground. The other block, called the bush block, extended over some steep and rocky country where several varieties of useful hardwood trees flourished including the giant blackbutt tree shown below. This was Dad’s favourite tree and it remained untouched during his ownership of the bush block.
The almost pristine bush block extended through forest and scrub and over steep and rocky terrain to its southern boundary just below the magnificent Bon Accord water falls, now renamed Kondalilla Falls. Along the way, scrub country crosses the walking route. It is so dense that the tree canopies almost entirely exclude the sunlight. Shadows form like dark curtains. The imagination runs wild and this dark but beautiful place takes on an air of the medieval and Gothic, surrounded by the folk-lore legends of times past. It is hard going dodging thick undergrowth, avoiding prickly lawyer cane, and clambering over slippery moss-covered rocks but the tough trek is worth every bit of effort.
Emerging from the scrub, sunshine and light illuminate a completely different scene and the hissing sound of falling water is heard in the distance. The crystal-clear waters of Skene Creek ripples past before disappearing into a magnificent piccabeen forest where long tresses of red ripened seeds attract the birds of the air. Colourful Richmond Bird Wing butterflies hover over the stream. Trees nearby are home to the Paradise Rifle Bird but they hide way up in the highest branches and are seldom seen. Overhead, currawongs and cockatoos’ call.
Upstream, the waters of Bon Accord Falls tumble 30 metres over the black rock cliff- face to splash and crash into the rock pool below. Looking upwards from the foot of the falls, rushing waters break into shimmering cascades and the airborne spray sparkles with a myriad of miniature rainbows.
With the music of falling water pulsing loud, a clear blue sky above and a magical mountain stream gently flowing through forest and field, here is a place of eternal beauty.
By contrast with the bush block, the farm block was mostly cleared land where animals and agriculture dominated the no less interesting scene.
The Farm House and Farm
Our farm house, a typical Queenslander, sat up on wooden stumps with blue buddleia bushes either side of the front steps and a sweet-scented honeysuckle vine clinging to the wooden lattice to welcome visitors. Inside, the design was much like most houses of that period with kitchen, dining and lounge rooms, bedrooms and verandah. I especially disliked the bathroom. It had a pressed metal bath tub with a join in the middle. If you inadvertently slid your bare bottom over the join, the sensation was decidedly uncomfortable. Also, since we did not have electricity, we had a chip heater to warm the bath water. Paper and small kindling went into a drawer at the bottom and set alight. If all went well, a steady dribble of hot water eventually drained through a spout into the tub. Nine times out of ten the fire failed to take and the bathroom filled with smoke. After the third failure, all hope of a warm bath had to be abandoned.
The heart of the house was the kitchen which housed the wood-fired stove, a pine table and chairs, a kitchen dresser and the all-important, kerosene refrigerator. All our table lamps, portable hurricane lanterns, refrigerator, and primus stove were fuelled with kerosene. Every morning, one of Mum’s many jobs was to refuel lamps and refrigerator with kerosene pumped by hand from the four-gallon tin just outside the kitchen door.
Every non-electric house relied on kerosene. The farm and workshop also needed kerosine which came in 4-gallon square faced tins with a screw-cap at the top. These tins proved so useful as buckets, containers, feed troughs and even as storage drawers, they were seldom trashed. When flattened out, they could be used as building material.
In addition to our house, a large shed built from rough-hewn wooden slabs served as a workshop, garage and packing room. Two hundred metres further away a set of cattle-yards, a roofed set of two cow bails, a storage area for cattle and pig feed and a milk separator room could be seen from the house. Cows were milked by hand every morning and evening. Larger dairies used milking machines but we did not have enough cows to justify this need.
These were the years before refrigerated milk tankers when the dairy factories only took cream which had been separated from the skim milk, the latter making excellent pig feed. Our separator, really a centrifuge, when turned by a hand crank, produced cream from one spout and skim milk from the other. The cream went into a special cream can with a tight-fitting lid and the name of the dairy farmer attached. A carrier called every second day to take the cream to the dairy factory. Each time the separator was used, it had to be dismantled and the discs cleaned and scalded. Mum added this vital task to her very busy daily round.
