dinner, we didn’t look forward to sitting at the table. Inevitably, Dad would groan to Mum about where the money was coming from, and if he wasn’t doing that he would be shouting at us to finish everything on our plates.
At times, his mood was so bleak we used to literally shiver in our boots. On a bad day, he could suddenly lash out with a slap across the cheeks or over the back of our heads, and we soon learnt it was better to keep clear, remain silent, eat all our food, and at all costs, obey.
I remember once being out in the paddock by the tractor and seeing Jim act a bit brave in his mischievous way when Dad called him to move away from the thing. Defiantly, he just giggled and continued to stand there. Dad asked him again, and again Jim just stood and giggled.
‘OK then, you little bastard,’ Dad fired up, his face dark and swelling with blood. He grabbed a hammer from nearby, held it shaking in the air like an Indian warrior, and we kids, seeing the mad glaze in Dad’s eyes, were sure it was going to be the end of our poor brother Jim.
As it happened, when the blow came, the hammer just missed Jim’s head, but it slammed into the tractor mudguard, so hard and furiously that it left a massive dent in the machine. Jim, quivering, moved away from the vehicle. I actually don’t think Dad meant to hit Jim, but he sure had a way of making it look like he did.
Also, by the time we got to the Perenjora Dam Road property, Dad was slaughtering our own cattle, or “beasts”. So there were times when the food was even quite rich and tasty and full of meaty protein. But as the meat was stretched further and further through the days, so the stews it was added to would become more and more perilous until our meals had that vomitable blend of soft vegetables and grains, especially incorporating barley and pumpkin, which I hated.
‘You kids finish your frigging dinner. You’re not leaving this bleeding table until you do!’
Dad would growl the words as I felt the food coming up to the top of my throat, threatening to explode back onto my plate. Which, of course, would have only made everything worse.
Salt. Salt. Salt . Thank heavens for salt – and Dad’s absolute, unflinchingly strong belief in it. Because without salt, most of my food would have come straight back up onto my plate.
‘Put some salt on your hand, Deb, and just lick it off,’ he would say to me of the condiment now considered by medical experts as a killer. And to this day, I still add salt to everything.
On occasion, we did get a real treat for dinner. My favourite, I cringe a bit now, was when Dad used to go out and shoot the little wood ducks that gathered at our two dams, and we would have them for dinner.
When they weren’t being eaten, the little ducks were wonderful to watch. We kids would spend hours observing them swimming and waddling around our dams like the very small geese they resembled.
Strong flavoured, I’m afraid they were “good tucker” in those days, and because of their small size we would pretty much each get a whole duck to ourselves. The wood ducks didn’t stand a chance against Dad’s shooting skills. They would have heard him coming a mile away, mumbling things to himself like, ‘You don’t ever mess with Dan Gallagher.’ And hearing that they should have run for their lives.
But on those nights when we had the wood ducks for dinner, Dad was a hero.
Another meal that I used to love was cabbage stew. It was made up of cabbage, onions and chunks of meat, boiled up and served with rice. There is not a lot I like to emulate in my parents, but this is one of the things. Cabbage stew. It was a cheap, easy meal, made with our own cabbages and meat from our own beasts. I loved it and love it still.
But back at the ranch, such as it was, the fights continued, only they were growing worse. When Dad didn’t like his food he would simply shove it back at Mum until she returned with something better tasting.
The
At times, his mood was so bleak we used to literally shiver in our boots. On a bad day, he could suddenly lash out with a slap across the cheeks or over the back of our heads, and we soon learnt it was better to keep clear, remain silent, eat all our food, and at all costs, obey.
I remember once being out in the paddock by the tractor and seeing Jim act a bit brave in his mischievous way when Dad called him to move away from the thing. Defiantly, he just giggled and continued to stand there. Dad asked him again, and again Jim just stood and giggled.
‘OK then, you little bastard,’ Dad fired up, his face dark and swelling with blood. He grabbed a hammer from nearby, held it shaking in the air like an Indian warrior, and we kids, seeing the mad glaze in Dad’s eyes, were sure it was going to be the end of our poor brother Jim.
As it happened, when the blow came, the hammer just missed Jim’s head, but it slammed into the tractor mudguard, so hard and furiously that it left a massive dent in the machine. Jim, quivering, moved away from the vehicle. I actually don’t think Dad meant to hit Jim, but he sure had a way of making it look like he did.
Also, by the time we got to the Perenjora Dam Road property, Dad was slaughtering our own cattle, or “beasts”. So there were times when the food was even quite rich and tasty and full of meaty protein. But as the meat was stretched further and further through the days, so the stews it was added to would become more and more perilous until our meals had that vomitable blend of soft vegetables and grains, especially incorporating barley and pumpkin, which I hated.
‘You kids finish your frigging dinner. You’re not leaving this bleeding table until you do!’
Dad would growl the words as I felt the food coming up to the top of my throat, threatening to explode back onto my plate. Which, of course, would have only made everything worse.
Salt. Salt. Salt . Thank heavens for salt – and Dad’s absolute, unflinchingly strong belief in it. Because without salt, most of my food would have come straight back up onto my plate.
‘Put some salt on your hand, Deb, and just lick it off,’ he would say to me of the condiment now considered by medical experts as a killer. And to this day, I still add salt to everything.
On occasion, we did get a real treat for dinner. My favourite, I cringe a bit now, was when Dad used to go out and shoot the little wood ducks that gathered at our two dams, and we would have them for dinner.
When they weren’t being eaten, the little ducks were wonderful to watch. We kids would spend hours observing them swimming and waddling around our dams like the very small geese they resembled.
Strong flavoured, I’m afraid they were “good tucker” in those days, and because of their small size we would pretty much each get a whole duck to ourselves. The wood ducks didn’t stand a chance against Dad’s shooting skills. They would have heard him coming a mile away, mumbling things to himself like, ‘You don’t ever mess with Dan Gallagher.’ And hearing that they should have run for their lives.
But on those nights when we had the wood ducks for dinner, Dad was a hero.
Another meal that I used to love was cabbage stew. It was made up of cabbage, onions and chunks of meat, boiled up and served with rice. There is not a lot I like to emulate in my parents, but this is one of the things. Cabbage stew. It was a cheap, easy meal, made with our own cabbages and meat from our own beasts. I loved it and love it still.
But back at the ranch, such as it was, the fights continued, only they were growing worse. When Dad didn’t like his food he would simply shove it back at Mum until she returned with something better tasting.
The
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