Here We Go Again - Chapter 17 - The Black and the White of it

In the last of the travel experiences I blogged, I spent every Sunday compiling an essay around the things of the week. More time but less inclination on this one, my thoughts are turned to family catch ups, exploring the countryside and enjoying the experience.

Having said that, the first real encounter with family on the trip has conjured up some thoughts about the mixing of cultures within our family. Like a song from the Irish Rovers “Oh I was the greatest mix up that ever you had seen, my father he was orange and my mother was the green”. Take out “I” and replace it with “we” and you have our family. On one side you have white Australians, squatters, having followed the great explorers Hume and Hovell over the Blue Mountains after Blaxland Wentworth and Lawson finally worked out the way, even though for countless centuries, somewhere between 40,000 and 80,000 years, the other side of the family, the ones descending from the “first Australians” knew the way.

My fathers family settled in the Blakney/Pudman Creek area near Yass in the south west slopes of New South Wales. Dad married a nurse from Condobolin in something like a rendition of Blue Mink’s Great Big Melting Pot even if they did not know it at the time.

As far as I understand it – and details emerge all the time, changing the “truth” here is the conflict that is my family. We are very much a part of the Blue Mink “Great Big Melting Pot”

The Black Side

Mum was one of 13. Brought up to be a white in a time when to be an Aboriginal child in a whitening land was fraught with the peril of abduction by the do gooding establishment, their Aborginality was hidden from them. The Stolen Generation is something we have heard about and they apparently lived in its spectre.

My mother is a descendant of William Ferguson, whose statue which immortalises him, adorns the main street of Dubbo. A man, according to Jack Horner – Vote Ferguson for Freedom, a Biography 1974 – was part Aborigial himself, certainly married a “pure bread” Edith Gowans and it is from that union, my mothers side descends.

My grandmother married one of the Ferguson sons, Cyril. I never met my maternal grandfather. All I have are stories of a gambler, a gun shearer and idealistic dreams of Sunday Too Far Away – 1975 Roadhow and wondering how 13 kids could have emerged from the great call – Friday too tired, Saturday too drunk, Sunday too far away. Yet 13 children there were.

The youngest, Julie is not much younger than I

This side of the family is close, very close. We are a band of licorice all sorts, but all tarred with the same sense of family born out of the need to stay together or be split apart, forcibly. My aunts talk of only been allowed out of the house in Addis Street in at least pairs, and not realising until later in life when remembering a certain person shadowing them who may or may not been someone in “authority” eager to take them to a “better life”.

But for those who lived in Addis Street, a 2  bedroom housing commission fibro home with a large “sleep out” as it was called which housed a number of beds, where we, when we visited, ended up in a large bed together. Mum and dad on a sofa bed in the lounge room and still the rest of the residents bedded, fed and watered.

My memory of visits only saw 4 of the children in that house with Nanny Ferg, or Murt, I would suspect a reference to a Crepe Myrtle, divineness allowing accompaniment with children on the prowl, or perhaps some other reference I have never been privy to. My cousin John who is lumbered with the same nick name is easier to work out, being a lot like his maternal grandmother.

When mum had a major health scare, we went to live with our grandmother for some time. Cousin Julie, the youngest Aunt, was not the oldest “child” in the house. Christine and Kerre, who had jobs and shared the second bedroom were still in residence but because they were bread winners were left to their own devices quite a bit. In fact on Saturday mornings we all had to creep around the house like mice, not to wake the “poor tired workers” who had been at work all week and needed their beauty sleep. Truth be known they had probably been out with their respective boyfriends the night before if you ask them.

Aboriginal, alcohol and tobacco are know not to mix very well. For a young me, there was never the issue, and although everyone smoked, the effects of alcohol, whether or not they were an issue, were well hidden from us children. Watching my mother effectively having smoked herself to death, I never have touched the demon weed. The rest of my siblings have at one time or another and some continue to smoke.

