From the desk of Roland Rocchiccioli

IT is too easy to reflect; to say: “things were so much better back then.” In truth: fact and fiction become clouded — distance lends enchantment to the view; however…

In the process of writing an article on what led me along the path to a creative career, I pondered my childhood. There is no doubt: I am the product of a ‘time-and-place’, the like of which the world will never know again. The roseate hue of youth and the imperfect prism of 2024 notwithstanding, few creative practitioners in Australia enjoyed the cultural luxury of my childhood.

The township of Gwalia owed its predominately Italian population to Herbert Hoover — the manager of the Sons of Gwalia goldmine. An American, he later went on to become that Nation’s 31st President. Hoover implemented what is considered the world’s largest mass migration programme. Consequently, I grew-up with the sound of 28 languages ringing in my ears. Sadly, Australia is linguistically dyslexic. I have never feared foreign languages or the application of a correct pronounciation. When it mattered, in times past at the ABC, it served me well.

At night in summer, across the town you could hear the chorus of Italian miners singing outside their camps. Under the clear, desert night sky the sound of the button accordion effected a melancholic note. I was a solitary child. My parents (they separated when I was 2) bombarded me with books. They, and the wireless, were my passion

With the saltbush and the mulga, it was a childhood of European food, Latin Mass, and cosmopolitan music. These men and women helped changed the face of Australia. They taught the Anglos about food. The town’s minority British contingent came to appreciate spaghetti, ravioli, gnocchi, cannelloni, real cheese, and tiramisu. Never did they pass-up an invite to eat with the Dings!

I was unaware of the richness of my life until I went away to school, and then ventured into the world. Generally, seminal moments are not obvious. Their impact relies on time. As you move further away from your date-of-birth, and it has nothing to do with age — it is the unstoppable sands-of-time, there are those reflective moments reminding us of what has been lost; what, with the advancement of technology, has transformed our expectations, seismically.

While we have much to celebrate, there is cause to lament what has dwindled; what has, by process, being sacrificed, even lost, forever.

The surfeit of children’s books, including Harry Potter and the writings of Roald Dahl, which have replaced Secret Seven, Famous Five, and Biggles, are to be envied. Conversely, an enjoyment which was the prerogative of the majority, is now relished by a minority of children, and substantiated by the pitiful literacy and numeracy rates in Australia.

I posited, when I wrote my childhood memoir, And Be Home Before Dark – a childhood on the edge of nowhere, if I were to meet, again, the little whitehaired boy from my youth, I would know him, instantly, but I doubt he would recognise me.

It was my fertile imagination; the endless radio-of-the-mind which so engaged me, and so dominated my kaleidoscopic journey to a career in radio, and the theatre. It happened by osmosis. Ultimately, I had little choice. It was what I needed to achieve fulfillment. If only we could cherry-pick from the best of what was, and effectively combine it with what we have, it would be a potent force of such creative magnitude.

Alas, I fear the moment has passed…

Roland joins Brett Macdonald radio 3BA 10.45 Monday morning. Contact [email protected].