'He' was the school tuck-shop owner - across the road from the suburban Primary School I attended (as had my two older brothers and sister, some 10+ years before me).
His tuck shop was the equivalent of a school canteen today - selling 'tucker' or food to the kids (for them to 'tuck' into, of course).
He had called all of us 'Butch' because our Dad was the Butcher for our suburb and several others surrounding our neighbourhood.
In those innocent days, there was no other connotation to the nickname than this simple explanation.
I wonder how Butch Cassidy, the US outlaw, would have felt about the current usage of his name? I do know that being called 'Butch' - the butcher's son or daughter - was pretty special in the 1950's.
For starters, you could come home from school, with friends, via Dad's butcher shop at the front of our home.
After the obligatory kiss and cuddle, we would all get a slice or two of Fritz before entering the house.
Same routine with my loving Mum followed, only this time we had a glass of milk and some of her home-made biscuits - YES!! 'Blindfold' tours were top of the agenda if play was at my place.
The venue included putting the hand of the unsuspecting 'victim' into the mouth of my large but incredibly gentle dog, Kim - and also into the newly made mincemeat trough in Dad's factory.
(I'm not exactly sure of the order of these two activities - but feel certain the local Department of Health would NEVER have approved.
My Dad either - had he known!) Many rich and varied experiences were provided - like leading them over the woodpile, and taking their hand to help them 'feel' the greasy walls of the car 'pit'.
But little compared to the finale - removal of the blindfold - following cheerful instruction by me - but by themselves, inside my Dad's meat 'smoke-room' -that was MANY shades darker than the famous 'Black Hole' in Space.
This was always good for some heartfelt and ear-splitting screams, but I wasn't really cruel - I always let the other kids out of there - fast! Another special 'perk' of being a Butcher's kid, was the phenomenon called 'The Butcher's Picnic'.
This was an annual event, a tradition created in the 1880's with a holiday from school ONLY for butchers' families.
(a newspaper comment about an early Butchers' Picnic stated - ' Of course larrikins were present in strong force, but beyond two or three scrimmages or free fights there was nothing to complain of...
'.
Our particular picnic was held in one of South Australia's National Parks at the foothills near Adelaide.
The event was totally designed for the pleasure of kids - and vicariously, or 'second-hand' for their doting fathers to enjoy their well-deserved 'day off'.
All the old-fashioned games for the kids were entered into with gusto.
Such great old 'standards' as the Egg and Spoon Race; 3-Legged Race; Sack Race; Blind Man's Bluff; Skipping Rope Races; Musical Chairs (on hay bales); Scavenger Hunt; Dress-up Relay Race, and of course a Tug -of-War- - along with normal 'speed' races over various lengths.
And apart from the picnic lunch that all the wives provided and pooled - there were tickets issued to all the kids for icecreams, bags of lollies, balloons, and small glass bottles of soft drinks.
And symbols stamped on the back of your hand to allow you 'x' amount of rides on the various hurdy-gurdies, pony rides and improvised swings (usually swinging from hefty branches of large Gum trees.
And the whole time you were enjoying yourself, you would, of course, spend quite some time feeling sympathy for all the non-Butcher-fathered kids, sweating it out over a hot desk at school - NOT!! (Maybe envy was the inspiration behind the old Aussie saying - 'As popular as a Blowie at a Butcher's picnic' - (a Blowie being the 'jumbo jet' of flies.
Picture it!) As a kid, with no point of comparison, I had no clue as to the quality and variety of meat I enjoyed and grew strong and healthy on.
Between my Dad, the Butcher - and my Mum, the excellent cook - I was SO well-fed - SO nurtured.
In hindsight (and after many years experience of hopefully buying 'good' meat - only to be disappointed many times) - I totally commiserate with my Dad's dismay (even horror) when my Mum stewed some Rump steak! In all innocence, she said, "But it's all just meat, isn't it?" Yes Mum - but only if you never had to actually buy it - and pay the price! Personally, I think it's incredibly sad that 'Butch' has to mean something else altogether today.
I liked the friendliness intended by its usage when referring to my Dad's kids.
It defined us as belonging to him - and believe me, there was no shame attached to 'that' label.
My siblings and I were extremely proud of our nickname and our surname - and most of all, exceptionally proud of our Dad.
Christine