Special Mention
The
Fig Tree
By Lynton Bradford
At
night it was pitch dark, no electric lights, no
neighbours nearby, just the faint, distant sounds of
waves crashing endlessly on the rocky shore and on
starry nights the black shadow of a huge Fig Tree
blotted out half the sky.
These
were among my savoured memories of this special place.
It had no modern amenities, no electricity, running
water, sewerage, telephone, transport of any kind or any
of the conveniences which a young boy would expect in
the late 1930s. Why then do I retain such fond memories
of this home, when the other places were so much more
comfortable?
The
name “Charlton” was rarely used; letters were addressed
simply as “Boat Harbour, Gerringong, NSW”. It was the
only house in this depression between the rolling green
hills, leading down to Boat Harbour and the nearest
houses were almost a kilometre away, perched on the
ridges of the hills surrounding this valley.
I
lived with my great aunt Grace Watkins, after whom my
mother was named. “Charlton” was her family home,
built and added to by her father Frederick, as his
family of 13 grew. It had never been the subject of any
council approvals. In fact there were no councils in the
area when this home was started around the mid 1800s.
Frederick built many fine structures during his life as
a builder in the area, including the Catholic Church,
but this house was certainly no fine example of a
builder’s skill. There were confusing and varied styles
of construction in this wood and corrugated iron house.
The
oldest room was the bathroom, but in my time it was
never used as such. It was of split slab construction,
which had shrunk over the previous 80 years, so that
there was now a clear view of the back yard through the
gaps. With the lack of privacy and the breezes through
the wall, it was the last place to consider taking a
bath. We opted for the kitchen, where there was the
fuel stove to warm the room and a round galvanised iron
tub requiring many trips to the spring some 100 metres
away to fill to a depth of about two inches. Two baths
a week were considered more than ample considering the
effort required.
I
spent many happy hours exploring the rocks around the
bay close to the house. We considered it our little
harbour as few other people came down to it in those
days. You could always catch a fish or two to save the
long walk to the shops.
My
friend Stewart and his sister lived about three
kilometres away across the fields and we had many
adventures together. We “helped” round up the cows for
milking, rode on horses and generally had a great time.
I suspect his father may not have considered our help
particularly useful.
It
was a hard but rewarding life at Boat Harbour. The
chores included collecting wood for the big fire places,
fowls to feed, eggs to collect and walking up to the
town for milk and supplies.
A
large mantel radio used a car battery which had to be
taken to the local garage about two kilometres away for
charging. It was my job to drag it uphill in my billy
cart with many stops on the way, then collecting it the
next day. Consequently the radio was only used to
listen to the news once or twice a week.
The
lounge room was heavily curtained and so dark you could
not read even in broad daylight. There was an organ
with pump pedals which was the only real luxury in the
house.
The
beds had mattresses of duck feathers, so deep you sank
almost from view, a huge mosquito net draped from the
steel and brass canopy over the bed head. Each room had
its china wash basin and water jug, and of course a
potty under the bed.
The
dunny pan needed emptying about once a month. A deep
hole was dug in the vegetable garden and, to avoid
digging it up again there was a plan of rotation. Of
course the dunny paper was cut up newspapers or
magazines. With luck you could read up on stories by
assembling the cut sections while contemplating.
However more often than not, essential parts of stories
were not to be found.
The
original dunny was very fragile after 90 years and was
tied to a large peppercorn tree with fencing wire.
Unfortunately the peppercorn blew down in a gale and
took the dunny with it, so a new one was built.
I had
a fox terrier called ‘Tinker’ and we went everywhere
together, exploring the rocks and sea shore, also rabbit
hunting, but never caught anything as I recall.
My
last visit to “Charlton” was shortly before Gwen and I
became engaged. The place was much the same and Grace
Watkins appeared to be the same aged elderly woman I
knew some 12 years earlier.
During this visit, Gwen and I walked some distance out
to a headland overlooking the sea. A warm spring rain
appeared from nowhere and having no shelter we slowly
walked home arm in arm arriving back drenched to the
skin.
We
changed into clothes retrieved by Aunty Grace from an
ancient, huge trunk. I think my trousers and braces
probably belonged to my great grandfather.
Another
day in this special place which will never be forgotten.
Unfortunately the home is gone now, burnt by squatters
after Grace died. Gerringong is now an “in place“.
Many houses fill Boat Harbour almost to the waters
edge. The only remaining landmark is the great Moreton
Bay Fig tree, now some 80 meters across, planted by
great grandfather some time in the mid 1800s in the
corner of the vegetable garden, no doubt nourished
throughout its life by the buried “treasure” in the
garden.
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My Favourite Place
My favourite place is anywhere
I can sit, with dreams
Of many daring story plots
And intriguing themes.
I
love to sit and watch the clouds
As they go rolling by.
I wonder where they’re headed for,
And wish that they were I.
I
prefer to sit and ponder plots,
In my special chair,
For story plans of mystery
With endings that are rare.
When
I was a little child
I had a secret space
Where imagination ran amok
In my special hiding place.
A
manhole in my bedroom floor
Concealed behind my bedroom door
Provided just the place to find
Childish adventures of the mind.
My
mother never seemed to know
About my secret hidey-hole.
In solitude, I dreamed my dreams,
Acting out each thrilling role.
Sometimes
I’d be Maid Marian,
Being brave as Robin Hood,
Unharmed by the Sheriff of Nottingham –
That was always understood.
The
hope of finding buried treasure
Was always in my mind.
Surely pirates landed here,
Leaving gold and jewels behind.
Now
I’ve grown mature and sage,
Advancing steadily to old age,
A smile still comes to light my face,
Recalling that Special Hiding Place..
Pamela Taig wrote both these poems and won a
Special Mention for 'Father John Fowles of
Thurgoona' and Third Place for 'My Special
Place.'
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A MAN WHO INSPIRED ME
Father John Fowles from Thurgoona
Father John Fowles CCS
Is the Parish Priest of Thurgoona.
For children, distressed, in East Timor,
He needs money now, if not sooner
His
fund raising schemes are ambitious.
His parishioners, Tom, Dick and Kevin,
Ran Fetes to raise a new church,
Ran two raffles, called ‘Highway to Heaven’.
Having
provided his parish with buildings,
Now was the time to raise more.
That’s when he conceived his new notion
To raise funds for kids in East Timor.
He
elevated his eyes and looked to the skies.
‘What we must build now is an aircraft.’
When he told his parishioners his crafty
ambition,
They responded, ‘Good Lord, Father, you’re
daft.’
A
Fly-a-thon was the name he gave to his
scheme.
But there’s one thing a Fly-a-thon needs.
The plane, his scheme so obviously lacked.
Father John began saying his beads.
An
anonymous gift unexpected
Was delivered in March 2004,
A Jabiru J400 airplane kit
Had been delivered to his front door.
In
the garage with several parishioners,
Each Monday, you’d find Father John
Pondering plans spread over the floor,
Creating the plane for his Fly-a-thon.
After
constructing a mammoth church complex
Building a plane’d be a walk in the park.
He soon became sorry for Noah,
And his problems while building the Ark.
After
surmounting each problem,
The plane is now ready to fly.
Awaiting her final inspection,
She’s ready to take to the sky.
“Angel
Wings” is the plane’s appellation,
An appropriate name, Father John.
I pray your venture’s successful,
And will raise money for your Fly-a-thon
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