When we go down the farm, it's lots of fun
Things to do for everyone;
Ride the horses, build a new gate,
But we never go to another state.
I like it best when we go out,
We eat nice food and dad can shout.
It's very tiring but very good
And this you have probably understood.
It's a hell of a job, painting the house
especially when you're tired.
Working your back in stops and starts,
until you nearly get fired.
Kathy's inside, keeping warm,
sitting by the cinders,
While dad's outside, breaking his back,
painting the stupid winders.
Nan's in the house, near the stove,
cooking a nice warm dinner.
Pop's out the back, starving to death,
getting thinner and thinner.
By the time you're home, ten past ten,
you think you're nearly dead.
Have your shower, clean your teeth
and then it's off to bed.
It was nineteen forty two
My brother Greg had left the nest
When I went away to Strathfield .
To embrace the life I thought best.
I took with me my memories
Of our childhood years together
Of Olga, Greg and Cyril
And the razor strop, of leather.
The guiding hand of Mother
The example that she set
I remember well those early years
They are with me yet.
l would like to pause a moment
And recall those bygone days
The three of us together
With our f rolic and our play.
I love to think of Mother
On her knees with lowered head
Her beads, hanging from her fingers
The "decades" we have said.
Of Dad and brother Cyril
and the flying loaf of bread
I like to think of Peter
Playing on his bed.
(And the little box of matches
The day he fired the shed).
I remember Father saylng
As he poured himself a beer
I think we should go f ishing
Greg, gather up the gear.
Cyril, stop your bloody fighting
Stop home if that's your wish
Cut an onion bag in half
It will do to swim the fish
Leo, find the knife and scaler
From the kitchen fetch a dish.
I'll need a shave before we go
Olga, heat me up some water
Make us all a sandwich
That's a darling daughter.
Father stropped his cut throat razor
On his favourite razor strap
The strap he used most of ten
When we got him in a flap.
The razor brush he soaked
In a shaving mug of china
He lathered up his f ace
With his Colgate Cream, none finer.
His nose he held to one side
While he shaved his upper lip
Till he turned to threaten Cyril
Do you want another bip ?
He forgot about his razor
Still poised there by his nose
Then as he turned he cut himself
WE FROZE !
Then at last the bleeding stopped
Father sank another beer.
We took a train to Brooklyn
There's a river flowing near
The f ishing trip soon began
Another story does appear
Father caught a flathead
It surely was a whopper
All the boys were proud of it
And their clever Poppa
Greg was told to hold the bag
While the FISH was lowered in
The FISH he dropped into the bag
It came out the other end.
Then Father raved and ranted
As the FISH swam slowly by
Father slowly turned to Cyril
Looked him squarely in the eye.
Now then Cyril, tell me
What's this all about ?
YOU SHOULD HAVE BROUGHT THE OTHER HALF
You stupid, bloody lout.
Other thoughts come flooding back
I remember very well
It will only take a minute
The story now to tell.
I have to go and spend a penny
Olga said with hesitation
Better make it two, said Greg
We are caught up by inflation.
Take a 'trey' and get some lollies
Boiled ones that stick like tack
I'm going to the flicks
It will only cost a 'zac'.
Wait for me, said Olga
She now was sounding keener
The both of us can go
It will only cost a 'deener'.
I'll come too, said Cyril
As he swiftly joined the mob
The three of us can go
We only have to spend 'two bob'.
Again, Cyril puts his spoke in
"Stone the bloody crows"
I haven't got a clue, he said
Just where the money goes.
The other story often told
For what's the stories worth
Was when Father lit the copper
It now brings gales of mirth.
Once a week he'd gather us up
So we could have a bath
Now I will only tell this story
If you promise not to laugh.
First he would fill the copper
Then with a piece of paper
Twist and roll it over
To form a long slim taper.
Once he had turned the gas on
He would insert his flaming torch
When it failed to light
We could hear him from the porch.
When he f ailed to gain ignition
And the flame had burnt away
He would light another taper
And return then to the fray.
All this time gas escaping
Was filling up the room
He thrust the second taper in
We waited for the 'BOOM'.
Father flew across the room
Fell down against the door
Mother and the gathered kids
Braced themselves for war.
Why was Father in the ceiling
I don't remember very well
If you listen just a moment
There's a story I must tell.
Lunch time had long since passed
When Father asked f or supper
Mother called "now come on down"
I'll make us both a cuppa.
The habit then to reach the ladder
Was walk along the rafter
Father missed his footing, mumbled
"it's not the one I'm after".
