A plea for direction

A 15 minute ex tempore oration on "the lost generation" was given by David Williams. Lined up in front of him he had the representatives of white middle-class power in the State: The Governor, Professor Marie Bashir; the local member for the Federal seat of Sydney, Tanya Plibersek who is also the Minister for Housing; The State Minister for Community Services, Linda Burney who is from the Wiradjuri tribe; and, Clover Moore, the Mayor of Sydney.

David lines 'em up and delivers a spray about the hopelessness felt by the coming young generation of aboriginal people about their role and purpose and prospects in life. It was sobering. His voice broke; he paused. His hands waved in emphasis: yet his core remained resolute. From a bloke at the coal-face to the movers'n'shakers it was a rousing call to arms. I sought him out as he stepped down and was proud to take his hand and call him brudder.

The home fires and then some ...

Hard to pick, but Jean and Ida are a year apart: Ida turned 87 last week. I minded her wheel chair whilst her son, Kevin, nipped off to the 'loo. Ida worked in stores at Rosebery Racecourse during WW2; her son has been in Ordinance with the Army for over 34 years including a tour of duty to East Timor. Kevin talked her into the wheel-chair last year, and she has not looked back. I came away with the impression that life, for Ida, had been tough. Whereas Jean was as perky as the strawberry-blonde she had been, serving as a nurse in Darwin during 1943.


An index-finger pointed in acknowlegement, an open hand-slap of greeting, a wink or a smile: invariably elicited a grin in response. The broads were terrific. Bold and brassy and out there. Hang onto yer hats! Here come some of 'em now ...

A family thing ....

Steeped within me is the belief that wars are fought - and lives given - to ensure freedom for future generations. I must not be alone in that understanding: sons, grandsons and great-grandaughters participated in the ANZAC Day march on Saturday with a sense of gratitude and with the knowledge of this sacrifice handed down to them.

Meet Bill and his son Kevin at the Redfern commemoration. Meet Jason and his father Phillip marching to remember Jason's departed grandfather. Meet Justin pushing his father, Fred. Finally, meet Corby who had accompanied her grandmother, Suzanne, to the Dawn Service in Martin Place and now at 9am was waiting in George Street to cheer on her father, Tim, who was carrying the banner of the Shropshire Regiment in memory of Suzanne's own father, William, who had served in WW1. Four generations of memory is powerful stuff.
Once again, hover your cursor over each image for a little extra information

Our unsung Aboriginal diggers

A sense of community was paramount during this commemoration of Australian servicemen and women: this was the Redfern mob in its country town guise. Weaving his way creatively through the Order of Service, Reverend Ray Minniecon exhorted the sea of faces to come together for each other: for past generations and for future generations.

Although no more than a kilometre, the distance from The Block to Redfern Park covered a milennium of longing: for respect, inclusion and friendship. As I worked my way among the throng, I was embraced continually and blessed with gently falling words, softly spoken. Being used to the harshness of the aboriginal street scene of a humdrum working morning or evening, my protective racist shell momentarily melted.

Big-wigs mixed with the hoi-poloi, as the unique ceremonies of time, place and mob progressed in the most meandering of lines: smoking ceremony, christianity, Leonard Cohen, ecology and the most heart-felt of exhortations for the next generation from David Williams, ex-HMAS Vampire. The Governor - or Auntie Marie - was on home turf.

And the band played Waltzing Matilda ...

