I used to run away a lot when I was young and innocent to the dangers that could befall a four year old wandering the steets. Life was full of mysterious and unknown experiences that seemed to beckon enticingly like the tech school tuck shop on the corner of our street. Traffic lights and milk bottles, licorice blocks, freckles and cobbers could all be bought for the princely sum of three pennies. After the Bakers cart incident my mother was no longer  convinced that our neighbourhood was so benign and she attempted to contain me within the grounds of the housing commission house that was our home for that time. Thereafter, I would look longingly out the window remembering the fear and anticipation of sneeking out on a frosty morning, standing nonchalantly by the gate as the baker pulled up outside our place, waiting for him to heave himself  back into his seat after depositing the High Tin loaf in our bread bin, before slipping behind the cart, hopping on to the step, hanging on to the handle of the door, anticipating  the lurch of the cart as it began the short journey to our neighbours house. Timing was everything in this manoevre and I deeply regretted my untimely fall.
Despite warnings of boogey men and monsters, on the weekends and holidays I used to venture down to the deserted grounds of the nearby Tech school, which was a large strangely designed brick building with hundreds of amber tinted windows behind which I could just see , or imagined I could see,  the shadowy outlines of the huge lumbering machinery of the times. The building was designed  to blend into a triangular piece of land that was bordered by roads, one being our street, Latrobe Ave, and therefore had many unusual angles and buttresses which provided fabulous hiding places where monsters and other scary creatures could easily lie in wait . The excitement and curiousity drew  me there time and time again much to my brothers delight. I would creep tentatively around the building turning each corner expecting the worse, then they would emerge from an unseen crevice shrieking and wailing, fall about laughing when they saw the shock on my face and then run off again with me following in vain pursuit. 
But this horror was nothing compared to the very real danger that I thought the heavens presented. I remember playing in the yard one summer afternoon when the sky seemed to suddenly darken and thunder started rumbling through the clouds. I had heard thunder before but never like the crash which followed those initial warnings. It was like the whole sky was about to fall in. I ran inside the house screaming with real terror and hid underneath my parents bed until it passed. No-one seemed to appreciate the genuine fear that I experienced and laughed as if it were some cute game I was playing. My terror was not  entirely irrational though since one of the explanations offered at the time for what caused thunder was that it was "just God being angry with naughty children" which merely compounded my fear. 
Dad was building a new house for us in the nearby town of Moe, which was not owned by the SEC, and was not destined to be dug up to retrieve the brown coal that lay beneath its surface. So every weekend he would catch the bus,we did't have a car, to Moe and build our house with the help of friends and some skilled tradesmen from within the Polish community in the Latrobe Valley.  Mum was working then too, cleaning the sleeping quarters of the "single' men who also worked for the company. She left early in the morning, after the baker had been, leaving my eldest brother, who was only nine or ten at the time, to get us ready for school and kindergarten. My parents never knew how he coped with this responsibility and we never told them because his authoritarian and cruel tactics quietened us into submission. 

