Non-fiction. Memories are made of this

Memories are made of this.

Growing up in a small rural town would have to be the most wonderful portion of my life. I was born in a remote part of the country where our home had no power and only tank water collected from the roof. It was during the depression days of the thirties so there was very little money and farming was barely enough income to keep a family. We were self-contained, grew a large vegetable garden which gave us food, when a beast was killed it was shared around the neighbours as there were no refrigerators. My father decided to sell up and move, hoping for a better lifestyle, he got a job in a huge dried milk and butter factory. My brother and I started school in the next town. There was a bus to take us, plus a two-kilometre walk each way. In the winter it was always a challenge to see how many ice covered puddles we could break on the way. My two sisters were born here and we all enjoyed a better lifestyle.
I can recall being fascinated with electric light switches; something I had never seen before, many a swift wack reminded me not to turn them off and on all the time. There were not many children my age in this small town but I did manage a few good friends to share the experiences of amusing ourselves. Making your own fun was very easy with a great river for swimming over the summer months, collecting wild mushrooms in the autumn and enjoying the bird and animal life in nearby forest walks.
The war years were quite frightening, as the enemy could have targeted our town as it had a factory with a huge source of food to feed the troops and overseas countries. Blacked out windows and curfews were very strict, I remember us children having a tiresome job of collecting Ergot seed which was part of essential medicine for our armies.
Somehow our father always managed to give the family a nice holiday every year, he made sure he saved up the petrol vouches which were issued to all car owners and use them for our vacation at the beaches, something we all looked forward to, swimming and fishing.
I never remember being hungry as a child but food was very basic, vegetables and fruit had to be grown in our back garden, sugar, flour and yeast were not readily available so bread was not always on our table, I never new what a bananas tasted like but there was always nice citrus growing in abundance.
One of the very few ways of collecting pocket money was the dance in the local hall. The morning after there were many of us out very early to comb the long grass and drains in search of empty beer bottles that had been thrown there by folk attending the dances. We would save them up until the bottle collectors came around and paid us probably a penny each, another sure way of cash was every Christmas mother would make a huge plum pudding with small coinage in it, the more you ate the more money you got.
Our humble little home was very basic, no hot water and bath night which was usually Saturday meant the old copper in the outside washhouse had to be lit, when the water was hot it had to be carried in by buckets to the bath, in the long dry summers with only tank water caught from the roof we needed to share the bath water, unlucky for the person who was last. My brother and I were allowed to use the men’s showers at the factory, this was sheer luxury and we used to enjoy long sessions. Changing bed sheets was another problem, during water shortages only one sheet a week got washed, usually the bottom one and a fresh sheet put on the top.
Father died at the early age of 54 years old when I was still in my teens, my brother had already left home and one sister was working, the other still at school. It was quite a battle to keep the home going, mother never received any pension for twelve months but we managed somehow. With fathers small superannuation we planned a new bathroom, washhouse and toilet attached to the house. The luxury of hot water would have to be the ultimate, imagine turning on the bath tap instead of carrying buckets from the outside copper.