Dorothy – 15/10/99
Cyril looks back at his childhood – born 1912 My parents were very caring and tried to bring me up well. I believe I had a very secure childhood. At that time children all knew that they had to accept authority at home, at school and in the church. We weren’t allowed to play up and we didn’t play up much. I would try to argue my way out of what I didn’t like, but without success. At meals there was no argument about what we would eat. The choice was to eat what was put in front of us or go without. I think that because we didn’t have too many options we felt fairly secure, even though we wanted to rebel.
I had a brother ten years older than me and a sister five years older. In a way my childhood was like that of an only child.
I was born on a farm in a remote area in the North Island where my father had bought a small farm. We were burnt out in a forest fire and my parents walked off the land when I was two years old. My father got a job in the
office of the local County Council.
World War 1 When World War 1 broke out he was called up for the army. He was considered unfit for overseas service, and was promoted to be area captain
of the Wanganui Territorial district.
I remember the end of the war very vividly. When Bulgaria capitulated we had a procession through the town with bands and flags. More parades followed the surrender of other countries. I remember hearing the speech
of King George V on a crackly radio.
The influenza epidemic Straight after the end of the war came the big epidemic which I clearly remember. My father had not been demobilised, so Wanganui, which was badly affected by the flu, was under a state of emergency and he was virtually in charge of the town. All cinemas, churches, schools – all the places where
people might congregate – were closed.
Every day everyone had to go to a place at the corner of the street to inhale what I think were sulphur fumes. These ‘fumigating chambers’ were
sited all over the town.
My father was occupied for such long hours with administration that I hardly saw him at that time. My mother took on the task of nursing some of the neighbours who were very, very sick. Several of them died. My brother, who was sixteen, acted as a nurse in a Maori hostel where everyone was sick and many were dying. When he came home he was not allowed to be anywhere near my sister and me. She and I really looked after ourselves. It was summer time. I can remember vividly us sitting on the hill above our house and watching the hearses going up and down to the cemetery.
I remember hearing that our family doctor had to work so hard day and night that on one occasion he fell asleep on a chair beside the bed in the middle
of a visit to a dying patient.
It was a nightmare of a time. I can still remember the smell of that fumigating chamber – an eerie sanitised smell. I can still see that queue of people waiting to be fumigated. It went on all morning. So many people died that we became inured to the idea of death.
Being bullied Money was always short in our house. I remember well the issue of footwear in my childhood. At that time all men and boys wore boots. I had a long way to walk to school and my boots wore out. My mother said that I must wear shoes that were my sister’s. Shoes were ‘sissy’. I argued but to no avail. My mother said that a lot of other boys were wearing sandals, so it was fine for me to wear shoes. If the boys made comments I was to say,
“Well, you’re wearing sandals.”
I got into real trouble over these shoes. I can still hear the other little boys chanting, “Sandals are sandals and shoes are shoes.” I was taunted so much the first day I wore my sister’s shoes that the next day I took my shoes off and hid them under a gorse bush and went to school bare-footed. I put my shoes back on just before I reached home. So I had my first taste of being the ‘Ugly Duckling’ – being bullied.
I remember feeling very distressed when a boy who had played truant was picked up by the neck by the headmaster and thrown into the classroom as worthless. I had quite good teachers and I had no problems with schoolwork, but I seem to remember school as an unhappy place.
Sundays and religion My memories about church and Sunday School are quite clear. On Sundays we went to Christian Endeavour and the church service in the morning, to Sunday School in the afternoon and to church again in the evening. I can’t remember hating Sunday – in fact at Sunday School we had a lot of fun – but at the age of nine or ten I really firmly hated Jesus. I thought He was horrible, but of course I didn’t dare to voice that view. Whenever I did something bad my parents would say that I was not only hurting them. I was also hurting Jesus. I couldn’t understand why Jesus was ‘snooping around’ in my life. It took me a long time to change my view of Jesus. I
took on religion rather reluctantly.
When I was ten or eleven I went to a mission for boys and girls held in a large theatre.. We were called to come to the front and ‘give our hearts to Jesus’. I thought I had better do that and my parents were very pleased and thought that I would behave a lot better after that.
I joined the Band of Hope. Its purpose was to promote temperance. I signed the pledge never to touch alcohol. I remember reciting over and over, Tremble, King Alcohol, We shall grow up.
