AuzeeSheila
New member
As a child, growing up in tropical Brisbane, every home had a 'fruitful' garden. In the farthest corner from the house, was the chook (chicken) pen and it was surrounded by trees of all types. No garden was considered worthy unless it had a few Banana, Custard Apple and Paw-Paw (Pa-pya?) trees, at least one Mulberry bush and also a passionfruit vine along the fence. These were supplementary to the vegetable garden, which every woman used for fresh produce in the daily menu. Most kids would be sent out each afternoon to pick some seasonal beans, peas or tomatoes; cut a lettuce or cabbage, and also to pick whatever fruit was ripe, for desert. Most of the kids I knew, ate half as much again of what they took inside, while they picked.
My favourite was the Mango tree. Every yard had a Mango tree . . . except ours. The standard Mango tree was a huge trunked, massively canopied tree that could shade most of the house and half the yard. In fact, I think that was why they were planted in the first place . . . apart from the beautiful golden fruit they produced. Each year, after Christmas, when summer was at it's hottest, these trees became the chief source of God's nectar - for kids, at least.
Most days, parents never had to worry where their kids were. One step out of the back door and they were re-assured by the soft murmurs of their children doing what they did every summer, all day long. Perched high up in the tree would be anywhere from two to ten children, gorging themselves on Mangoes. We would sit up in the tree, dressed in our swimming togs (costume,) on Mum's orders, peeling and sucking all the juice from each piece of fruit. When we had had enough we would be sticky, orange monsters with long strings of Mango hair hanging from between our teeth, and have to hose off in the yard, before being allowed inside the house again.
As we didn't have such a tree, we had to be 'nice' to our neighbours kids or they wouldn't allow us into their tree. If a neighbourhood feud broke out, the kids without a mango tree could be tortured, without redemption. The kids with Mango trees held 'the power' all summer long. They also had a way of making extra pocket money. They would pick Mangoes and sell them at the front of their houses. This meant they also had more money to spend than the 'have nots.' It must have been during one of these feuds that I decided I would make sure my kids had a Mango tree, if it killed me.
It took a long time, but finally, I did it. Over the years the number of Mango trees in Brisbane sadly declined and they became a rare sight indeed, by the time we moved away. We used to pass through this town on our way to the in-laws at Xmas, and I was surprised each and every summer that there were so many Mango trees and the local kids weren't out front selling them by the bucket load. They were selling for anything up to $3 each in the fruit shops in Brisbane. When we moved here, my eldest was thirteen and the youngest was seven . . all just the right age to enjoy a Mango tree. We bought a house with one tree of it's own and two neighbours trees, which hung over our fence. I couldn't wait for our first summer.
Well . . . I waited and waited . . for seven long hot summers to pass, before we got one decent crop of Mangos. The weather conditions each winter were such that the trees didn't get enough water - or too much; it was too warm - or too cold, and so flowered too early, before the summer heat could set the fruit.
By the time we had that first crop, the children had matured so much that they wouldn't have been caught dead climbing a tree. For the last seven years we have had many, many Mangoes and nary a child to be seen.
More Mangoes than have ever been in history; they rain down night and day. They drop on the tin roof of the shed next door, in the middle of the night. Louts pick them up and throw them at our house, in the middle of night. Each evening at dusk, the sky darkens with clouds of fruit bats which come to roost in the Mango trees to screech and fight, all night long. They only eat a little bit of each Mango, so we get to pick up all the half eaten ones they drop. I leave shopping bags full of intact Mangoes near the footpath everyday, hoping that someone will steal them. Do thieves only like to steal things that are hard to get?
It
My favourite was the Mango tree. Every yard had a Mango tree . . . except ours. The standard Mango tree was a huge trunked, massively canopied tree that could shade most of the house and half the yard. In fact, I think that was why they were planted in the first place . . . apart from the beautiful golden fruit they produced. Each year, after Christmas, when summer was at it's hottest, these trees became the chief source of God's nectar - for kids, at least.
Most days, parents never had to worry where their kids were. One step out of the back door and they were re-assured by the soft murmurs of their children doing what they did every summer, all day long. Perched high up in the tree would be anywhere from two to ten children, gorging themselves on Mangoes. We would sit up in the tree, dressed in our swimming togs (costume,) on Mum's orders, peeling and sucking all the juice from each piece of fruit. When we had had enough we would be sticky, orange monsters with long strings of Mango hair hanging from between our teeth, and have to hose off in the yard, before being allowed inside the house again.
As we didn't have such a tree, we had to be 'nice' to our neighbours kids or they wouldn't allow us into their tree. If a neighbourhood feud broke out, the kids without a mango tree could be tortured, without redemption. The kids with Mango trees held 'the power' all summer long. They also had a way of making extra pocket money. They would pick Mangoes and sell them at the front of their houses. This meant they also had more money to spend than the 'have nots.' It must have been during one of these feuds that I decided I would make sure my kids had a Mango tree, if it killed me.
It took a long time, but finally, I did it. Over the years the number of Mango trees in Brisbane sadly declined and they became a rare sight indeed, by the time we moved away. We used to pass through this town on our way to the in-laws at Xmas, and I was surprised each and every summer that there were so many Mango trees and the local kids weren't out front selling them by the bucket load. They were selling for anything up to $3 each in the fruit shops in Brisbane. When we moved here, my eldest was thirteen and the youngest was seven . . all just the right age to enjoy a Mango tree. We bought a house with one tree of it's own and two neighbours trees, which hung over our fence. I couldn't wait for our first summer.
Well . . . I waited and waited . . for seven long hot summers to pass, before we got one decent crop of Mangos. The weather conditions each winter were such that the trees didn't get enough water - or too much; it was too warm - or too cold, and so flowered too early, before the summer heat could set the fruit.
By the time we had that first crop, the children had matured so much that they wouldn't have been caught dead climbing a tree. For the last seven years we have had many, many Mangoes and nary a child to be seen.
More Mangoes than have ever been in history; they rain down night and day. They drop on the tin roof of the shed next door, in the middle of the night. Louts pick them up and throw them at our house, in the middle of night. Each evening at dusk, the sky darkens with clouds of fruit bats which come to roost in the Mango trees to screech and fight, all night long. They only eat a little bit of each Mango, so we get to pick up all the half eaten ones they drop. I leave shopping bags full of intact Mangoes near the footpath everyday, hoping that someone will steal them. Do thieves only like to steal things that are hard to get?
It
