Subversive  Salvationists

Let  me  not  cast aspersions on the  Salvation Army. They  have  been recognised as being selfless helpers of the helpless for many years, and have truly  earned  the respect of countless  Australians.  It would be rare for a drinker in a pub here to refuse a coin to the Army collector who, ironically, would put it to use to propagandise teetotalism.

Not all organisations, however, that are made up of ordinary human beings could be regarded as entirely beyond sublunar peccadilloes, and I still smile when I remember some of the experiences I had with them in the past.

Having been born and bred in a coal mining community, I was accustomed to the prevalence of the Salvationist bands and their music from my earliest days.  Probably my first memory of them was when they marched (along with the ubiquitous pipe bands) in the various parades that formed part of the entertainment in a small town on special days.  The ladies with their tambourines rattling vigorously, their red coloured ribbons all a-flutter, their delightfully choreographed movements were for me totally fascinating .  And of course a big base drum never went awry in pleasing my generally arhythmical ear.

The bands were peripatetic, too, and would often leave the mainstreet corners at week ends, and move from area to area around the town, tootling a few hymns or tunes of religious origin, then standing patiently while a preacher testified his  faith and exhorted sinners to see the light ( often to thin air)  before moving on.

My only problem with that was that often their children were recruited into the bands at a comparatively early age, and I know of one instance in a class that I taught of a young lad whose behavioural problems were obviously linked  to it.

Firm family discipline was a feature of the local Salvationists, who mainly came from the north of England, and it was often taken very literally. The people who had previously owned the first house I ever lived in were Army  members and they had very obedient children.  When the father made ginger beer for the first time, he did so in an old cask kept on the verandah.  He could not have been all that experienced, for he somehow made a disastrous error.  The children were admonished that the ginger beer keg  was not to be broached before a particular date and they obeyed that instruction.  Unfortunately however on the due date they all arrived home from school much earlier than expected, while the parents were absent on other business.

They considered that the ukase had run out and so merrily tapped the keg.  The  error  that the father had made had led to a fermentation that had generated a fair percentage of alcohol in the drink. 

The shocked parents arrived home to find three inebriated children sprawled on the verandah.

Down at the back of that same house there was a shed, with a copper boiler in which to do the washing.   My father found there a Salvation Army Cookbook, in which there was a recipe for the delightfully named Nectar, a harmless concoction of cooked up raisins , sultanas and currants, with sugar and other ingredients of which I have no knowledge.  Never one to do things by halves, my father made enough to fill two stone demijohns each of one gallon capacity.

The first of those, used sparingly, lasted quite a while but was a bit too sickly sweet. The other demijohn, tightly corked, remained tucked away near the copper in the shed for a considerable time, and when it was finally opened it had , it appears , developed a high alcoholic content and was not something to be quaffed in quantity .

One of my mother's cousins was offered  some while visiting ,  receiving it with appreciation and declaiming that he could  drink pints of it .  He was plied with more, but as he was  young and unseasoned as a drinker he had  to be assisted back to his home, legless.

My early days at university saw me campaigning against a political referendum set up by a conservative government. I canvassed in the western suburbs of the small country town where I was living .  At one house I was invited inside to meet the patriarch, who was seated, despite the fact that the weather was quite warm, shawl-wrapped in front of one of the largest open domestic fireplaces I  had seen in my life until then, .

He was not greatly interested in the referendum issues, but took advantage of the chance of a visitor to bend my ear about his  early days in Australia.  He vilified that fat Salvation Army Major who had promised  him a land of milk and honey in Australia. When he arrived here however he claimed that his only shelter for a long  time had been a sheet of galvanised iron leaning against a fence. True or not,  he  was  very  bitter  about  it.

When we first moved to  Sydney we lived opposite a Salvation Army hall.  The number of the congregation was minimal, and much more aged compared  to what I had  known  of the  Army in past years.   But the singing was as lusty as ever and brought back many pleasant memories.