Growing up on a vineyard: through the eyes of innocence...tractors, snakes and lupins

I really can’t recall the age that I realised our family lived quite differently from my friends. It was most likely during primary school because prior to that, I existed in sheer blissful ignorance.

Isn’t it ironic? --- and I hear this a lot from people who either grew up in ethnic communities, or lived a life slightly foreign from the “norm” --- but as I moved into my schooling years, all I desperately wanted, was to live like the other Aussie urban kids.

A house in the suburbs with a cul de sac, footpaths and neighbours, a modern car (instead of an old vintage Humber – but it’s such a sexy vehicle!), spaghetti bog made with mountains of mince and really sticky spaghetti (are you kidding?), and parents who had 9-5 jobs, who wore suits with shoulder pads and carried brief-cases (seriously?).

Okay, at that age I could be forgiven for thinking in such superficial terms, but I still cringe at the thought.  Princess is an understatement.

Thankfully, those princess years are well behind me, and instead I am filled with immeasurable pride for my family and the unique upbringing I was privy to.

So, prior to my influential primary school years, these were my pristine and cherished, technicolour memories of being raised on a working vineyard, just north of Perth.

My Dad is a second-generation winemaker.

Like many West Australian immigrants, my Nonno (grandfather), left Sicily in 1925 and, on arrival in Perth, (after completing a mandatory two year requirement clearing land on a farm in the Wheatbelt), he immediately bought property to plant vines, an orchard, vegetables, raise chickens and livestock and make house wine.

Everything - and I mean everything - was consumed from the land and Dad has great pride in telling me stories of daily life back then.

I don’t blame him.

They must have been magical, yet tough and formative times. Years later, my Nonna (grandmother) joined my Nonno with four of their - soon to be - eight children, via boat. Can you imagine?

Each of my aunties and uncles had their own vocations in life, and Dad’s was to take on the homestead business and make premium quality wine, planting our first vines in the early 40s.

For me, I didn’t know any different.

It was simply what my parents did. Mum ran the nuts-and-bolts, and now in her 80s, she still does – with steely attention-to-detail, I might add.

We had a modest and endearingly quirky wine shop at the back of our house, and everyone who visited was jovial, and super-friendly.

I would play, for what felt like hours, in the jungle of my mother’s pride-and-joy, her plant emporium – otherwise known as the “back patio”.

Customers would sometimes sit at the patio and drink wine amongst cascading hanging planters and overgrown exotic pots. On many occasions, Dad would join them, and they would stay for hours, until my poor Mum had to usher everyone home so she could put dinner on and feed us kids.

It seemed everyone was super-chilled, relaxed - and just so freakin’ 70s cool back then.

My aunty Chris used to work in the little wine shop. I can still smell the Clag-scent that came from the glue she manually applied to labels to stick onto flagons.

I would insist on helping her.

I am sure I did a crappy job, but to her credit, she would give me free-reign with the brush and labels.

I’d sometimes attempt to sweep the floor or carry empty flagons to the sterilising machine as a way of demonstration some kind of useful assistance.

We also had an old underground cellar, and sometimes I would pretend to be Dad and serve (imaginary) people over the bar. I can still remember the musty, earthy smell of the cavernous lair where many a victim would depart, inebriated under my Dad’s charismatic spell.

Daily life was an adventure.

We lived in an old, stone house, the original family home of my Nonno and Nonna and I really loved that house. It was gargantuan in my eyes.

Even by today’s standards, my bedroom was palatially large with soaring ceilings, pretty ceiling rose details and unusual bars that held the walls together; Dad says were used for hanging sausages back in the day!

Every morning, I would watch in awe as my Dad unfurled his thick workman socks.

It must have been quite amusing for him to see me staring at his sock-fitting ritual. But he had a special technique as he somehow rolled the sock onto his foot, starting at his toes with his big Sicilian hands.

It was done with such care, grace and purpose – never rushed – always sitting outside on a bench – and to this day, I’ve never seen anything like it. It was as though he was honouring, and giving thanks to the day ahead. Maybe he was?

