IT’S probably the realm of the old to sit back and think about those good old days, when the world really was a much better place.
For the sake of the conversation, let’s call it a rite of passage.
You know how they say scent is a powerful reminder, maybe that waft of fresh bread, a favourite meal – or the first nappy you got caught out with and had to change because the missus was nowhere to be found.
Well, for me, the other day, it was a chance encounter with a couple of Clydesdales being walked down a road towards a float after a local field day.
I didn’t see them at first, but I heard them.
That unmistakably heavy and measured clip clop of the hooves as they slowly strolled along, ready for their ride home.
And it took the old Whacker on a ride back into his childhood and some of his most cherished memories.
It was always a holiday highlight to go and stay with grandma Whacker, who had moved to Geelong once she and the older Whacker had finally decided to let my old man have free rein on the family farm.
For a start, grandma didn’t want me out of bed before the sun was up, didn’t want me bringing in the house cow for milking, didn’t want me feeding out grain to the steers or the sheep if things were dry and didn’t want me helping bale hay.
No, it was her divine mission to ensure I slept in, and when I finally deigned to surface, to ensure there was whatever breakfast I fancied awaiting me.
Then we did fun things – nothing remotely backbreaking – such as wandering down to the local shops where the likes of the butcher or greengrocer all surreptitiously handed you a little extra snack for passing through.
Small things, personal things, which in the years ahead would blur, and then fade, as I grew and as I took the helm on the same – albeit bigger – family farm.
Now, however, with the kids showing they might just have half a brain, I am finding my hands-on management style might not be necessary every day (probably every other day would be welcome, I am sure) leaves me with time to ruminate.
Which brings us back to those Clydesdales.
As kids they were everywhere, even in the 1950s in Geelong – which we thought was the really big smoke even though everyone else seemed to call it Sleepy Hollow.
The baker, who home delivered, had them pulling his cart.
So did the milkman.
And the strange bloke who came around calling out to all the mums in the streets that he could sharpen their knives and scissors, had a pair as well.
And every morning you could grab a ride to the end of grandma’s street with every one of them, reluctantly relinquishing your spot beside the driver to some annoying kid from the next street waiting his turn.
That’s what the clip clop brought back to me.
The baker’s cart, the smell of the fresh bread, mixed with the oiled leather on the giant horses, the jingling of their traces, and watching him jump off the cart and scoot up the driveways – and when he did that the horses would go on, unbidden, for three or four houses and then stop, waiting for him to return and refill his basket.
You would be sitting in the kitchen, and the baker would come through the back door – no knocking – with a “hey, ho, missus, what’ll it be today?”
Then with a flourish, he would dump his wicker basket on the table and like a magician, whip back the red gingham sheet lying over it to display his wares.
The milko was much more low key. He simply read the note grandma had tucked under the lid of her billy and delivered accordingly.
Sometimes, if he was early, especially in summer, the ants got to the milk in the billy before grandma, so then it was out with a clean tea towel and she would strain it to clear them out, then put half the milk on the stove and scald it – I still lick my lips thinking about her scalded cream.
That’s what the clip clop brought back to me.
I know none of that will ever happen again, but crikey when I stop and think about it, I really miss it and would give almost anything for one more carefree ride down grandma’s street.
Clip clop, clip clop.
