There was something magical about the ropeway. A continuous stream of buckets gliding across the landscape, sliding against those imperial towers, over rugged hills, atop deep gullies, above sheep grazing in paddocks or a plough turning the soil.
As early as February 1920 the cement workers were agitating for a pay increase. The trouble was, the area was in severe drought, the company dams were empty and the company was importing 40,000 gallons of water by train daily.
That was Meg’s secret, like many women at that time. Keeping it secret enabled her to gain employment and a husband.
Some cultural celebrations have an obscure origin. Not Mother’s Day. Its founding is indisputable.
They were absentee landowners, colonial gentry, fraternising with their peers, making deals, raising capital and writing letters to public officials and newspapers. They paid an overseer to manage their holding.
I ask myself: why did my Aunt Meg, an openhearted, gregarious woman, who set me on the path of family history, and recorded so much of it, not tell me about my Aboriginal connections?