At nan’s there was always a brewing tea pot on the stove. I remember my father, an avid tea drinker, being on the wrong end of Nan Ferg when, unable to fit more water into the pot, emptied it of its glugged up contents. The chagrin and consternation yet alone the project required to get the brew back to some sort of, in the opinion of the women folk, “drinkable” concoction went on for some time.

Dad never touched the pot again.

Sadly Nan Ferg died years ago and I had the privilege of speaking of family at her funeral. I spoke of that tea pot and the conversations around it that must have occurred and kept secret to this day.

I have been asked to talk at other family funerals, and sometimes I decline, feeling too emotional to speak. I did this at the funeral of my Uncle Arthur where my cousin was quite taken aback but I simply wasn’t up to it . Speaking at funerals is a task I do not enjoy but feel the need to sometimes “help” the grieving family.

We talk about family and what it means. A few years ago a couple of the women folk had an idea for a family reunion. Ferg Fest it will be called, they said. We can  get everyone together on the Condobolin Showgrounds. We will make it at Easter because the family is spread so far and wide now across Australia a weekend of that length, coupled with school holidays, will be enough for everyone to come. 

I was a part of the preparations. We had done this before, several years earlier. But this time it was going to be different. Nan was at the last one whereas she was gone now so it was as much a tribute to the matriarch as it was a reunion of those of us still left.

For the first one I had created a booklet of sorts. It documented all I knew about those still living, some even of children who had died, but a place where I could put a picture and a small resume of where they were, what they were doing etc. If we were going to get serious about the reunion and the book to accompany it, there was going to be some research required.

When it was finished there were something like 275 live descendants of my maternal grandmother who could have attended Ferg Fest. 268 of them made the pilgrimage to our ancestral home. During the research we found what I thought was 11 brothers and sisters was actually 13 with a set of twins, the first for the couple who had died at birth. There were lots of newbies to be added and as I am one of the many contributors to the Banks Family Tree, I was able to use it to clearly add the tree as it related to my mother, her family and her forefathers as much as I could. The tree in Geni I think has something like 2,000 entries in iot now between both parts of my family.

But the thing that had been kept the “secret” of the family was our aboriginality. The breaking of this came as a shock to many. There is a Jack Horner book looking into the life of William Ferguson the stirrer around the very first “sorry” day. Horner’s research uncovered truths to our heritage. Truths which for some were hard to take, but for others helped resolve issues of wanderlust, not the type that sends you overseas, they type that makes you itchy to simply move – go walkabout.

In the times since we have discovered our heritage, Kirsten ahs let herself become immersed in it, especially after hearing the winds and rocks of Kata Juta “talk” to her on a trip to the red centre. She is, and we are Wiradjuri, part of the largest nation of the Indigenous tribes numbering in excess of 150 that inhabited this great land long before it was “discovered” or inhabited by the white man.

But back to Ferg Fest and what it means for my mothers family to be part of something that was so fiercely protected in the times of the “stolen generation”.

Living at Addis Street is since only a long memory. The spiritual home of the Ferguson clan is now a property on the outskirts of Condobolin known as Little Prairie. Kerre (now Pearce, the second youngest daughter) and her husband set up here many years ago and because of its proximity to the town, its sprawling amounts of open areas and red dirt, Fergusons tend to flock there at any time a pilgrimage is “required” and Kerre is happy to have them. She has, although she would vehemently deny it, has become the “matriarch”, if only for her presence, the reliance on her by others and the open arms always extended to anyone of the family visiting Condo.

It was unfair to run Ferg Fest at Little Prairie but it most certainly became the camping ground. Tents and caravans soon found their way there. We were lucky enough back then to be offered a bedroom in the house of which we were very grateful. It was thought that the showgrounds could be the area for an actual “function”. There, families could come and go, we could run events like the Easter Bunny Dogging. No rabbit gets away from a Ferguson that easily, then those who wanted could retire to the Prairie or other family residence for the evening.

There was one condition for those staying at the Prairie. If you were coming to the Prairie for the night’s festivities along with your own food,  each family unit had to bring some form of entertainment.

