02/09/2026
THE OLD HOME
Following are more reminiscences from Keith Lord, remembering life in a country home on the Liverpool Plains, from around 1879.
On quiet winter nights when there were no visitors, mother and my sisters would sit in front of the fire knitting or reading, but my brothers and I would crowd right into the fireplace and make bullets for our sporting rifles. Here we would melt lead and pour it into a bullet mould, and load cartridges. We did a lot of shooting, of wallabies and kangaroos principally, for from the sale of their skins came the only pocket money we ever had.
Making bullets and loading cartridges was a most absorbing pastime. The spent firing cap would be pushed out using a re-loading tool, and with this tool we would also press in the greased bullets on top of the measured amount of powder. We would load a lot of cartridges for the many rifles we had, for we spent a lot of time in the scrub after skins; but we never seemed to make as much money from them as we would like to spend.
Father had his own big chair and with his pipe and a book was quite content to be aloof.
These were the days when card playing was very popular. At one time we boarded the school master, and he and two of my brothers would sit in night after night playing a game called pedro. They seemed to get a lot of fun out of it, not only from the playing but from the post mortems after a hand had been played. Sometimes though thee was mild disagreement. “If you had only led your king instead of that stupid little card, we would have downed them”, would be the complaint.
Cards and the making of bullets, loading cartridges, sing-songs round the piano, little dances and plays, just about made up the recreation of those days. We knew of nothing else, and never dreamed that a way of life as lived now could ever come about, and we were content.
We didn’t have a separator, to have cream as soon as the cows were milked. I remember the great dishes of milk set out in rows in the dairy, the cream being skimmed off in the morning, and the old wooden churn with its handle to be turned, at which we all toiled when the butter would not come.
I remember the great copper in which the clothes were boiled, and the long lines of clotheslines stretching into the distance, filled from end to end. There were a lot of us at home then, for the family had not scattered as it was to scatter later, and the wash was a monster.
There was the making of yeast to be held in the bottles by a line around the neck of them and tied over the cork, and how the yeast would froth over when the cork was removed! The great mounds of dough and the many bread tins, set aside for the dough to rise before going into the oven. Then there were the brownies, especially at harvest time – big as buckets – that made our mouths water. We hadn’t a thought for the over-worked cook whose day was so long, cooking in quantities bordering on mass production.
Gradually members of the family drifted away. The little place would not support us all, and life for the cook became less hectic. Gradually life changed. The numbers of visitors who made up the happy parties lessened as some of them married and moved away; and a more subdued way of life followed.
Reference: Road Through Life, Reminiscences by Keith Lord
Photos: Butter churn and milk separator from QDHS Museum display