Every now and then one of our readers sends in a memory that transports us straight back to a different time .... when kids roamed freely, the milk arrived on the doorstep, and a tricycle could take you halfway across town before anyone noticed you were missing.
This delightful recollection comes from Frank, who shares the story of a quiet morning that turned into a secret expedition… and very nearly ended with a visit from the dreaded Mum moment.
Enjoy!
It was a quiet day, like many before.
After a hearty breakfast of Weet-Bix topped with golden syrup and a small glass of milk (full cream… full fat), Mum retrieved the bottle from the front step before the magpies could remove the thick cap of cream.
I retired from the kitchen table to read my newest Golden Book. It featured a lady who lived in a shoe with more children than anyone sensibly needed. The pictures were good, but I could see no obvious way to improve her situation other than loosening the laces a bit and sitting closer to the kitchen stove.
The words were all there, but they meant nothing to this three-year-old reader. Perhaps later in life I might return to appreciate the finer nuances of nursery rhymes and someone called Mother Goose.
Dad rose from the table, picked up his ham, cheese and gherkin sandwich - neatly wrapped in a brown paper bag - and headed out the front door for a day at The Bank. His job, as far as I could tell, involved taking other people’s pennies with a promise to give them back should they ever be required.
Mum busied herself at the sink scraping dried bits from the plates so tomorrow I could repeat my breakfast, hopefully with sliced banana on top this time.
The front door was ajar, so I sauntered onto the verandah and settled into the old rattan rocking chair to plan the day ahead.
Sunny. A bit of cloud. Looking good.
Fossicking about in my toy box I found my silver-plated cap gun and a fresh roll of caps. I loaded up and soon despatched two magpies, one starling, and three passing pedestrians. Metaphorically of course.
Sadly, they all managed to walk or fly out of range.
Time to plan the day properly.
My Cyclops tricycle sat patiently at the foot of the steps, ready for action. Only three steps stood between me and freedom.
Easy, I reckoned.
I descended one step at a time backwards, hanging onto the step above and lowering myself carefully down. Three steps completed, I rolled to the left, placed my handgun neatly in the front basket, dusted off the saddle, climbed aboard and set both feet on the pedals.
Then I turned, exited through the open front gate, and headed left - strictly on my side of the footpath.
The wind in my hair.
Free as a bird.
Within minutes I reached the end of the street and turned left again, as instructed. Mum had been quite firm about one thing:
NEVER RIDE ON THE ROAD.
Twenty minutes later and two blocks farther on, I found myself on the bridge that crossed the railway lines into town… where The Bank was.
What to do?
A quick pedal and there I was… at the shops.
After pedalling a block and discovering I could go no further without turning left onto the road (clearly forbidden territory), I executed an about-face and retreated the way I came - back over the railway bridge and towards home.
With luck I might arrive just in time to find Mum waiting at the gate with a chocolate Quik and a straw.
On the return journey I turned right whenever necessary, carefully avoiding roads.
I also kept my gun handy in case the magpies attempted harassment.
Return trips always seem shorter.
Before long I was back home - Emoh Ruo once again - along with my faithful rocking chair. The trike was parked in its usual spot and I resumed command of the six-gun, eventually managing to wing the postman.
Mum, meanwhile, had moved to cleaning the back windows and was quite content in the belief that I was safely playing on the front verandah.
The day passed pleasantly enough.
Lunch appeared on white bread with relish and tasty cheese, and my secret reconnaissance mission remained exactly that… a secret.
Until Dad came home.
Apparently I had been spotted pedalling past The Bank, and the teller later asked him:
“Do you happen to have a blond-haired kid on a red Cyclops trike?”
If I get the chance another time, I might also tell you about my first real encounter with THE WOODEN SPOON.
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