For mum’s side of the family that is not generally an issue. There are plenty of professional entertainers amongst them. Most cannot read music, they just play or they sing like song birds, whilst others (yours truly comes into the category) think they can sing and are mad enough to get in there and have a go – much to the “hysterical joy” of the crowd.

Kirsten, our daughter is a “classically” trained saxophonist who has also taught herself to play keyboard and violin, needs to be able to read the music whilst Justin, my oldest just plays and sings without. My middle son Julian missed out! But we are covered in the entertainment stakes, even if I do have to be held back from grabbing the mike at some stage.

That night of entertainment also showed a lot to do with the pride in the family, a pride that extends into “doing it right”. Uncle Brolga, the modest living male of mum’s family, dicks off in a huff, muttering things like this is not good enough and returns with an amplifier and speakers. I video as  much as I could, between recharges of the camera. Today it would have been much easier with the phone I possess.

The real talent then starts to appear. Justin takes the keyboard. Two Dogs aka Tony Ferguson and Uncle Brolga also entertain interspersed with questionable acts. This, although a “family” show certainly has no G rating, is there Kenny Ferguson. There is also a return of the Sockettes, an act from the first reunion all those years ago. A married into the family uncle, and a couple of nephews “ballet dancing”, if you can call it that, to the “hooping and hollering” encouragement of the crowd.

The Parnaby’s who certainly did not mistake “trains” for “brains” when the smarts were handed out, did miss out on the “talent” gene. It falls to Bruce to take up the cudgel, and given the quality of the acts to date, it will need to be good. He places his hands on his backside. Moving his fingers apart and closed and exclaims he is the “talking bum” (with a story to tell) to the screaming acclaim of the audience. No talent – yeah right.

Within sight of the lights of Condobolin, 200+ people entertain themselves around a yard, having fun, reminiscing,catching up with old and new family members and generally having a good time. There is no fire, there is no danger save the education of nubile minds and we are being family – the Ferguson Family,  no matter if you have a surname that is Banks, Parnaby, Holmes, Beddie, Pearce or any of the others in the group.

Close knit, loyal to a “T” and centred, knowing the spiritual home will always be there with open arms, that is what being a Fergusion is.

The White Side

We are descendants of a line that includes the great botanist Sir Joseph Banks. We originate from the lowlands of Scotland and we came to Australia in the early fleets as free settlers. The genealogists of the family have mapped all this.

Settlers, invaders, its semantics unless you are the ones being displaced. Its the winners that write the history books and our history as written about Australia, is the struggle against the bush and anything Mother Nature can throw at us.

Dad was the second of 5. Older brother Harry went to war, survived but never spoke of it, younger brother Karl, a deeply religious man joined the Salvation Army. These siblings are the main memories from my childhood. Dad’s sister Coral died giving birth to twins whom I have met only a couple of times and his youngest brother Colin died on the farm, succumbing to pneumonia.

His death was always a precursor to a discussion about rugging up in the cold of winter was one of the few stories dad told of his childhood .

In our house, a large cement brick establishment split by a long hallway the length of a cricket pitch, one side was sort of ours to “live in” whilst across the hallway were several rooms that we never frequented. Coral had a room in this house that up until her death was hers to return to. It was a small alcove, big enough for only a single bed and a wardrobe. I remember her only using it once in my early childhood. After her death it became my sister’s bedroom.

There were 2 kitchens and 2 bathrooms but we never used two of them, prior to the death of dad’s father, and even after that the bathroom still was not used and the kitchen was solely for the use of the hired help, the jackeroos who came and went. 

The only time we saw family on any sort of regular basis was at shearing time. The farm we lived on was not ours in its entirety. Dad worked it for his father and when he died it was left to the three living boys, meaning we were only one third owners of the ancestral home. 

That was the way things were done. Even though both other brothers had headed off to make their own way, the family assets were split equally on the death of the patriarch.