Now when I was a young man I carried me pack And I lived the free life of the rover. From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback, Well, I waltzed my Matilda all over. Then in 1915, my country said, "Son, It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done." So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun, And they marched me away to the war. And the band played "Waltzing Matilda," As the ship pulled away from the quay, And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears, We sailed off for Gallipoli. And how well I remember that terrible day, How our blood stained the sand and the water; And of how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter. Johnny Turk, he was waitin', he primed himself well; He showered us with bullets, and he rained us with shell -- And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell, Nearly blew us right back to Australia. But the band played "Waltzing Matilda," When we stopped to bury our slain, Well, we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs, Then we started all over again. Music & lyrics by Eric Bogle

A community life

Howard is one of those blessed people in life who give more than they receive. As Chairman of the volunteer Sydney Tramway Museum, he has guided the discovery, retrieval and restoration of the many derelict trams scattered throughout the state after the excision of trams from our public transport mix in 1961 - a mix that had existed since 1861.Not content with the countless hours he gives to the tramway museum, he has spent additional hours over the last two years working with the curators at the Museum of Sydney developing the Shooting Through exhbition. After being engaged by his talk to members last week, I was close to tears as I worked my way through the memorabilia and photograps they had included. Sights and sounds of my childhood travelling from Elizbeth Street out to my grandmother's at North Bondi came flooding back. My mind's eye "saw" the conductor flip open his book of tickets and clip the section's travelled.As an adjunct to the exhibition, the Historic Houses Trust is offering three guided tours of significant tramway sites: Watson's Bay, Randwick and Balmoral Beach. The first of these was last weekend as Howard and Anne guided a bunch of (aged) enthusiasts through the undergrowth that has enveloped the Watson's Bay loop which opened in January 1909 and was finally unceremoniously obliterated in 1960. It is immensely sad to only find remnants of rusted metal.
Hover your cursor over each image in this post for additional information. Howard is the subject of today's post on 100 Strangers.

Bringing the past to life

Scurrying through the underbrush of the old Watson's Bay tram loop, this hand pared back the political skullduggery of the demise of trams from the streets of Sydney from 1951 to 1961.

Lavender Bay (3)

So many icons: Bridge, Opera House, Centrepoint, Luna Park. But they remain cold and distanced until given a human face.

During the years that saw this tiny nation construct the SHB (1923 - 1932), my father's family lived down Cabramurra way and sponging on them was Uncle Arthur, my grandfather's younger brother. Affectionately known as Mooch - 'cause that's what he preferred to do if the other option was work - his only known work was running the girders as a day labourer ensuring that the welders had the necessaries for the hot-rivetting.


Having ferreted down many a digital alleyway, here is the bridge from Lavender Bay as the arch neared closure in August 1930. Where Luna Park now stands is a series of warehouses with triangular roofs and looking through the bridge a Sydneysider would pick out the Botanic Gardens, Government House and the tram shed on Bennelong Point where the Opera House now stands.

Lavender Bay (2)

Dad exclaimed with gleeful pointing when he saw the two white boat-club buildings on the further shore, as they feature prominently in his mind's eye - except in "his" 1910 there were three buildings: witness the archive image dated about 1909. The railway tracks are still there. The overhead stanchions are rusty, but still standing. Much of the "gentleman's baths" have been demolished, save the pier out to what is now the Lavender Bay ferry wharf.

Dad has learnt to grin sheepishly when I say:"mmm ... wonder where that track leads" and to respond "Something tells me we're about to find out!" I do not mind that he does not remember one iota of this in 24 hours; when we are doing it he knows exactly what we are doing, and how "naughty" we are often being. I figure all those bossy signs don't apply to me when I am showing me ole Da the "oldendays" in the city in which he has lived for nigh 88 years.

Tomorrow: I plant myself near the white boat clubs and face E-E-S ...

Lavender Bay (1)

On the wall of my father's nursing home is a photograph - dated 1910 - of Lavender Bay showing boating sheds and gentlemen's baths. He asked if I knew where LB was: thirty minutes later, much to his delight, we were there.

Lavender Bay is named after George Lavender who was boatswain on the convict hulk, The Phoenix, which was moored here from 1825 to 1837 as a prison ship. This bay joins Milson's Point (the northern pylon of the Bridge) and Blue's Point. Lavender married one of Billy Blue's daughters - Susannah. Billy Blue was a Jamaican convict and ferryman after whom Blues Point was named. Clark Park teems with the eponymous flower.