During the summer of my fifth year, my father took his holidays so he could spend time building the house and my brothers went with him to be his helpers. After a few days they tired of this and I felt priveleged, as a girl, to take their place. I was very excited by that first bus trip to Moe and looked forward to seeing this new and wonderful place. I was dismayed when the bus pulled up near the railway line and I was confronted by bare paddocks, dirt roads edged with ditches. It wasn't at all pretty like Yallourn with its manicured boulevards, tree lined streets, cute workers cottages and architectural masterpieces. This was frontier land; new houses, vacant blocks, a vast cleared treeless wasteland was what I saw. I clutched my fathers hand nervously as we walked to our block. Negotiating the drainage ditches required my fathers assistance as my five year old legs couldn't quite make the leap required. I could feel my excitement rising like a storm as we approached the house. There, perched in the middle of several vacant blocks and backed by fields, was the frame for our house. There were no floors or walls but I thought it was a most fascinating construction, like a giant adventure playground with precarious beams to negotiate. I spent hours exploring the nearby terrain while my father hammered and sawed. I was never bored like my brothers. I didn't complain or bother my father but rather savoured this special time with him. Lunchtimes were always a treat because dad would take me to the local bakery to buy me a jam tart, wickedly sweet, an extravagant treat  we kept secret from my mother for she didn't approve of paying scarce money for cakes  she could easily make. I began to love our piece of land and never tired of exploring along the creek that ran out  the back of our property. 
Moving to Moe was however a traumatic experience for me. I had already started school in Yallourn and had settled into prep with my brothers nearby to protect me and friends of our family in the same class. School wasn't too bad until we came to Moe. Being the new kid in town wasn't the adventure I expected it to be. All the prep kids had already paired up and there were no spare mates to go around. The teacher made me sit in the front row with one of the naughty boys in class and I was quickly identified as a "bright" student which did not help in the friendship stakes. St Kierans primary school had two wings,  both large red brick, two storey buildings with white colonial style windows along the length. There were at least 80 children in my class and all the classrooms were overflowing. In the end the large corridors were also turned into classrooms. It was a poor school because it serviced many poor families so that in winter we were asked to bring briquettes or wood to feed the wood fire in the classroom. The children who brought  fuel were allowed to sit closer to the fire.  The nuns ruled with a leather strap while we surreptitiously passed secret messages around the room in silence. School was long and boring and I would always be waiting patiently and quietly for the next task to be set.  Often the teacher would send me on errands to fill in the time.
We lived in perpetual fear of the nuns some of whom were very cruel and unkind, particularly to shy little migrant children. There were children from all nationalities in our class but the aussies were considered superior. We learned early on to be quiet about our customs and hide the strange foods our parents fed us. The school yard was overcrowded also and you had to be pretty tough to withstand the taunts and jeers of the naughty boys. After some years of feeling isolated and persecuted  I decided to go home for lunch. I used to walk home at lunchtime, 15 minutes there 15 minutes back which  kept me out of the schoolyard at peek harrassment time. 
I remember one time,when I was in grade three, however,  I persuaded my mother to allow me to have a lunch order as all the other kids seemed to have a least once a week. I had my eye on a pastie , a dish I had never sampled, which looked steamy and appetizing. I remember the curious anticipation as lunch time approached as this was to be my first experience of sampling real Australian food . I was a bit dismayed when I took my first bite and felt the sting of pepper hit my mouth. By the third mouthful I knew that I would be sick if I continued. There was this kid called Tommy, one of the really poor kids with education department issue school uniforms, who was always hungrily trying to scavenge food from the other children. We had been instructed not to let Tommy bully us into sharing our food so I was very careful to offer him my barely eaten pastie when no-one was looking. Unfortunately one of the nuns spotted Tommy with his prize, interrogated him and then brought the pastie back to me. Despite my protests that  it made me feel sick she insisted that I eat it while she stood over me stern faced and scornful at my lack of appreciation for gods gifts. I managed  a few more mouthfuls through tears and rising nausea, wishing to deposit the lot in a less attractive form at her feet.  Fortunately, Sister Elizabeth, my teacher at the time, seeing my distress came to my rescue. Placing her hand on my forehead she asked with a look of genuine concern.
"What's the matter, are you unwell dear?" 
I was unable to speak as my mouth was filled with peppery pastie which I was unable to swallow due to the lump in my throat which seemed to be swelling by the minute.
"This ungrateful little girl gave her pastie to Tommy Abbot  but I am making sure she eats it"
The older nun explained as she drew herself up to face my guardian angel, the white "beek" attached to her forhead pointing directly at the young nuns eyes. The tension was palpable. My nausea was replaced by genuine admiration for Sister Elizabeth, who, whilst new to the school, was standing her ground against her superior.
"But she's crying, you can't  force the child to eat  while she's crying and unwell" I could hear the anger rising in her voice .
"Yes, but her mother would expect her to have some lunch...." 
"But it's making her unwell , can't you see the child is distressed" sister Elizabeth interrupted, her voice becoming more and more shrill.
"Yes but it's a waste and besides Tommy..." her voice trailed off as her eyes met the young nuns.
"You can't force the child to eat, that's cruel!"
Sensing that the young nun would not relent, my tormentor turned on her heel haughtily, mumbled something about mollycoddling and strode off to harrass another child. My relief resulted in a torrent of tears which also released that final mouthful onto the floor. Sister Elizabeth calmly cleaned the floor, gave me a glass of water and threw the offending pastie in the bin, much to Tommy's dismay. She produced a clean white handkerchief from the pocket of her habit , wiped my eyes and mouth gently, smiled and patted me on the shoulder reassuringly. 
"You go off and play now dear" she cooed soothingly and retreated calmly to the nuns office to finish her lunch and face the cold stares of the older nuns.

