A Local Century - Part II

I was looking forward to George’s 100th Birthday morning tea and was honoured to have been invited but I was ill that week and didn’t want to share my germs with Lovegrove Lodge. I called and asked for a message to be passed on to George with my sincere apologies. When I was well enough to return the following week, I found him happily sitting on his recliner in his room. He was happy to see me and thanked me for considering him and his fellow residents when I was sick. Again he offered me a cup of tea and pointed to the collection of yummy home made biscuits and treats sitting on his dresser from the celebrations.

“Now where was I?” he said picking up as if it hadn’t been nearly two weeks since we had last seen each other. We had a quick run down of what we had covered in the previous interview which bought us back to the army. I settled into my chair as if I was opening a good book half way through. Familiarity and comfort washed over me as George continued his story.

While George was in the army, a memo came around to the Melville Camp. “After the defeat of Europe,” George explains, “the world was terribly worried about a possible global food shortage and the government was looking for people to work in agriculture.” There was a farm manager job going in Wannamal and George applied. He never thought he would get the job as he had no previous experience but it seemed his credentials were enough. He was discharged and worked on the farm for about 15 months, leaving when the farm was sold in 1946. At this point George and his wife had their first child and were at a bit of a loss as to what to do next. They loaded what little belongings they had in their Maxwell Utility and headed back to Calingiri. “My father in law, always the eternal optimist, recommended I have a go at an abandoned farm that was for sale. It had been abandoned for 35 years and was nothing but a giant rabbit warren. I tried my luck with the local bank but to no avail. They didn’t know me and I had no money. My father in Law encouraged me to tender for it all the same and so I did but I didn’t expect a positive answer. Time passed and I hadn’t heard anything so I decided to follow it up with the R&I Bank (now Bankwest) who held the farm. I called head office” The gentleman on the phone confirmed that he had received George’s tender, along with 8 others. “This is where my luck really began to change” George says with a smile. The man on the phone explained that usually, in these cases, their preference is the highest bidder however things had changed and they were giving preference to ex service men. He told George to come into the office. In 1946 George and his little family became the owners of 2700 acres in Calingiri. “It wasn’t a huge farm - I’ll try to condense this love,” George says looking again at my recording device as if it was going to cut him short any minute. I shake my head quickly encouraging him to keep going “The agreement was that I had to pay off the £1100 on term loan and not ask for any further assistance. I walked away with 2700 acres of rabbit holes! Not a single piece of wire could be found on the farm, let alone a shelter to live in. It had been stripped bare. Anyway the upshot of it was I knew another ex servicemen who had purchased a farm in Yerecoin and he was in a bit of a better position than I was. He was able to buy some machinery so I agreed to work for him. We took turns doing twelve hour shifts, day and night to put his first crop in. When we had finished that, he said I could use his machine and I put my first crop in. All of 200 acres. When it came to harvesting it, I made a deal with another farmer that if I worked 6 days for him then I could use his harvester on Sunday to harvest my crop. I didn’t get much wheat or sleep that year and it happened to be the wettest year I can remember too. I was one of the lucky ones though” George says, always ending on a positive spin. “Shortly after I signed my deal, the banks froze any further sale of available land so that it could be developed by the war service mob before ex service men could purchase it. I got my property in 1946 while some men had to wait until the 50's to buy any land. I call that a lot of luck”

George takes a sip of his tea “How long did that take?” He asks looking at the clock. “Oh dear” he says worried. I offer to come back if he’s feeling tired but he continues on with determination. “Up until then my wife and son had been living with family and the problem with building a house on the farm was the huge shortage of material. It was the Depression and everyone was suffering. Just about 3 or 4 miles from us was the old bush school that had been sitting there for an odd 20 years. It was never advertised for sale so I thought I’d investigate.” George was told he could tender for it and thought he was in for a great chance “I didn’t think anyone else in the world could be interested in it. I bid £40 and was notified that I was outbid by a fellow ex service who had put down £41.” George eventually obtained his first house from an auction of a military camp at Black Point Hill. “It was made of asbestos and sold like hot cakes. I borrowed my father in-law’s truck and we went down there to pull it apart and bring it back to the farm.”