The farm came with a draught horse, harness, a single furrow plough, a set of harrows, a corn planter, chaff cutter and corn cracker, the last two items used for processing food for the horse. Dad used the horse and plough, mainly to cultivate enough ground to grow pumpkins, corn and potatoes for our own use. Then, when my older brother, Harold, bought a Cleveland Cletrac crawler tractor and a stump-jump plough, he was able to plough about four hectares of ground and the family decided to grow ginger. Until then, Buderim and the coastal plains around Nambour constituted the main growing areas. As far as we know, we were the first to farm ginger on the Blackall Range.
Our whole family enjoyed the labour-intensive process of growing, harvesting and packing the ginger crop. After planting the seed rhizomes, we waited with an air of expectation and excitement as row upon row of ginger shoots appeared above ground. When mature, green-leafed stems burst into a host of purplish blooms which bobbed and danced with every breeze that blew. At harvest, the fresh, invigorating smell of ginger is everywhere; it is like a good panacea.
Harvested ginger rhizomes are cleaned, graded and packed into hessian bags then loaded into Dad’s old Hudson Super Six utility and transported to the ginger factory, then situated atop Buderim Mountain. The heavily loaded Hudson often struggled to negotiate the steep dirt road up Buderim Mountain so, in addition to the driver, a chock man also went along. If the Hudson conked out on the hill, the chock man jumped out and jammed a wooden chock against the back wheel to prevent the vehicle from hurtling backwards down the slope. Then another attempt was made to climb the steep incline. My brothers became quite skilled at this.
Memories weave a tapestry of joy and among my recollections are the cold winter evenings at dinner time in the farmhouse kitchen. Winter winds eddy and swirl and set the tree-tops dancing, then, moaning in their discontent, rattle at the kitchen windows and blow full force against tightly shut doors. All the while the kitchen stove burns brightly and wood smoke rises through the chimney to be blown into a haze of oblivion as it exits into the cold night air. The sound of the billowing wind sends shivers along the spine but we are safe and warm in the kitchen.
After Dinner Stories by the Stove
My parents, my brothers if they were home, and any guests, sat around the scrubbed pine kitchen table sharing conversation. Those faces at the table blushed pale yellow in the flickering flame of the kerosene lamp. After the meal and with the washing-up done, the stories began to flow. I took up my usual position beside the kitchen stove to enjoy its radiated warmth and to listen and learn and be absorbed by acute curiosity. Mysterious happenings, whether true or false, became a recurring theme during those many conversations.
On those winter evenings as I stood beside the stove, I first heard about the mysterious dew ponds of England, thought to be replenished by the morning dew. Dad, who served in Belgium during World War One, told of the story of the Angels of Mons, a vision which allegedly appeared to allied troops after a disastrous battle in 1914. This was revealed years later to have been a propaganda exercise designed to lift the flagging morale of Allied troops and the folks back home. Remarkably, some people still believed the myth nearly 30 years after the alleged event. The then unexplained Min Min lights of the channel country brought about much conjecture and everyone it seemed, had a theory to explain their existence. One fellow was totally convinced the lights were actually luminous owls and he would hear nothing to the contrary. Another of their fascinating stories concerned the schooner, “Zebrina,” which was found in perfect condition adrift off the coast of France in 1917, but with all her five-crew missing. As usual, the little gathering expounded their theories.
One night, the conversation took a different turn. The Australian hospital ship, “AHS Centaur” had been torpedoed and sunk by a Japanese submarine in 1943, in contravention of the Hague Convention. Of the 332 on board, 268 perished which included doctors, nurses, patients and crew. The unwarranted and illegal act by the Japanese stirred great resentment throughout Australia. Even in the darkest days, hope springs eternal and all Australians were heartened by the heroic action of Sister Ellen Savage who earned the George medal for her devotion to duty. As one of the survivors she ignored her own injuries to treat and comfort others and raise the morale of all those adrift on the open sea awaiting rescue.