On Saturday mornings I would go to Polish school where we learned to read and write our parents language and mixed with children from our culture. We learned poems and songs, wore the colourful costumes of different regions in Poland and learned  the ways of the mother country. There were many religious festivals and occasions where we children would be asked to sing and dance the songs our parents loved.  I remember this particular song that my friend Kris and I sang as duet which reduced the whole audience to tears. We didn't really understood the sentimentality they felt for this heartwrenching tale of loss and sorrow but we must have been reasonably convincing.  Whilst we had a lot of fun performing, dressing up, having stage make up applied and being fussed over, this experience merely served to reinforce my sense of  being different  to the other children around me. 

I was not alone in feeling alien and different. I recognized that sense of alienation in other children around me. There was one girl Bernadette who always seemed to be on the outer and the butt of cruel jokes.  I would pass her house, a shabby unkept bungalow, each day on the way to school. There were always nappies on the line and grubby children playing in the front garden. For some reason Bernadette decided that I should become the butt of her jokes, teasing and taunting me as she followed me on the last leg of my journey to school. One day after some meaningless squabble she challenged me to a fight after school  I decided that I would have to meet this challenge as best I could having never hit anyone in my life. We met on the corner and faced each other bravely. Bernadette was a chubby girl with pink skin and really a rather sweet face which she was endeavouring to turn into the meanest scowl.
"Ok, you go first "  she said, placing her hands menacingly on her hips, her legs wide apart.
" But I don't  know how to fight " I responded shakily.
"Just  try and hit me. Anywhere" she said in a threatening tone.
My brothers had shown me how to deliver a punch with knucles bared  which always resulted in a bluish black bruise on my arm so I  clenched my fist , shut my eyes and punched her in the arm. She let out a howl of pain and retaliated by pulling my hair and kicking me in the leg. I started crying.
"I don't want to fight you, it hurts " I sobbed.
" Well maybe you should just walk on the other side of the road" she scoffed and turned on her heal and strutted off down the road.
The next day Bernadette avoided my gaze and I hers. A week later we met again on the corner and vowed never to fight again and instead be good friends. I could never go to Bernadettes house however because she was the fourth of nine children living in this small three bedroom bungalow. Bernadettes father was a travelling salesman who only came home once a month for a few days. Each year I noticed that Bernadettes mother, who was already a tiny frail woman, seemed to shrivel a little, after each child, which was also more sickly and frail than the previous years "gift" from her often absent husband. She had thirteen children in all The older girls helped their mother with the washing but to keep them clothed she would work into the night hand sewing and remaking clothes. She was an old woman by the time she was forty.