He crashed right through the ceiling
And landed on the floor
Mother turned and asked him
"Why not use the door ?"
Another day, another place
He was at it, at such a pace.
Father called f or supper
As he climbed down from the gable
Mother poured the coff ee
Said the milk is on the turn.
Mary Philomena said
"Mother what's a turn ?"
Phil you're such a silly girl
Will you never learn.
It's the mobile tray you load
And bring right to the table
To some it's known by another name
Dumb Waiter, for this fable.
Phil thought long and hard at this
And finally got quite near
The Dumb Waiter must be Father lying down
Waiting for the gas to clear.
There's another story stirring
I don't remember very well
I must rely on brother Paul
The story now to tell.
Olga brought her new beau home
To impress the family
Pat 0'Brien he proved to be
So 'Paddy' stayed for tea.
Paul, bring the sugar and the milk
The supper cloth that's made f rom silk
The coloured sugar bowl he used
Had Olga in a flip
It had a broken handle
We found it on the tip.
When brother Paul was only six
They took him to the zoo
They kept him there till six o'clock
Then decided that would do.
The very next day
He came home from school
Said he was DUX OF CLASS
Father thought of ducks and duck
He didn't have a clue.
They thought that he was all mixed up
And thinking about the zoo
Paul got really frustrated then
He said "I ought to kick you".
Now to Philomena, asking for a penny
A penny for the water
Tuppence for the sea
Thruppence for the railway
And God Bless Me
If you haven't got a penny
A h'penny will do
If you haven't got a h'penny
Then it's God Help You.
Five two bobs could buy
A crisp new ten bob note
These we used quite often
When we bet upon the tote.
Two of these, of course
Were known as a quid
These were handy at an auction
In case you made a bid.
Five of them
Were known as a spin
If you won it at the races
That was quite a win.
A tenner was the name
We gave a ten pound note
Change this into silver
Enough two bob's
To sink a boat.
Nineteen and eleven
A penny short of a pound
If he was not the full two bob
He was fun to have around.
Another saying, quite common
"Two bob short of a quid"
Told without the detail
The crazy things he did.
Communication in our day
Was hard to get across
Why the words got twisted
Lef t us at a loss.
Bring units two and six
We are going to advance
Was the story from above
That lost its way by chance
Every one was left amazed
As they heard the Sergeant announce
Bring two and sixpence now, me lads
We're going to a dance.
I've never fished Boambee when our family were there,
Working on the Railway then, I had no time to spare,
Maybe I can tell about the region I know well,
But before I recall that beloved spot, there's a story I must tell.
Way back in time, I'don't know when, twas years and years ago,
We would holiday with the Hawkins, Uncle Reg and Co.,
Fishing, of course, did play a part, but water was for swimming,
It was many years ago and now the memory is dimming,
One picture now, though grim and stark, remains with me, it made it's mark.
I remember Barbara screaming as she watched Paul float away,
Stil watched as Uncle Reg bravely draged him from the Bay,
With Ursula and Maggie screaming, Linda joined the fray"
With Paddy, Reg and sisters three, some how they saved the day.
That's my memory of the story and the details I remember,
I would even go so far to say that it happened in November.
I have never been back there [Boambee). I've been over the bridge many times by train, but only in the dark until last year. I saw Sawtell and waited to see the mystical place of dreams. Almost immediately I was looking at a place that looked like it--couldn't be , too close to Sawtell! By the time we were at Coffs Harbour, I knew it had to have been--but so close to Sawtell ?
Later I remembered our original trip up north. We had detrained at Sawtell and bussed to the town. The town was the shop cum post office, paper shop, supermarket, petrol pump. Even a mechanic for car repairs. And on that first trip we stayed in a place beside it. That was the time Cyril (or was it Leo) came out in measles {or was it chicken pox) two days before we left home. We still went.
Greg or I would go each morning for a fresh loaf of bread and tomatoes--beautiful, firm, rosy, tasty tomatoes at 3d a pound. That was before sliced bread, so Dad would slice the bread and tomatoes and pack the lunch into the creel and off to the beach. It wasn't far but when we reached the Bonville beach we then paddled across a small stream to a sand bar. There we fished and ate until the tide came in, went out and we could again paddle back to land.