As the evenings progressed, I was packed off to bed. Mother never let us bunk down between cold sheets. She had collected a number of flat river stones which she heated in the oven then wrapped in an old towel and slipped it between the sheets. I well remember the luxury of climbing into a warm bed on cold nights, thanks to mum’s ingenuity.
The War Years
The first years of my life coincided with the first years of World War Two and although we lived in a reasonably remote place, the signs of war remained constantly with us. Every day our usual quiet day was interrupted by low-flying training aircraft flying over our house. Mother, in comforting tones used to say, “Look, the pilot’s waving at you,” and it felt too good not to believe it.
About seven kilometres away, soldiers encamped at Mapleton often came our way during their training exercises. Bren gun carriers sometimes came rattling along our road and one of the drivers gave me a ride. We probably only went a kilometre or less, and although I was very young, I still vividly remember that ride.
Just on dusk, the whole family occasionally walked to a high point and here we could watch the search lights scan the skies for enemy aircraft. Searchlight batteries were located at Brisbane and on Bribie Island. A fully armed fort including six-inch guns located on Bribie Island also included an anti-submarine loop. Although it is hard to understand today, armoured vehicles once clanked along the streets of Caloundra and Maroochydore. Beaches were closed to enable gunnery practice; others were protected from seaborne invasion with barbed wire.
American troops under the command of General MacArthur arrived in Brisbane and, for a time, their numbers doubled the civilian population of the city. With all these extra mouths to feed the farmers of the Blackall Range prospered. After the war when the Americans went home, the farmers suffered a corresponding downturn.
During the war years, food, clothing and petrol rationing affected everyone. Food rationing was not as severe as in other countries and no Australian went hungry because of it. A lot of us wore hand-me-downs and most of us had patched up pants and shirts. Petrol rationing caused hardship and many vehicle owners put their vehicle up on blocks and did not use them until rationing ended. Those whose jobs or businesses had to keep vehicles on the road, had no alternative other than to fit a device called a gas producer. These devices were inefficient, often troublesome and required frequent maintenance. The vehicle performance also suffered but there were no other ways to fuel the engine. They burnt charcoal which produced explosive and poisonous gases of carbon monoxide and small amounts of hydrogen to fuel the engine.
Charcoal was difficult to obtain so Dad, with the help of gunpowder, excavated a large pit near the sawmill in which he burned waste wood into charcoal. His friend, who had a carrying business, remained forever thankful to dad for his foresight.
Wartime restrictions required all glass windows to be blacked out to confuse enemy aircraft flying at night. Mother cut squares of wallpaper and stuck them to all our window panes. I do not recall her doing this but I do remember when the restriction was lifted and she scraped every last remnant of the coverings from every window pane. Daylight poured in once again and we all felt this could be the beginning of a new and prosperous era.
I recall only one dark blot in my chest of memories. Mother sang her way through life. Whether milking cows or baking a rice pudding, she sang and, when times were uncertain, as they frequently were for the duration of the Second World War, she sang the troubles away. But one day, her voice fell silent. It happened like this:
Mum’s little Sydney Silky dog, beloved by the whole family, went missing. We had not seen any dingoes but we did hear their mournful cries at night. We think he may have escaped our yard at night and gone to investigate. Dingoes would have killed him. Mum and I walked through Flaxton forest for hours, calling, “Taffy, Taffy, Taffy,” but he never came. A pall of grief hung over our abode and Mother sang no more. Then, a few days later, mother was down on hands and knees polishing the lino when, joy of joys, she once again burst into song, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, lift up you hearts and sing…” and the sunshine returned.
I spent most of my waking life outdoors where farm, forest and sawmill offered endless possibilities to explore. Sometimes in the early morning I went with my father to fire up the boiler and get the sawmill ready for the workers when they arrived for a six o’clock start.