George and Dorothy continued on the farm. Throughout the years their livestock increased, the harvests increased, the family increased and their living conditions improved.“It was a 50/50 partnership. My wife and I made a pact when we got the farm that we would not join any sporting groups for 5 years. We knew that the farm was going to need all our time and attention in order for us to get on our feet. My main aim was to be my own boss but that was no easy job. We worked hard and I couldn’t have done it without a woman like her. She was also a beautiful cook who made her own bread, butter, the works. We always said we lived on underground mutton. Rabbits were a dime a dozen.” George looks at me and asks “Can I tell you another thing?” “Please do.” I answer. “In those days we were pestered with insurance salesmen. We decided that the only thing we could afford to insure was our crops and so we agreed we would take the risk of no life insurance which, at the time was valued at £2000. As soon as we could we decided to gradually put money into a special account until it reached the value of £2000. It was in Dot’s name in case anything ever happened to me. Can I tell you, she still had that bank account with £2000 in it the day she died. She shared it between her grandkids” George tears up again and so do I.“

Anyway, life on the farm ticked on and our five children, Percy, Brian, Yvonne, Don and John, grew up. They have a habit of doing that, you know,” George states. “We were in the position to buy another farm in the name of our oldest son, Percy, who was engaged to be married. I had a chat to my second son, Brian, who assured me he was nowhere near marriage. But as life goes, it wasn’t long afterwards that he married too. We were then faced with the decision to build another house on our farm for us or move into town. Doll would have loved to build another house on the farm but I eventually convinced her that we would be better off in town so we moved to Calingiri and Brian took over that farm.” George has 10 Grandchildren and 23 great Grandchildren. He spends some time proudly talking up all five of his children, their families and their lives, right down to the smallest details, a credit to the type of family man he clearly is.

George and Dorothy lived in Calingiri for over 35 years. In 2000 Dorothy passed away and George continued to live in their house until he was 97 when he moved to Lovegrove Lodge. He’s the only male in Lovegrove and the ladies have told me that he receives the most visitors and treats. “I had to be dragged over here but I know the family did the right thing and I have a connection to Lovegrove and to Dr Lovegrove you know. All five of my children we born in the old hospital here in Wongan Hills and I bet you no one else can show you this!” George says excitedly lifting his ankle onto his opposite knee and pointing to a scar just above it. “Dr Lovegrove fixed me up right here”

We’re getting near the end of our time together and so I ask George what I’ve been dying to hear; “How was your birthday party?” “It was overwhelming, I couldn’t believe it,” he says shaking his head. He points to a gift bag filled with birthday cards “At this age a card or a message is enough but the amount of goodies I received was unbelievable. The ladies have been benefiting nicely,” George says grinning. “I don’t know exactly how many people were here but I suggest it’s worth living to 100 to get a crowd at that. It was a good farewell” I burst out laughing and tell him it wasn’t a farewell party. He replies laughing too “Well, it virtually is.” I tell him that he can’t say that because I would like another interview for his 110th birthday. He looks at me and responds “I’ve always prided myself on being realistic.” I’m still laughing. He goes on to tell me that he had started a list of all the people who had rang, visited or sent birthday messages as he wanted to write them each a thank you note but that it had got too much. I offered to do it for him in this article and that made him relax a little. Imagine feeling guilty for not sending thank you notes ... at 100 years of age!

I offer to give George a copy of the article to read before it goes to print, like so many people ask me to do but George declines. “I trust you, I don’t need to read it before hand” Here is a man who has left me with his life story and has no desire to vet it. I was humbled and even more nervous. I took hold of George’s hand to say good-bye and I didn’t want to let it go. I was so grateful to have heard his story and didn’t know how to thank him enough. When I left that afternoon, I started to think of journalists who hit the big time with interviews from the likes of Hugh Jackman or Barack Obama and I realised I wouldn’t have swopped seats with them for anything. I was in the presence of greatness - ordinary greatness, real greatness. A lost son, loving brother, committed husband, doting father, adoring grand and great grandfather, a loyal friend and hard working farmer. So careful not to hurt anyone’s feelings, George did his best to narrate 100 years of his life to me and I wouldn’t trade that gift for anything.

It goes without saying that I had to condense a fair amount of George’s story into these few, short pages and I chose to leave out a collection of names, all of which George recalled without even thinking twice. People he had worked for, worked with, all of his family members. George’s connections across this corner of the Wheatbelt span great and wide and I can almost guarantee that everyone reading this would know someone who could tell you a little something about him. He wanted me to thank everyone who took the time to wish him a happy birthday this year. He was humbled, shocked and amazed at everyone who reached out and I can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that every single wish meant the world to him. Happy 100 great years George! Here’s to many, many more!