Growing up in Moe was also a lot of fun. We were allowed to run free during daylight hours and I would always follow my brothers on their adventures up to the swamp or along the creek behind our house. As a girl, I was not meant to be climbing fences, building dams on the creek and running with the boys. My mother sewed all my clothes at the time and would never allow me to wear trousers as it was considered unfeminine. Instead she scolded me for dirtying and tearing my dresses and made me wear aprons which made negotiating the back fence even more difficult. Fortunately, my mother had to make me  some brown corduroy pants for my role as the big bad wolf in a school performance of Little Red Riding Hood when I was in about grade four, so I was allowed to wear them in winter.

Sometimes we would go blackberry picking or play the dangerous game of walking along the railway line collecting briquettes that had fallen off the railway trucks. There was lots of space around our house with horses that we learned to ride bareback, grazing in the back paddocks.  It was a wonderful playground for children with lots of adventurous nooks and crannies. Our parents interferred very little with our games and essentially left us to play out our childhoods outside and out of sight. Cowboys and Indians were a favourite game with makeshift  horses, bows, arrows and guns all fashioned from bits of timber lying around the house.  As time went on, things changed. Perhaps the most traumatic change was when they put drainage pipes along the creek behind our house and our favoured yabbie holes and dams were gone forever. We received some compensation because soon after that they built a swimming pool at the end of our street where I then spent most of the summer holidays.

We children were rarely given chores to do as my mother had little patience with our imperfections. Instead she kept herself constantly busy cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing, sewing and working in the garden which produced enough food to feed ten families. Each day as I  arrived home from school I would invariably find my mother beginning the preparations for the evening meal , which was always a time consuming exercise. Sometimes I would sit and watch her work but she never asked me to help, even though I would often volunteer to help with the kneeding of pastry and the creation of small dumplings with a variety of fillings which were a traditional and favourite dish. My mother devoted herself entirely to the care of the family and would decline invitations to play cards or board games with us in the evenings because there was always too much sewing, darning or knitting to do. On Saturday evenings my mother would do the weeks baking which produced luscious yeasty smells that linger in her kitchen to this day. My mother wore the title "houswife" with great pride and satisfaction.

Much of the "tomboy" behaviour changed as I grew into adolescence and my brothers no longer wanted to be seen playing with their little sister. The pressure to become a young lady was intense and pop music and rock stars became the passion in my life. Increasingly I was asked to help around the house and prepare drinks and food for my brothers. The expectation was that I should learn how to be a good housewife by helping my mother care for her husband and sons. I did not embrace this change in expectations of me as I was quite accustomed to my freedom and independence. 

I was never very interested in television except for the pop shows and the odd series like the Partridge Family. Instead I devoured books, listened to music and dreamed of a more exciting future. One of my closest friends during this time was a girl called Kris who was also had a Polish father and Russian mother. Although we shared the same cultural heritage, I considered Kris to be far more worldly than myself because she originally came from Mildura where grapes, oranges and other exotic fruits grew along the streets. The sun always shone in Mildura and the people, she insisted, were far more interesting than those who lived in Moe. I believed her.Kris awakened in me a desire to escape the confines of Moe and see the world. In a sense she rekindled the longing for adventure I had as a very young child. We knew the only way  to get out of Moe was to get a scholarship and go to university which we both did.

I lived and went to school in Moe until I was eighteen years old. The house my father built still stands but my mother now lives there alone since he passed away some 15 years ago. She is no longer surrounded by paddocks with horses grazing but rather high density units of bricks and mortar. My children now hear exaggerated tales of my adventures as a child when they visit their babcia which in some ways changes my perspective on some of the more unpleasant memories of this place I called "home" long after I had left. 

Memories, dreams and reflections of childhood remind us of who we once were and how far we have come. It reminds us of how and why things have changed. Moe, that quiet sleepy town I grew up in stands today as a measure of the times and the changes that have happened in our society over the past twenty years or so. Moe is living out it's history as a dormitory town for SEC workers. Now, with the privatization of the electricity industry and the age of economic rationalism , it is a dormitory town for the dispossessed and the unemployed.
 
 
 
 

Liz  (1996)