Working the Mill
One winter morning when mist shrouded the Flaxton forest and the chill wind set us shivering, we walked to the sawmill to get it ready for the day’s work ahead. When we reached the engine room, the smell of hot boiler metal, grease, oil and tallow assaulted our nostrils. Still shivering with cold, Dad swung the boiler fire-box door open. A bed of hot coals glowed red inside and a blast of hot air encased us in a sea of welcome warmth. He added a fresh charge of wood which soon caught on fire. He slammed the fire-door shut and paused for a while to watch the steam pressure begin to rise.
With long spouted oil can in one hand and a tin of grease in the other, he set about lubricating the engine, shaft bearings, pumps and winches. Next up, the smelly tin of tallow kept near the boiler. With a wad of rag tied to a stick, he sloshed tallow over the top surface of the skids. Skids are a series of parallel beams over which heavy wooden flitches are able to slide easily from the breaking-down saw to the number one bench saw.
Once the boiler steam reaches operating pressure, the engine can be started. Ever so slowly the engine begins its reciprocating motion. The heavy flywheel begins to rotate. The hiss of exhausting steam plays a rhythmic tune as the engine gradually accelerates up to full speed. The cross-head also gathers speed and flies back and forth like a weaver’s shuttle while the flywheel spins around in a blur of motion. With the pull of a lever, the drive belt sets all the mill machinery in motion. Dad lets me tug on a rusty chain and the melancholy note from the steam whistle echoes through the forest to sound the start of the working day.
The sawmill and its surroundings had other attractions. Running up and down and tobogganing on sheets of flattened-out corrugated iron on the giant sawdust heaps provided hours of fun. And, I had a genuine tree house, not one of those situated high up in the branches but at ground level. Not far from the mill grew a big blackbutt tree. An opening which resembled the high arched door openings of a Gothic cathedral, gave access to the tree’s hollow butt. The room inside provided shelter from rain and wind and it became my cubby-house, courtesy of mother nature.
Flaxton Forest
Dotted around various locations at Flaxton, large patches of scrub provided ideal feeding grounds for a variety of wild pigeons. When fruits or berries were in season, we watched huge flocks of these migrating birds fly in. Over the years, these scrubs have been cleared and large flocks of pigeons are seen no more.
Pigeon shooting on private lands was permitted at the time and my brother, David, bought a .22 calibre rifle for that purpose. I occasionally went with him on a shoot but when I saw these colourful birds dead, plucked and cleaned ready for the stew pot, I became disinterested. David did teach me about rifle safety and let me shoot at targets. He also took me fishing in the Obi Obi Creek where the goal was always to try to catch a Mary River cod. Some huge cod fish were caught in the bigger water holes but we usually had to be content with a feed of jewfish.
In springtime I walked through the Flaxton forest with my mother looking for terrestrial orchids. These only grew in certain places and were usually difficult to find amongst the long grasses and undergrowth. Our searches were rewarded when we discovered Christmas orchids, butterfly orchids, pink fingers and hyacinth orchids springing from the ground in all their glory. Pink fingers are tiny but what they lack in stature, they make up for in pink beauty.
Our walks were never concentrated entirely on finding ground orchids. Beautiful golden dendrobiums bobbed their blooming heads as they clung to rocky ridges and cliff tops. Masses of white orchid flowers decorated some of the forest trees while the smaller epiphytic pencil orchids beamed bright from their hoop pine hosts. Another terrestrial orchid, the great climbing orchid, climbs like a vine and can cling to a tree for up to fifteen metres. We were never able to see one in full bloom.
We always kept a close look-out for crow’s ash trees. The hard prickly seed pods opened into a five-pointed star shape. We gathered these so that mum could paint them, add wire stems and use them as faux flower decorations.
Fruit of the blue quandong contained a large serrated seed. These could be painted and used as tors for the game of Chinese checkers or made into necklaces or bangles.
Bunya trees yielded large cones of nuts which fell to the ground when ripe. We always took these home to eat if we were lucky enough to find some. These were not particularly palatable when raw so we clipped the pointed end from the shell then boiled them in salt water.