Sex education and ‘character building’ I vividly remember my first lessons on sex although I didn’t know that was what it was. My parents had three rather prim maiden ladies to tea, and in a rare pause in the conversation in the middle of the meal I said, “Do cows lay eggs?” There was a startled silence at the table. One of the ladies who was rather big-bosomed shook as she tried to stifle a giggle. My father tried to be stern and ordered me to leave the room. I couldn’t understand why I was being deprived of my food. I lurked in the kitchen and later my mother brought me back to the tea table with instructions not
to talk.
A few days later she gave me a copy of Edith Howes’ book, “The Cradle Ship”. She said it was about things we mustn’t talk about, and not to talk about it to other boys. I read this ‘fascinating fairy story’ and wondered why my mother wanted to talk about the book with me. Her manner made me suspicious that there was something fishy going on and that I was being taught something that I had to be taught but they would sooner not teach to me. When I reached adolescence I realised that I hadn’t learnt a thing about sex, but I suddenly realised that my body had changed.
I was constantly instructed about what ‘rudeness’ was. If you were in the lavatory you didn’t talk to anyone outside it. It was rude to do that. I remember my mother smacking me because when a little cousin was staying with us I talked to him when he was in the lavatory. (The word ‘toilet’
was never used at that time.)
That sense of forbiddenness stayed with me for a long time.
My sister and I had to wash and dry the dishes after the evening meal, and we used to quarrel a lot although we really got on very well. We shared lots of secrets. When I was about eleven I came home from school with a naughty rhyme which I recited to my sister. Mary, come milk the bull. Only one tit to pull. My sister rushed out and told my mother that I had said something very dirty. My mother rushed out into the pantry and seized the mustard tin and a spoon. I had to poke out my tongue while she plastered it with mustard
as a cleansing and a punishment.
We had a cat which was getting bigger and bigger round its belly and my father told me in an awed tone that the cat was going to have kittens. The cat slept in the washhouse which was off the verandah. When the time came that the cat was having the kittens my father firmly removed me from the washhouse and shut the door. I couldn’t understand why I was not allowed
to see the cat having the kittens.
I really loved our cat – at times more than my tale-telling sister and my mother who so often punished me to build my character. If I used a swear word out came the mustard. When I once rushed in and called her by her Christian name she boxed my ears. If only she could sometimes have laughed, but she was following what at that time were thought to be the best ways to bring up a child to have good values.
More character building One other night while we were doing the dishes I rolled some tea in newspaper to make a cigarette and lit it. My sister again rushed to my mother and my father strapped me on the hand for that offence. He was very gentle and would never have strapped me, but my mother insisted on it.
My mother was very keen on what she called ‘character building’. When something nasty happened or when I got sick she would tell me how it would help me to grow up strong in character and help me not to yield to temptation.
Again for character building I was sternly ordered by my father to have a cold shower every morning, even in winter. Fortunately I was allowed to lock the bathroom door, and I would put one foot under the shower and pretend to have showered. The weekly bath on Saturday nights kept me from
smelling too much.
The Depression Then came the Depression. My father lost his job and the dole payment was minute – nowhere near enough to live on. My father who was naturally cheerful said, “Oh well, there are plenty of vegetables in the garden and books in the public library, so what is there to worry about?” We kept fowls so we had eggs. However, often we had only two meals in the day. I often went to school with no lunch, but other boys would usually give me a
sandwich from their lunches.
I can remember clearly the amount of sharing among the neighbours. We would give eggs to several neighbours and they would share what they had. I remember someone coming in from the country with a pound of farm butter. My mother cut it in half, kept half for us, and shared the other half with
the neighbours.
We would go to the biscuit factory with a pillow case and bring home broken
biscuits and share them with the neighbours.
There were lots of hand-me-down clothes. Whatever someone grew out of was passed on. My mother wasn’t good at sewing but she had a treadle sewing machine and patched and patched. The only problem was how to get suitably
dressed to go to church.
My wonderful memory of the depression is not of the hardship but of the fun
of sharing.
Looking back My sense of the ridiculous never seemed to leave me and helped me through
the difficult patches.
My wife and I didn’t put my mother’s recipes for “character building’ into practice in bringing up our children. We didn’t believe in corporal punishment. However, I don’t believe that my strict upbringing did me any harm, and my Sundays full of church going did not destroy my Christian faith which is still strong. “Cyril was a pen-name used by Ian Dixon in some of his writing in 1999. He is now happy for this article to be presented as Ian’s.”
