I know some people still prefer to go to a Bank or Credit Union to do their banking but certainly here in Australia in many instances that option simply isn’t available. It’s not only because of great distances but also corporate policy.
For years my pay was deposited in my bank account and I only received a little square envelope which had heaps of information printed on the inside. It told me how much I’d earned so far that financial year, how much Super I’d paid and tax etc but there was no hard cash. I had to go to the bank for that. Some people had to create bank accounts just so they could get their pay.
Before the Direct Deposits became the official system I used to get a cheque which I took to the bank to cash. I used to get actual notes and coins which I tendered for all my purchases and to pay my rent. When I first started working though I was paid cash, it was given to me in a little brown Kalamazoo envelope. On the outside was simply written my name and the amount of money enclosed. No way could I have dreamt that in years to come I’d be using a single card to pay for just about everything only really needing coins to make the Dog Wash work.
This piece is written in response to Irene Waters blog topic, Times Past – Punishment
I’m a Baby Boomer living in an Australian capital city.
Firstly I’d like to say I was lucky, I think in my family no-one got any pleasure from punishment.
The first punishment I can remember came when I refused to eat my dessert, quinces and rice, I was shut in the bathroom and told I couldn’t come out until I was ready to eat it. I don’t remember how that ended but I do know I don’t eat quinces or sweet rice.
It’s interesting to me that I can remember only one individual instance of being smacked by Mum though I know it happened more often and when I heard, “I’ll give you 5 fingermarks on your backside” I certainly knew what that entailed. The instance I do remember was a smack across the face for making my younger sister cry just before Dad was due to get home from work.
I remember “having my backside tanned” by Dad when I slammed my bedroom door in a rage and it broke the ceramic door plaque. I felt I deserved that one but I still feel a sense of injustice over a school punishment. In Grade 3 we used to get stamps in our handwriting workbooks if our writing was very good. I was sitting next to a boy when I saw he’d coloured one of his in so I did the same. When the teacher saw what I’d done she was angry, I protested that I’d copied the boy. She gave me two whacks across the palm with a wooden ruler and told me one was for colouring it in and one for lying.
I think we were kept in line more with words than fear of being physically hurt and Mum was a master of sarcasm. Dad used his own hurt to make us feel bad. I remember once being so excited when I saw Dad bring home my big brother’s Christmas present that I raced off and told him what he was getting. I don’t know how Dad found out but he looked at me and told me to get out of his sight. That really hurt.