The glorious red flowers of the Firewheel trees, when in bloom, shone like beacons from the dim distance and stood in stark contrast to the green of trees and bushes and ferns of the forest. The ripened red fruits of the Piccabeen palms brightened our way as did the many flowers of the forest. We revelled in nature’s glorious garden of banksias, boronia, sarsaparilla vine, everlasting daisies and a host of other wild flowers. Animal sightings were not so numerous, but koala, possum, pademelons, bush turkeys and hares occasionally lingered long enough for us to see. When we saw a snake, we stopped to let it slither away before we went on. Hunters killed large snakes and sold the skins for high prices. Along the creek banks and near waterholes, water rats made their homes. These poor creatures were nearly shot or trapped to extinction when their pelts became commercially valuable as a substitute for mink and other types of fur. Eventually, laws passed in each state, proclaimed snakes and water rats as protected species, thus saving them from possible extinction.
After the prolific blooming of spring, wild flowers faded and died. Ferns and forest greenery now filled the jardinieres and vases at our farmhouse and, along with the honeysuckle at the front door, added the most pleasant, clean, sweet scent which permeated every room. The garden of Eden was right at our front door.
A three kilometre walk along the eastern boundary of Flaxton Forest brought us along a high ridge from where we could hear the water-fall at Baxter Creek. Here, we headed down the steep slope toward the sound to intersect the creek a little downstream from the water-fall. (The Flaxton section of Great Walk takes you to the same point but by a much more circuitous route.) The falls are picturesque but not as spectacular as Bon Accord. Even in the summer, the water below the falls feels cool to cold but a little further upstream, bordered on both sides by open grassy paddocks, a large swimming hole bathed in sunlight always beckoned us.
Downstream from the falls, the bright stream bubbles over water-worn stones and weaves in and around the gum trees towering above our heads. A steep rocky cliff looms high on one side and the stream ripples out of sight among the trees and ferns. By farm and forest and field the babbling stream flows into the blue distance. Here is a place to loiter, to breathe in the clean clear air and to look, listen and feel the wonder and glory of our range-top home.
In other parts of Flaxton Forest, men were at work falling trees. I was only permitted to watch from a distance and only when accompanied by an adult. I am fortunate to have seen the last of the old-style tree fellers at work with axes, wedges and crosscut saws, all of which were soon to be made redundant with the introduction of chain saws.
Axemen almost always worked at some distance above the ground from small platforms called springboards. They cut a groove into the tree at working height and inserted the springboard which gripped into place by an angled steel shoe attached to one end.
From their springboards, the axemen used axes and crosscut saw to cut a wedge shaped ‘belly’ deep into the heartwood. The tree would fall in the direction of the belly cut. Once the belly was cut, the men moved to the opposite side and cut through the uncut section with a crosscut saw. Steel wedges driven into the sawcut behind the saw, relieved pressure and prevented the saw from jamming. The creaking sound of the tree about to fall warned the men to move to a safe place.
The sight and sound of a forest giant crashing to earth is something never to be forgotten. The tree slowly inches in the direction of the belly then, groaning as if in pain, the heavy canopy propels it earthwards until is smashes into the ground with the sound of fractured branches cracking like broken bones. For the axemen, it signals relief; another tree successfully and safely fallen, ready for the bark to be removed and the log sawn into lengths with crosscut saw.
The sound and smell of a diesel engine signals the approach of a crawler tractor carving its way through the scrubby surrounds with no regard to any obstacles in its path. The tractor snigs the log through the bush to be loaded onto the GMC, 6x6 truck for transport to the sawmill log yard. These six wheel drive vehicles were used extensively during World War Two and could handle almost any situation including the rough dirt tracks through the Flaxton forest.
All this is very exciting to watch but the harvesting of trees hundreds of years old comes with a degree of sadness. No bushman enjoyed the destruction of trees or the surrounding bush but those involved in the business justified their actions because there was an urgent need for timber to build houses, bridges, railways and a host of other projects.
