I’ve been observing a family in our street who are new to the neighbourhood, and counted five cars one afternoon.
Growing up, we had one particular family at our school who had enough siblings to put together a football team. Catholics, or so the joke goes.
Back then, they could get away with being a one-car family. Plenty of bikes, but just the one vehicle, a wagon. No seatbelts. Five in the back, three across the back seat, and mum, dad and a baby in the front.
Rarely would they be going to the same place all at the same time, but if they had to, it worked, albeit a manner which these days would land them in court.
Like the new family to our street, they too lived in one house. Bunk beds, I can only assume.
None of the children were in our year, so they never really befriended Geoffrey and I who were best mates, even then.
Geoffrey doesn’t remember when he cleaned his teeth the last time, but we’d had enough conversations about the “catholics” that he can still rattle off the positions we’d created for them on the football field.
There were larger front rowers, a spine made up predominently of the girls, and a back row of the smaller ones. We gave them nicknames – players from the 60s who were our heroes, and we’d call phantom commentary into an empty beetroot can.
It was one way we amused ourselves as kids, so it makes my blood boil when youth offenders speak ill of their recreational choices.
That’s their excuse for stealing a car. Boredom.
We had parks and a leather football that weighed about 3kg.
During athletics time one year, Geoffrey pulled a bed mattress from his family’s spare bedroom. He laid it near the bottom step in the backyard and set a curtain rod from the railing to a tall enough chair he’d found in the shed.
It all made sense to him. This was how we’d practice high jump. Until his mother turned over the mattress to find it had been laying in a shallow pool of mud.
She tanned his hide with the curtain rod which was probably much better than the broken bones he’d have had if we continued jumping two meters into the air, onto a sliding, somewhat soft, but way too small landing pit.
There’s no need for that level of creativity these days. The new family to our street can be seen playing basketball against made up teams who are happy to have their rear end kicked by a superior talent.
Not the older generation. The young ones.
Nevertheless, I’d say they’ve got eight people under their roof, in a four-bedroom house, as most are in our neighbourhood.
When I went to meet them with a batch of Wanda’s coconut slice, I discovered it’s likely at least one of the three generations are immigrants.
New Australians. Educated, giving life a go. Their cars are theirs – not stolen, and necessary.
The eldest of four children is finishing a university degree, while the middle generation run their own business. The grandparents live in a granny flat at the back.
It got me thinking. This is an Australia I’m not used to. But I must say I’m not threatened by it. In fact, I’m encouraged by it and I want to learn more about my neighbours.
Hey Wanda, got any more of those biscuits?
I know you think I’m stashing them for myself, but I’ve got new friends and your cooking seems to be the key to their front door.