And to this day, Dad still wears the same uniform, rain, hail or shine; King Gee (now upgraded to Bisley) khaki shorts and shirt, thick navy socks, and workman boots. He always looked proudly groomed and ready for action out on the field.

And Mum always dressed on-point. Wineries are not glamorous places by any stretch, but Mum ensured she was made-up and fashionably put together. I admire that. If it were me, I would have lived in jeans and a t-shirt, (or athleisure by today’s standards), day-in and day-out.

As a child, I had no idea why Dad drove around on a tractor all day or stood with the Italian pruners laughing and joking among the rows of vines. But if I was lucky enough to score a ride on his lap (and have a go at the steering wheel), then I’d felt like I’d won the jackpot. Oh, the power that came from steering that old tractor!

I loved seeing what the pruners would present from their lunchboxes. They’d sit on crates, some with thermoses and some perhaps with wine. Many would smoke cigarettes or Drum rollies, and mostly, they ate sandwiches with cake or buns for morning and afternoon tea.

My brother, Jason, remembers scoring gulps of thick-sweet coffee, the colour of tar, from Joe, a long-standing friend and worker, who drove a groovy Toyota safari jeep.

But then there was the swamp to discover. My Mother’s constant warnings of snakes and all number of dangers only made me more curious.

So off I’d go; probably the size of a peanut, winding through the vines and lupins, to the very back of our property – and this was where - in my mind - the Amazon jungle beckoned.

To me, it really was like an exotic paradise – my imagination was convinced there were Toucans and flamingos, crocodiles and anacondas coexisting among the bamboo and reedy overgrowth…to this day, I am still obsessed with documentaries about the Amazon River.

My brother and I built a little bamboo raft (actually, Jason built it and I probably watched), so we could sit in the little lagoon filled with tiny lily pads. We saw frogs and lizards, and heard lots of bug noises, but sadly no crocodiles or anacondas.

It amazes me that we never saw any snakes down there. The swampland was absolutely riddled with them. Mum seemed to be the only one that would accidentally step over a tiger-snake while sunning itself at the clothesline or coiled around a pot as she watered her plants. Poor Mum. The snakes were the bane of her existence. And she worried herself sick about us getting bitten by a dreaded tiger or dugite!

Dad saw them often too, but he always held a deep respect for snakes. He disliked killing them. Fortunately, we had “Nero”, a savvy black feline for that.

In the winter months, rows and rows of vines would be carpeted in towering blue lupins. We thought it was so cool to play war games among them. They were so tall, you couldn’t predict when or where someone might leap out and attack! We must have spent hours in the thick foliage. I loved their long fury stalks and violet flowers.

Mum and Dad had cool friends too. Mum tells me I have Dr Tom Cullity, a cardiologist, to thank for saving my life. Unbeknownst to our local GPs, I had a watermelon pip lodged in my throat for weeks on end, and no one could diagnose what the heck was wrong with me.

The accepted diagnosis was asthma due to my constant wheezing and difficulty breathing.

Dr Cullity, who dropped into the winery for a casual visit, arranged at his insistence, for us to see a doctor at Princess Margaret Hospital. Sure enough, I was immediately taken to the operating theatre where the offending watermelon pip was located and removed.

He has since passed away, and I never got around to thanking him as an adult, but in WA wine circles, he was - and still is - a bit of a legend. He pioneered the Margaret River wine industry - founding the first Margaret River winery (now Vasse Felix) in the late 60s – no biggie really.

There is a road named after him in Margaret River, and ironically, it is the road I now take to visit our current vineyard in Cowaramup.

Christmas parties were the stuff of legends back then.

Every year, we went to an annual shindig at Valenica Wines in the Swan Valley. There were kids and families strewn everywhere in what reminded me of a sprawling, country estate.

Jason and I would immediately sprint to the old machinery and play for hours while our parents lived- it-up with fellow friends and industry mates on the lawn. I reckon there would have been some respected wine identities there for sure.

The best part was when Father Christmas appeared; we all went troppo!

I have since discovered he was none other than the honorary Jack Mann – another revered industry pioneer - but I truly thought he was “The” Santa.

And he always gave me the best presents. I felt so important when he called out my name to sit on his lap and receive my gift.

