Memories of Horton Village in the 1950's and 1960's
Lorraine Crittenden. Memories of Horton.
Lorraine Crittenden is the granddaughter of Mrs. Montroy, who was the Post Mistress at Upper Horton and who visited on a regular basis during the 1950’s.
In my box, of old photos, there are many memories to be awoken, of my village home in the NW of N.S.W. Events, often long forgotten but instantly recalled with one quick glance. Memories of my village home, which came flooding back to-day, re-lived with love, and a sense of loss for a golden time of peace and safety. Here lives were lived to their conclusion, not lost, and fallen by the wayside like to-day in cities filled with drugs and danger.
One photo shows a group of people, postal workers standing out the front of the Post Office, of which my grandmother, known by all as Mrs. Mont, a derivation of her surname Montroy, was the Postmistress. She was to hold this position for nearly fifty years, retiring in her eighties. The photo shows a tall, big boned woman, of French and English descent, who had married at Welsh miner late in her thirties, only to be left a widow within five years. The photo also shows the strength of character which enabled her to raise her children and run a country Post Office, with none of the modern amenities such as electricity, Kerosene lamps, and a fuel stove, for which she chopped and split the wood herself. Stern, but fair, she connected phone calls, sorted mail, which outlying farmers could call and collect even on a Sunday.
Also, in the photo is Eunice, a young girl who assisted in the Post Office. I remember her as 11 sunny-natured, hard working girl who went on to raise a family of her own.
The other person in the snap, is the mail-man Joe, who picked up the mail from at drop off centre at Cobbadah Post Office, some twelve miles away. Eagerly awaited, mail-days provided a chance to mingle and chat. In the photo Joe stands with good-natured patience and at big smile mail bag hoisted high on his shoulder, as he waited for the photo to be taken.
In my mind’s eye, I am there again, l see again the long dusty main street, lined with age-old trees to protect from savage summer heat. Elvy‘s General Store was next door with Joe‘s bakery behind from whence the most mouth-watering smells of new baked bread emanated, wafting down the sheet in an invitation to buy. His high-topped married loaves a far cry from the tasteless bread l buy to-day, his meat pies a delight to feast on.
l remember also the devastating fire that reduced it all to ashes, a life-time of memories gone with-in a bare ten minutes. Progress eventually came to Horton in the form of the electricity connection. Villagers happily bought electric refrigerators to replace the old coke safes, kero lights were banished to the darkest comers of the pantry and televisions brought the world into their homes in a kaleidoscope of colour and song. A mere l2 month’s later a freezer at the Post Office shorted out and the ensuing fire raged out of control in the old building, spreading to Joe and Elvy’s home next door. The nearest fire brigade was based twenty four miles away. its eventual arrival was greeted by the sight of twisted roofing metal and wisps of spiralling smoke from dying embers.
Elvy saved a box of butter, the shop till and business papers. A shocked Joe was left clutching a very old and holey green jumper which he wore while plying his trade in the cool early morning hours, their family and pets were safe, but they lost everything they owned.
Other memories came rushing out, of old Mrs. Reilly‘s garden, ablaze with colour, kept alive with a scant supply of tank water in an area of insufficient rainfall and frequent droughts.
There was old Mrs. Turnham’s sweet shop across the road from the Post Office. its counter covered with bottles holding an amazing array of boiled sweets the likes of which you don’t see these days, butterballs and aniseed humbugs. Next door, the home of Mrs. Maher, with sweet-smelling snail vine running across the entire front entry. In her front yard grew a massive old pepper tree, from which, on moonlit nights, a willie wagtails haunting calls of ‘sweet pretty creature’ echoed.
The little church where wattle grew, where bride and groom would pledge their troth, a baby christened, loved one’s fare-welled with hymns and memories. The little, one teacher, bush school that celebrated 100 years of guiding young minds along the path of education.
The sporting grounds, where every year a rodeo was held and competitors flocked from far and wide to compete for prizes. Risking life and limb riding bucking stallions and wild bulls that were brought in from distant paddocks. The accompanying cheers and whistles would ring out above the haze of dust and over the loud-speaker. Joe Murphy on his guitar singing his tale of the Upper Horton rodeo.
ln the near-by hall, the New Year’s Ball was held, all the ladies donned their gowns of brilliant hue to dance the night away with their village beaus, grazier or stockman, to the music of the band and Mrs. Lewis on piano.
To-day, gone are the people of my childhood, the elderly passed on, others have moved away to city jobs, one must survive. Battered by repeated droughts, paddocks lie dry and dusty, the little school faces closure as the population dwindles. The pepper tree survives however, and in its’ branches a new generation of ‘wlllies’ call “sweet pretty creature, sweet pretty creature “.
(Thank you to Shirley Simmons who provided a copy of this story and photo. A second story by Lorraine, about her Horton Village memories, will be printed next week)