Every tree that falls means destruction of the homes for birds, koalas, possums and quolls and the beautiful parasitic plants living upon it. Staghorn, elkhorn, ferns, creepers and orchids, the magnificent vertical garden spreading right to the canopy now no longer exists. Like a garden one hundred years in the planning, all is destroyed. Thankfully, National Parks now preserve these beauties of nature for all to see.
One of the triumphs shared by workers at the Flaxton sawmill concerned the purchase by the Netherlands Government of timber resistant to saltwater borers and also suitable for building barges. Brown pine satisfied both requirements but these trees grew only in a very steep and isolated gully on the western side of the range and were extremely difficult to access. The problem was solved when Dad bought a very old machine capable of winching the fallen logs up the steep slopes to where they could be hauled by tractor to the sawmill. This ancient machine had been Christened, “Noisy Nellie,” because the roar of its engine could be heard for miles. Parked near the sawmill, I spent many happy hours pretending to drive and it is because of this vehicle that I learned to swear.
Noisy Nellie had no battery or starter motor and could only be started by cranking. She had reputation for being temperamental and could be difficult to get going. Thus, it was that many an attempt to start the engine ended with frustration and Noisy Nellie copped the vilest abuse including every swear word in the book.
Later, my mother banned me from listening to the radio on short-wave because the trawlermen often used bad language over their radio communications. My brother, Harold, assured her that I already knew all the swear words. It made no difference and short-wave radio remained on the taboo list.
Achievers in the Flaxton Community
One of the great things about living in a small and somewhat isolated community such as Flaxton, is getting to know all the residents fairly well. This had little relevance to me as a youngster; there were too many other distractions and a great deal of exploring to do. I realised later just how many outstanding achievers lived in and contributed to our tiny community all those years ago and, how in later years, their achievements inspired me in my journey through life.
Two of our friends were awarded Distinguished Conduct Medals, John Hamilton in World War One and Clive Blair in World War Two.
A farmer, George Still, earned the Military Cross for conspicuous bravery at the battle of Fromelles.
Emily Bulcock, a noted poet and literary contributor, spent much of her time doing charity work and was awarded the OBE in 1964.
Manuel Hornibrook, who often stayed at our place, received his OBE in 1957 and then a knighthood in 1964.
Les Swain spent years lobbying for a better deal for Queensland fruit growers. He was instrumental in setting up the Committee of Direction of Fruit Marketing (COD) and the once well-known, Golden Circle cannery.
Wilf Bratton, always on hand to help the community and the school, was a member of Australia’s first International Soccer touring team. He and his team are immortalised by the issue of a stamp in 2022.
Frank Mayne became a principal of the then well-known company, Pope, Mayne and Southerden. They developed several agricultural products including large scale irrigation systems.
Frank (Wal) Potts, became known as one of Queensland’s best still-life artists with two of his landscapes held at Queensland Art Gallery. With easel and paints, we often saw him diligently at work in the Flaxton forest.
Arrival of electricity
In 1948, Flaxton residents rejoiced when, after years of waiting and lobbying, 240 Volt mains electricity was connected and, what a revolution that was! After well over 50 years of dependence on kerosene for all household lighting and energy needs, the convenience of electricity became immediately apparent. Now, every room bathed at night in bright white light; no more lamps to fill or wicks to trim and the lingering smell of kerosene banished forever. Early risers could now make tea and toast within minutes without lighting the wood burning stove. Housewives quickly traded their dangerous petrol fuelled clothes irons for safe and convenient electric models. Electric washing machines revolutionised wash day. No more lighting the copper to boil the clothes; no more wringing out by hand; the physically demanding chore that once took all morning could now be done in an hour. We take electricity for granted today but one of the great luxuries for us was the electric hot water system. For the first time ever, we could luxuriate under a hot shower. No more shivering in a bathtub in six centimetres of tepid water.
