BY: Al Finegan
REGULAR FEATURES
Living in the 1950s
t h g i N r e Crack
E
ach year, cracker night or bonfire night, was eagerly anticipated - Guy Fawkes Night, the Fifth of November. Guy Fawkes was a pommy bloke who, being a Catholic, disapproved of the non-Catholic politicians. On the Fifth of November 1605, Parliament was to have its annual grand opening ceremony with King James I as star. So good old Guy, sensing an opportunity, rented a basement room under Parliament House. He filled it with 36 barrels of gunpowder with the intention of helping celebrate the impending majestic event by putting the King and all his Pollies into orbit. Unfortunately, he was dobbed in, and the Poms, who have never had a sense of humour, burnt him and a few of his mates at the stake. The English Empire all over the world celebrated the anniversary of his failure by burning a "Guy" effigy and letting off millions of firecrackers and other assorted pyrotechnics. As Guy Fawkes Day approached and the shops filled with crackers, pocket money was collected, pooled, and bungers purchased. For days in advance we collected deadfall timber, old cartons, and boxes, anything that would burn. With
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great artistic delight we made our "Guy". Old shirts and trousers were stuffed with straw and rags until we had the semblance of a man, then he was erected at the top of the bonfire. In the afternoon, while we chanted the ditty, Do you remember, the Fifth of November Gunpowder treason and plot I see no reason why gunpowder treason Should ever be forgot. Adults and kids strolled up and down the streets inspecting each other's bonfires comparing their various merits. Size, "Guy" and creativity were assessed and discussed at length. Then as darkness settled the night lit up from a thousand fires. The hills echoed continuously as crackers were let off from all directions. Pyrotechnics whirled, whistled, hissed and banged while sparklers left a trail of light in circular patterns. The sky was cris-crossed with a thousand skyrockets and gasps of awe filled the night. It was a scene never to be forgotten by generations of kids. Darkness, smoke, noise, screams and laughs overwhelmed the night and as far as you could see, there were silhouettes of people against the fires as sharp cracks and blasts of light made an incredibly surrealistic scene. Then the disappointment as the last bunger and the last sparkler was fired. We couldn't wait to get out of bed in the morning to search through the debris of the previous night, searching for dropped crackers or "duds" that we could let off. Soon the early morning peace was shattered by a desultory series of bangs as fathers yelled at kids to, "Stop that now!" Sadly, this was the declaration that the mayhem was over for another year. Cracker night in Queensland came to a disappointing end in 1972 after the extensive number of injuries, the frequency of property damage and the general
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disruption that was experienced on these occasions, caused the government to ban the fun.
HOME WAS THE CENTRE FOR EVERYTHING.
Most goods and services were home delivered. The day started with the milkman. Each night we would “put out the bottles” with a pile of pennies and threepences beside them. This meant that in the morning someone had to go down and bring back the fresh milk bottles. They were heavy and slippery and many a mother had to clean up the milky mess after junior had dropped the lot. The only means of keeping household milk and other perishables cold was an icebox. So the iceman would come about three times a week, usually at breakfast time. It was a stunning event, and greatly anticipated. The icebox stood at the top of the back steps just inside the door. The icebox was a single insulated container not much bigger than a bar refrigerator with several shelves, the top one being reserved for the large blocks of ice. We would hear the iceman coming at a run up the side path, screaming, “Ice Ho!” This was to give warning to open the back door and the icebox or be in danger of having a large man complete with heavy ice tongs, and two large blocks of ice come straight through both. Dad would leap up and quickly open the door and the icebox, then jump aside. We all held our breaths, our eyes riveted on the back doorway. With an increasing crescendo of noise the iceman charged up the back stairs, burst into the kitchen and with a deafening crash, flung the ice into the top shelf of the icebox. Wordlessly, and in a single motion, he scooped up the coins from the top of the icebox. Then, to the sound of clanging ice tongs and boots thumping - he was gone.