The local town, Rye Park in its heyday had a general store, a bakery and a service station as well as four churches. My father represented the local area on the Boorowa Shire Council for in excess of 20 years and this meant that we had to return early from May School Holidays every year for him to attend a Council Meeting.

It was done this way because that was the done thing. 

Being on a farm with plenty of things to do but not much money to incentivise chores, dad (and mum) found the whip was as good as any motivator, because that was the way they were treated. Any money in our pockets was the result of winning competitions at horse shows.We had good horses, trained on the farm by us and backed by the classical training of pony club made us formidable competition for any riders.

Dad would do anything for most but would not give us anything we had not won, preferring to happily pay the entry fees at shows as well as drive us all over the countryside and allow us the spoils of the win. 

Funnily enough our mother was allergic to horses (or so she said) but still followed us on our conquests.

You outlook back at the childhood of my family and you contrast the harsh, have to survive times of our father and his father versus the win at all costs nature of our personal achievements, except at school. 

Dad went to school in a horse and sulky until he had finished primary school. Mum dropped myself and a cousin Darryl at Rye Park Public School to (in her words) get us out of the house. It was October which meant I only saw the last term of kindergarten. Heaven knows the reason I had not attended school from the start of the year.

In the years between 4 and 6 my 4 year end report cards noted I had achieved all but 2 available marks in the reports. All my dad had to say was where were the other 2. Enough said about formal schooling.

High school was a much different event. Term 1 was a write off because of 4 bouts of the mumps and I bever caught up. It didn’t help that I had gone from the rote learning of the primary school to a class where the teacher, Mr Jones, suggested as he walked in to keep it down to a  dull roar. But that was the 70’s. A period of huge change.

Change and dad did not mix well. He worked hard and expected nothing but the same from anyone else and it had to be exactly the same way and as hard he did it. Jackeroos except for a guy from Sweden, Michael, did not last long under the iron fist of my father. He had a legendary temper,  borne I suspect from the harshness of his early existence. His first thought was always the lash and if there ever was praise I am sure we children never heard it.

He would have been proud but the only time I remember seeing it was the night of New Years Day 1975. Cyclone Tracey had devastated Darwin and a telethon had been arranged on the local TV station. As luck would have it we were at a Gymkhana at Dalton that day and had between us won in excess of $500 of the $2,500 total prize money on offer at the event. We decided to donate the winnings to the cause. When the acknowledgement came on the TV (we were allowed to stay up and wait for it) the presenter suggested $500 had to have been an error and it must have been $5.

Dad got on the phone and gave them a piece of his mind but as far as I am aware there was no correction. The only time I heard him stand up as an advocate for us.

I left this world in 1977, for a party invitation in Sydney and never returned.

The Melting Pot

So you have the staunchness of the English background, mirrored by the hiding from the Stolen Generation, never seen to want to mix but unknowingly mixing towards what we are today. The wanderlust of a mind nurtured in the change mentality of the 70’s and fueled by the sense of walkabout, ingrained with the need to achieve at all costs brings us to where we are today.

Family is king on both sides but at vastly different costs. We are fiercely loyal to a point, will do things for others at the drop of a hat, especially family, even though like my sister (after the accident which nearly killed my younger brother) it comes at a financial cost to yourself.

Businesses have been more about serving clients rather than the reward it should achieve. Value (mine) as opposed to values have always been in conflict. 

You look at the achievements of either side of the family (and there are many of them) you need only look internally to see what we are made of. I have a son who won the South Pacific Junior Bowls tournament after winning his Clubs Minor SIngles pennant at 13, represented Australia twice in the Australian Cheerleading team, another son who is the only person to win his section of the Unisong Competition twice, been mentioned as a film producer and actor at the Cannes Film Festival and Colorado (although cant seem to get a break in the clique that is the Australian Film Industry) and now teaches NDIS patients to perform and create video presentations and a daughter who is presently studying for a PHD in Astrophysics, a science communicator who has spoken on TV with the likes of Brian Cox on the ABC Q&A show and Dr Karl. 

This is my family – we achieve because we have to.