School Life
Farm, forest and sawmill were my domain until I started school. Any child who turned five years of age during the year could begin their schooling and I started school at the beginning of 1945, aged four years. I never regretted a minute of any of the next few years spent at Flaxton Provisional State School. During my attendance we had five different teachers, each one required to teach every class from prep right through to grade seven (scholarship); no easy task. Teachers also helped organise arbour day and Anzac Day events, games and sports, nature walks, school fetes and picnics.
Each morning when the school bell rang, we raced to the flagpole. A very scratchy recording of “God Save the King”, (King George VI), played from the verandah while Geoffrey Copeland, one of the ‘big kids,’ ran up the Australian flag with military precision. Our whole school, usually about fifteen of us, stood to attention and said: “I salute my flag, I honour my King, I will always do my best to serve my country.” This mantra wasn’t surprising because it was still wartime and Australia still felt attached to mother England’s coat tails. Teacher then slipped a march tune on to the gramophone and we marched into the classroom with as much pomp and clatter as we could. The march tune, “Colonel Bogey,” had been banned from use because the soldiers at Mapleton jungle training camp were heard to sing an inappropriate version. Teacher and parents shuddered at the thought of their offspring learning those words and, worse still, being asking what they meant.
Pupils went to their allocated places and took their seats on long wooden forms behind the equally ling wooden desks. The desktops, worn and damaged by years of use and abuse and with the initials of past students carved deeply and conspicuously into the wood, had slots in the front where ‘little kids’ kept their slates. Next to the slate slots were round holes to accommodate ink wells. We had to make it to grade three before being trusted with pen and ink; no biros or fountain pens permitted. So, slates became our daily tablet on which to write and slate pencils screeched and scratched on every downstroke as we copied pot hooks and other curvaceous shapes as decreed under the school curriculum. The sound of slate pencil on slate put everyone on edge but that wasn’t the worst of it. We had to clean our slates with damp flannels or sponges supplied by each pupil’s parents and kept in jars with screw top lids. After days of confinement in their respective jars, the damp, musty cleaning surfaces stank to high heaven. When ‘little kids’ released their captive cloths, their stench filled the room. Some kids held their nostrils shut, others gasped and at least one kid, usually a boy, pretended to faint.
We learned by rote and every class recited maths tables and rules of syntax over and over until it stuck in the brain, never to be forgotten. Every schoolkid of that era remembers sitting at their desks and either swaying side to side or swinging their legs in time with the monotonous chanting: “Three threes are nine. Three fours are twelve. Three fives are fifteen…” Rote learning is generally frowned on today but it certainly worked for us. Eighty years on, I still clearly remember the long list of now superseded imperial weights and measures along with such delights as rods, poles, perches, foot-pounds and British Thermal Units. Electronic calculators would not be invented for several more decades and so we had to commit all this vital information to memory.
Prominently displayed just behind where teacher sat were two charts; one dealt with fire safety and the other, the “Good Manners” chart, a constant reminder of how we were expected to behave at school and at home. A big cupboard housed school supplies and the dreaded corporal punishment book. Any child who was judged to have been exceptionally naughty got a good few whacks with the cane and their name and offence entered into the punishment book for all eternity to see. Here are some actual entries which also detail the canings:
Annoying little girl 5 strokes
Kicking a boy 2 strokes
Laziness in school 6 strokes
Sulking 4 strokes
Swinging on back of truck 1 stroke
Lunch time was playing time. Boys played red rover, brandy or no time for standing. Girls indulged in less strenuous pursuits, oranges and lemons or hide and seek.
Our little school had few resources so well-meaning patrons donated things. Over the front door inside the classroom, a frightening looking stuffed crocodile stared at us all day long. In two jars on a shelf, venomous snakes looked out through the formaldehyde. Less frightening exhibits like a large mother of pearl shell and rocks and minerals sat beside our ‘library’ of about twenty books. The very first book I ever remember reading came from here, “The House at Pooh corner.” Pooh and friends lived in a wood and I lived in a forest so there was an immediate connection. Each year, every pupil received a book. I was given, and still have, “Biggles in Spain,” with the acknowledgement glued to the front page, “Presented to Gordon Plowman, Flaxton Provisional School, 1949.”