Good on you Mum for putting such thought into my Santa offering – and everything else you did behind the scenes without us acknowledging or even thanking you for it.

We had a huge gravel customer carpark at the front of our house, which was framed by an assortment of fruit trees.

Jason and I would spend hours riding our bikes circling its parameters, pretending to be Ponch and Jon from CHiPs (I guess Jason was Ponch because of his olive complexion – and I was Jon – the fair one!). Or I’d roller-skate on the bumpy blue-metal while Jason channelled Evil Kanievel on his skateboard – often coming home with an array or gashes and bruises.

Like most boys at that age, he was fearless.

We also had a “wine river”; that’s what I called it anyway.

Thick, magenta sediment with its unusual sour aroma (a bi-product from cleaning tanks), would flow from the winery into the vineyard where I would poke and prod at it with a stick, or make shapes in its pannacotta-like consistency.

Jason on the other hand, would glean immense joy from ploughing through the ruby river on his motorbike – thick purple gunge spewing everywhere. He was the poster child for a laundry-liquid commercial for sure.

There is so much more I’d love to recount from these years, but I will leave you with two more memories as part of this magical era.

The Wine Festival at Lilac Hill was one such memory.

In fact, I am amazed I was even there as a teeny tiny human. I must have been all of four years old perhaps?

This crazy, inappropriate and entirely debauched celebration of boozing and drunken shenanigans would have collectively put Burning Man, Coachella and Glastonbury to shame.

In fact, in my eyes, it was more like Woodstock. Stumbling, fumbling, screeching, giggling, shouting, undressing, singing, vomiting, burn-outs…you name it, everyone was monumentally pickled to the core.

I used to play behind a large tent where Dad set up a bar serving sparkling spumante, sherry, moselle, red wine and lord-knows what else, along with his winemaking counterparts. I remember the distinct smell of hay – I think a pony must have been nearby – but there was a definite circus appeal vibe going on.

I’d help unpack bags of brown “pleather” XL5 glass holsters which punters wore around their necks to access as much grog as they could possibly get their hands on. It was a genius idea.

Promises of fairy floss, burgers, chips and ice cream were my priority – and eventually, a kind person --- I can’t remember who ---- ensured the “little girl behind the tent”, was fed and watered! I have no idea how I entertained myself, but I truly loved the eccentric chaos of it all.

The police eventually closed it down…possibly the bikie gangs got involved (not to mention drink-driving). I think that’s what I heard anyway…

And now I will finish with one of my most spectacular cringe-worthy, princess moments.

I was at primary school by this stage and most days, Jason and I would catch the loyal old bus down the road, but every now and then, Dad would take us to school in his vintage Chevrolet truck en-route to our northern vineyard.

I can still smell its hessian-bag, engine grease interior, and the sound of the ancient beast heaving to its very last breath as it changed gears, whilst below us, zippy modern cars accelerated ahead.

I really disliked the poor old truck. And I feel so ungrateful admitting it now, as Dad probably thought he was giving us a real treat driving us to school – and he was.

I remember Jason sitting proudly next to me, grinning from ear-to-ear like King Farouk; meanwhile, I’d be frowning and sulking with my head down. I would insist that Dad drop me off at least two blocks from the school entrance so I could walk; that way none of my friends would see me getting out of an ancient old truck!

Cringing as I write, I know it sounds unforgivable right? But that’s how my crazy little brain was wired once I had infiltrated into a whole new world outside of my bubble.

As cliched as it sounds, I wouldn’t have changed any of it for the world. These experiences have influenced my outlook on life and fundamentally shaped me into the person I am today.

Everyone’s journey is entirely unique; that’s how our layers and nuances are built.

I’ll never tire of hearing quirky stories recalled through the eyes of youth and innocence. The purity and charming observations children interpret are cherished moments – and just so darn amusing and cute.  

Maybe it’s just me, but the process of recounting those days - oh so long ago - has given me faith in the power of the human mind, and how we can harness and appreciate similar magical experiences, in adult life.

After all, who wants to grow up!

Perhaps you’d like to share some treasured memories through the eyes of your younger self?