this little story is made up of Sunday memories from way back when.Growing up beside a railway line, you could often tell the time by the trains—especially on a Sunday.When the Sunday morning train tooted, my brother and I might be down the paddock or playing in our treehouse. As soon as we heard that whistle, we knew it was nearly Sunday School time.We would gallop back to the house, our big gumboots flopping around our feet.“Hurry, hurry!”Hair brushed, clean shoes on, and into the Land Rover. Dad would be waiting, probably having been told to stop welding and take the children to the Presbyterian Church in Nash Road.We children simply took it in our stride. We weren’t particularly fussed whether we went or not—but Sunday School was quite good.I had my own little blue Bible with pictures. The pictures made me imagine what it might be like to live in a house with outside stairs leading up to the roof. When I later saw Millie’s house in Longwarry, it looked exactly like that.Fancy sitting on the roof at night, watching the stars!But back to Sunday School.The Tutton girls were our teachers. We coloured pictures and listened to interesting stories about life in Jerusalem. Don and Daryl’s teacher was Mr Henry, who had eight sons of his own.I remember one Sunday after we returned home. Mum was cooking chops for lunch when there was a knock at the door.There stood Mr Henry—this time without his eight sons. Don had already told Dad that the Sunday School teacher had kicked him, although knowing my cheeky brother, there may have been a little more to the story. Mr Henry had come to explain that, during Sunday School that morning, his boot and Don’s ankle had somehow had an unfortunate meeting.
Dad was a sensible man. After Mr Henry left, Dad announced that we would not be going back to Sunday School.We children whooped! From then on, our Sunday mornings meant more time to play in the tree cubby, swing across the drain on a rope, build the cubby higher or light a little fire and cook potatoes in the coals.No foil around the potatoes in those days—yuk! But we ate them anyway.Sometimes we walked home from Nash Road because Dad had become lost in his welding back in the shed.On our way, we passed Mrs Streeter’s milk bar—the building where the Bunyip Vet is today. We would stop with our two-cent pieces and buy little white paper bags of lollies.Then we wandered home to Mum cooking lunch, with the ABC News blaring from our red radio.Yes, Sunday mornings, Sunday School and Mrs Streeter’s milk bar all hold fond memories for me.What memories do you have of Sundays long ago?
Happy Friday #lovealwayshenry♥️#storybydaffy📝#picbyai