We loved our little school perched right on top of the Blackall Range with views from the front verandah right across the coast to the far horizon. On a clear day we could see the fishing boats out at sea from Maroochydore. But our school was much more than a classroom. On those Sundays when a minister of religion visited, we attended church there. Mrs. Copeland busily pumped the foot pedals as she played hymn tunes on the tiny pump organ. Mother had a good singing voice and she knew it. I remember feeling embarrassed when she held the last notes longer than anyone else. Our old dog, Snooks, usually came to church too. He had the best time of all because he crawled under the seats and went to sleep for the entire service.
Within the walls of that small structure the residents of Flaxton came together. This, the heart of the community, became the venue for dozens of different events and the place where solidarity and optimism spread to help banish the war-time blues. There were concerts and sing-alongs and salmagundi evenings and dance nights where Mrs. Ensbey and her squeeze box got every toe tapping to tunes of waltzes and fox trots and gipsy taps and the highland schottische.
Flaxton men and women who enlisted for war service, including my sister, Pat, were given a rousing and patriotic send-off from here. Those gatherings of familiar faces at the little Flaxton school gave comfort to those who went off to war. Perhaps, as hostilities raged around them, they longed for their return to that same little school room where they knew friends would be waiting to welcome them back home.
When, after 22 years in Flaxton, my parents decided to move elsewhere, they were farewelled from this familiar place. That evening they said goodbye to their many friends and acquaintances but the memories would last long into the future.
Remembering:
Tell me the tales that to me were so dear,
Long, long ago, long ago.
Sing me the songs I delight in to hear,
Long, long ago, long ago. Thomas Bayly.
Sometimes in the evenings as the sun sinks down to rest and the Old Master Painter colours a purple sky with streaks of red and gold, and the hush of gentle breezes stir the leafy tree tops into a soft whispering melody, then visions of childhood float like a dream and I live again in memory of those blissful days of years past. I see again our family crowding around the wood stove in the kitchen on a winters night and sipping hot cocoa to keep warm. The smell of wood smoke tingles in the nostrils and the cast iron kettle whistles as it boils. Dad reads the paper, two days old, while mother darns another pair of socks by the flickering flame of the kerosene table lamp. The radio adds comfort with the Wilfred Thomas Show, and the not so comforting but enthralling, Inner Sanctum to Mystery. I hear the sad call of the bush curlew at night and in the morning the call of the happy magpies piping loud. I’m back again in the school yard in those long-gone boisterous days in the wind and the rain and the sun where we played games as though our very lives depended on the outcome and where we felt the sensation of being truly free. How we sang at the top of our voices and meant every word:
Roaming free as the breeze
What’s to stop me or why?
I can live as I please
Open road, open sky.
Memories
That is how I remember my early life and Flaxton days and our little school which instilled in us the pride and love of our native land, the spirit of community and the knowledge that beyond the beautiful Blackall Range, a wide and wonderful world beckoned us to come as good citizens to help make our mighty nation even mightier yet!
That one acre of land in the corner of what used to be Dixon’s cow paddock, where fresh and perfumed air once filled our lungs, and where, in the grandeur of the mountains, our shouts and laughter drifted afar, holds within its bounds, even now that all semblance of past glory is gone, sacred memories of distant days, of friends long departed, and of a time so gloriously different from now, it can live only in the memories of those lucky enough to have known it.
The Gingerbread house, the farm house and the sawmill, remnants of a completely different era, are all gone now. Flaxton forest is quiet, never more to echo with the sound of the sawmill’s melancholy steam whistle or the roar of tractor engines or Eric Jones’ ex-army trucks. No sound of an axe or crosscut saw. No bushmen sitting around the billy fire yarning into the night. No bark hut beside the road. Times have changed as they always will and I am fortunate to have lived and experienced a world and its people so utterly different from today. I remain forever thankful for the experiences of my youngest days and the beautiful and fulfilling memories they still bring, over eighty years on.
The End
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