My first impression of Roelands Mission was a favourable one—except for the slightly claustrophobic feeling the closeness of the hills induced. There were seven hills surrounding the mission, someone informed us. In fact “Seven Hills Mission”, was its original name.
The landscape and the environment were peaceful and tranquil—even though it was a hot dry mid-summer’s day and the paddocks were covered with dry grass and patches of bare brown dusty earth. I just knew that I was going to like living here.
It was paradise compared with the Settlement conditions. The food was wholesome and nutritious. An established vegetable garden, the mixed orchard that produced an abundance of stone fruits, apples, pears and citrus fruits, and eggs and dairy products, enabled the mission to be a self-supporting, productive and enterprising institution.
When winter came shrouded in its dismal grey mantle, the trees that were covered in the warm autumn coloured leaves now stood stark bare and leafless—almost lifeless. The playing fields were a slushy quagmire with springs of fresh water seeping through the ground. A cold and sombre atmosphere permeated the mission. The inmates stayed indoors—only venturing outside to perform rostered duties, attend school and to have our meals. The river had swelled and was spilling over its banks and the creeks were full and running down to join the river. The meeting of the waters took place at the fertile triagular plot where the vegetable garden was established.
The bullfrogs croaked very loudly in various tones all night. During the day we searched for these creatures, these croaking nuisances, to rid ourselves of their nightly plunk-plunking forever. We never found too many—a couple I think. So for the rest of the winter we either grew accustomed to their croaking or if you were one of the lucky ones you slept through it.
Rising early each morning when the mists were stationary over the river at sunrise was something you got used to. We braved the chilly frosty mornings to do our duties. It seemed that every movement every action was done mechanically, with no pleasure and definitely no enthusiasm.
It is needless to say that when spring came it was welcomed with opened arms. The landscape was transformed once again, and it stimulated the senses with the abundance of fragrance, colour and appeal.
With the sensation of spring one could easily become intoxicated by the blossoms, the flower gardens and the sight of the blaze of colour the golden wattle trees produce. There are seven varieties located around the mission. This is the time when the orchards are also filled with the abundance of blossoms which will later bear fruit.
In the fields of lush green pastures, the sheep and horses and cattle are grazing heavily. The unfurrowed fields are now covered with golden dandelions and white patches of subterranean clover. Spring is life, movement and productivity.
But if you were to ask any ex-mission boy or girl what they remember most specifically about the mission, they would probably say the hard work, discipline and the bible. And spring. The arrival of the grapefruit season meant the hard work of picking, washing and packing, ready to meet the demands of not only the local markets but overseas to Singapore. This was a busy time for us. Walnuts must be picked, washed and laid to dry. There was fruit to pick, to be preserved and to be made into jam.
Many may view this as a form of child labour but we didn’t, we saw this as a labour of love. I suppose we felt obligated—after all we were family and we all benefited in the end.
It was easy to sing songs of praise about creation and life. And when I recall nostalgically my childhood experiences I will always remember these seasonal changes and also the other changes they bring with them, such as the change of pace, mood and concepts.
We looked forward to the long walks in the bush during the warm spring weather, when we feasted our eyes on the masses of wild flowers that grew in profusion west of the mission. There were splashes of colour and brilliance everywhere. It seemed as if every available space had become part of nature’s beautiful garden; this parkland unspoiled and undisturbed by man. There were patches of light blue leschenaultia, and for contrast there were small bushes of violet blue hovea flowers and as always a carpet of white, pink and yellow everlasting. Scattered amongst the black boy rushes and under the huge gum trees a variety of bush orchids grew, displaying their exquisite beauty in varying colours for bushwalkers and nature lovers to admire and enjoy. We were discouraged from picking the flowers, though occasionally we were given permission to pick small posies to take back home to our dormitory to put in our commonroom.
In Autumn we sometimes emerged from the river banks with coronets of white bush clematis, which we named bridal creepers, and carried bouquets of white lillies. With garlands of these pretty white creepers trailing everywhere we dusky barefooted maidens paraded and danced amid the laughter and cheers. We were celebrating the innocence of youth and the emergence of romantic fantasies. Many of us declared that we would wear the same bridal creepers in our hair and carry lillies on our wedding day. We were going to be Easter brides.
So despite the rigid formality of the place, the prayers, the restrictions, and the narrow-minded Christian fundamentalist teachings—the place, the location, will always be for me the embodiment of security, stability, peace and tranquility.