The Snowden Ancestry

Martha Rouse Snowden (nee Gardiner) was my great grandmother. This photo shows her almost smiling, not like the photo that hung over the fireplace in Granny and Pa Snowden’s house in Subiaco. I was frightened of the woman in that photo and was always on my best behaviour when in that room. She and Christopher Snowden senior arrived in Australia in 1857, making us fourth generation Australians. Pa, the youngest of their five children, was born in Victoria in August 1875, after the sudden death of his father. Having to raise those children on her own would have been difficult. No wonder she grew to look stern and cross.

Pa, the younger Christopher Snowden, was something of a rebel in the family. On leaving school he was articled to an architect, but instead of finishing his training, he moved to Western Australia and worked for much of his life in clerical positions on the railways.

He was a pacifist, refusing to fight in the first world war. Consequently, he got the ‘white feather’ treatment which affected him badly and led to excessive drinking. However, by the time I was born, this was no longer a problem. He was a very loving, caring father and grandfather.

The Willeys Tourer

Russell and me on the Willeys Tourer

In 1949 our father brought home the first car he bought after the post war years of petrol rationing and riding his bicycle to work. I’ll never forget the thrill of seeing this amazing machine suddenly arrive on our driveway. It was like something out of the movies; black and shiny, with big round headlights at the front; space for a large picnic basket at the rear; long, wide running boards for ladies to put one foot on and swing themselves up into the seats. There were two seats in the front and room for the three of us in the back. Russell and Susanne are not likely to remember as they were both still very young but, for me, that day meant we had ARRIVED. A Willey’s Tourer, it was the epitome of luxury in my opinion and my silly little brother and sister had better behave themselves if they wanted to sit beside ‘Princess Victoria’ as we went for our first drive. It was only around the block, but that was enough. I was nearly wetting myself with excitement.

During the summer break that year Dad hired a caravan and persuaded our mother that camping with three children would be great fun. Mum did nothing but complain and I didn’t blame her. We were near a beach, not a shady tree in sight, low scrub all around us and the ocean too far away for any of us to wander off and drown. It seemed isolated but I guess there must have been a toilet block and water supply nearby. They certainly didn’t come with that tiny van.

On the second day Dad drove off somewhere, leaving the three of us with Mum, who fell asleep. I decided to take the little ones for a walk so that their chatter wouldn’t disturb her. I realised that, in order to not get lost, I would need to keep the caravan in sight. Susanne was about two and a half—we couldn’t go far. I followed a track up a nearby hill, thinking it would be fun to look down on the ocean from the peak. We were almost to the top when I heard voices. Initially I didn’t register our names amongst the ‘Coo-ees.’ Russell pointed them out to me—men and women walking through the scrub towards us.

‘But we’re not lost, ‘I protested when the strange man reached us and informed me that my parents were terribly worried. ‘Look, I can see the caravan down there,’ and I turned around, intent on reaching the top of the hill.

Taking my siblings for a walk.

‘Vicki!’ Dad’s voice was loud, harsh and frightening.

My heart quivered as I scurried back down that track, dragging my sister by the hand and grumbling at Russell to keep up with me. I expected a spanking but nothing happened, apart from beers and soft drinks being offered to the strangers who found us.

We returned home the next day and camping with the family was never mentioned again.

CHILD OF THE WAR YEARS

‘CHILD OF THE WAR YEARS is my story from the age of about two until my fifteenth birthday. It’s the story that is probably similar for many West Australians born just before or during the years when our fathers went off to England to fight the Nazis for and with the ‘Mother Country.’

Some of the dads were fighting the Japanese in New Guinea, Malaysia and Singapore.

I was very fortunate to have a wonderful grandfather. For those first few years of my life, he was the father figure. My mother and I continued to live in the house that dad had built in Florest, but Pa regularly came to visit us or I stayed with him and Granny at their home in Subiaco. He cooked the best bacon and eggs and Granny taught me to make up stories.
This memoir also contains information about the generations who came to Australia from England and Ireland. Because of them, my siblings and I are forth or fifth generation Australians. Our great grandfather, Charles Mizen, left England, on his own at the age of sixteen. After moving from Brisbane to Sydney and Melbourne, he settled in Perth and established the first Mizen building business. His son, Oliver (our paternal grandfather) was also a builder – a very successful one, also in Subiaco. His four sons worked with him in the family business, Mizen and Sons. With all those building genes, you’d think I could at least hammer a nail in a piece of wood, but no, I missed those genes.

I just tried to work out how many descendents Pop (Oliver Mizen) has/had. It has to be more than fifty.

Come along to the book launch on May 30th and we’ll see if we can work that out.