One morning things went terribly wrong. Did we sleep in, go too late or was it a higher than usual tide? I don't know but it sure was running a banker. Greg was the only one able to swim. Dad was all right--his legs were long enough but he was weighed down with the loaded creel, fishing rods and one or two little ones. That would still have left Mum, Cyril and I. I give Greg his due--he swam a shuttle service; as each was landed safely on sand he returned and escorted ths next one over. I guess it s only now I realize what a tragedy it could have been--but perhaps it wasn't as bad as I remember. One thing I do remember was that I was too hungry to complain that our beautiful tomato sandwiches were salt-water-soaked !
Our first trip there was while I was still at school; first to Sawtell, then to Bonbon reserve. Then to Boambee, in a bell tent which we set up on the other side of the line. That was the year it rained and from where the famous quote arose: "If you go outside , stay outside; if you come in, go to bed."
Paul, Paul, Paul. Paul as Paul, Paul the priest, Paul the personality.
We all know the joy that Paul as Paul gave to Mum and Dad, in fact to the entire
family, when he dedicated his life to Christ. We congratulate him on his devotion to
> this and we gather here today to celebrate with him on this joyful occasion of his
golden jubilee. Congratulations, Paul as Paul.
Paul the priest. I know he is not a priest, but we will come back to that later. Paul the
personality covers two areas. The first one is images, and the second one is memories.
First to images: some people do not know the difference between priest, brother,
monk, altar boy or nun. (I was one of the above, but don't worry too much about that!)
Hence, Paul the priest. (It should be Paul the religious but that does not start with a P
so it's Paul the priest--clever bugger, ain't I?)
One image I have of Paul is a hard-working Mr Fixit who, while not comptetely
dissatisfied with his superiors, is somewhat frustrated with the lack of support and
resources in some of these set tasks, which require physical, mental, religious and
scholastical ability. While I have been privy to some of these circumstances, I was not
always able to supply the support required, other than, "Stick with it, mate. She'll be
right" .
All the girls--that's the two sisters, two daughters, my wife and my ghostwriter--gave
me some definite instructions about my little say-so. I think they got it from some nut
called Aristotle--and if you don't know what he said, this Aristotle fellow, check with
my ghostwriter (Ghostwriter's note: According to Aristotle, every story should have a
beginning, a middle and an end--he obviously never heard one of Cyril's stories!). Talk
about ghosts--Caspar had nothing compared with my ghostwriter! Anybody want a
housewarming. Bloody Nora!
As we get older, memories fade and we tend to get people, places and facts and events
confused. Check with Olga on this. A memory vivid with me still is as I see it. It
happened at Boambee. Yes, Olga, it is still a magical place. We were at this island
where Greg and Dad rescued us little ones from a rising tide. But before the tide, I was
playing in the sand, minding Paul; Dad was nearby with a large flathead on his 27-foot
fishing rod. When I refocussed on Paul, there he was, face down, with his big bamboo
hat, heading out to sea in a huge surf. I raised the alarm and Dad threw away the 27-
foot rod, abandoning the flathead (I don t know why every fish has got to be a bloody
flathead!), dived in and saved Paul.
Olga and Phil tell me it was not Boambee, but Woy Woy; not a 27-foot rod, but a hand
line on a Coca Cola bottle; not a flathead, I don't think we got a fish that day; not me
that raised the alarm; not Dad, but Uncle Reg or Uncle Wal that saved Paul; no huge
surf; and Greg tells me that the water was not 4 feet deep that he swam through to
save us little ones, but about 9 inches--there was not 4 foot of water in the whole
bloody place!
Further to memories, as they fade and places being confused, permission to read a
poem from Greg:
I remember Father saying
As he poured himself a beer
I think we should go fishing
Greg, gather up the gear.
Cyril, stop your bloody fighting
Stop home if that's your' wish
Cut an onion in half
It will do to swim the fish
Leo, find the knife and scaler
From the kitchen fetch a dish.
We took a train to Brooklyn
There's a river flowing near
The fishing trip soon began
Another story does appear
Father caught a flathead
It surely was a whopper
All the boys were proud of it
And their clever Poppa
Greg was told to hold the bag
While the fish was lowered in
The fish he dropped into the bag
It came out the other end.
Then Father raved and ranted
As the fish swam slowly by
Father slowly turned to Cyril
Looked him squarely in the eye.
Now then Cyril, tell me
What's this all about?
YOU SHOULD HAVE BROUGHT THE OTHER HALF
You stupid, bloody lout.
Now refer to Terry's version in "Up Boambee Way"(p.8). In Greg's poem, it was me that cut the sugar bag. In Terry's version, it was Tony. Now we both can t be that bloody stupid, so I'll go along with Terry.
I can't recall a lot about Paul's early days but I again congratulate him on this wonderful achievement.