Even the shoreline has changed since this photograph was taken some time prior to 1875, looking from the tip of Milson's Point into Lavender Bay with the Anglican Christ Church (established 1868) perched part-way up the rise.

Joined

From Blues Point Reserve, North Sydney

Sonnets from the Portuguese

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need,by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the breath, Smiles tears, Of all my life! Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Reaching into the heart of darkness

Bob Fagan, paterfamilias

Exposing his vulnerability - not only to those listening in the dark shadow but to his son breathing beside him - he dares himself to the edge of femininity: to disclosure and to sharing.

Air on a solitary string

Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted, And beauty came like the setting sun. My heart was shaken with tears; and horror drifted away ... O but every one Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done. Siegfried Sassoon

The food of love

If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; As her finger plucked the taut string, she lifted her right foot onto the bleached timber bench, and, bending low, encouraged the melody to envelope the upturned ear ...

Mid-month theme: Subway day

Sydney's extensive rail network constantly receives bad press: the service is not frequent enough; trains run out of order or late; the fares are too high; and, the carriages are not clean enough. While acknowleging these issues, my intent is to describe the past and the present of the rail system. Here is the style of diagram with which many of you will be familiar.
The CityRail Network Map provides a detailed view of the above diagram. I live close to the City and I will post mainly, but not exclusively, about city stations which appear on the right centre of the diagram in a loop known as City Circle.

City Stations Central Town Hall Wynyard Circular Quay St James Museum Martin Place Kings Cross

Suburban Lines Eastern Suburbs & Illawarra Bankstown Inner West Cumberland Airport & East Hills Southern Line North Shore & Western Line Northern Line Carlingford Line Epping Line

The mid-month Subway theme has contributions from the following cities:
Budapest - London - New York - Paris - Stockholm - Sydney

Next month's Subway post: Central Station

Story time, Grandma

Thomas is a tank engine who lives at a big station on the Island of Sodor. He's a cheeky little engine with six small wheels, a short stumpy funnel, a short stumpy boiler and a short stumpy dome. Although his job is to shunt coaches and trucks for the bigger engines, he longs for more important jobs like pulling Gordon, the express train.

The flight to happiness

A heavy heart informs a heavy tread; whereas happiness takes flight and makes spirits rise, feet tap and hearts sing.


Interestingly, the segments of the National Folk Festival in Canberra over Easter that most engaged my whole being were those devoted to dance, where men and women gave themselves over to a sensuous enjoyment of movement and music. The first and final image here is of the couple who yesterday were dancing Colonial sets. The three small images are: Scottish reel dancing, bushmusic tapping, and Argentinian tango balancing.

A meaningful life

Could it be that a deeper meaning is found to life by being a branch on a tree: by joining in with something larger than the individual? Judging from the happiness that spread from each venue of the National Folk Festival in Canberra over Easter, this has to be a distinct possibility. This was a community in action.

Tripping the light fantastic was a favoured past-time: from Scottish Reels, to Colonial Sets, through Dutch Crossings, and via Argentinian Tangos to English Morris Dancers. Faces beamed with delight, even as they flushed with effort all the while converting strangers to friends.

The stockman's camp

At the National Folk Festival in Canberra on Friday, there were many Australian country folk from the classic mould: jovial workers with nary a pretension to their name. Dave here was one of them. He hails from Lockhart, down Wagga Wagga way, the sun and the smoke, the poverty and the toil ageing his body but not his soul. The poverty was in name only: his life holding a richnness few can comprehend. He is the stockyard cook, tending the billy, stirring the stew and bedding the damper in the fiery coals. Biting off chunks of damper steaming from the fire and sipping sweet, black tea, I listened as Australian ballards from bands like Paverty told of a yesteryear in the bush, the milling throng including the likes of bush music legends John Warner and Margaret Walters.