I Was Lucky to be Born In Australia, (Scottish Parentage),

[Jasper Brush]

Biography.

My parents were Scottish.


My father John Macleod, in 1901, was born at Arno a village West of Stornoway, the Isle of Lewis. He migrated to Australia in 1926 as a crewman on a Scottish built tug boat. My mother Marjory Grant was born at Airdrie a suburb of Glasgow in 1903 and migrated with my grandmother and grandfather and five brothers to Australia in 1911. My parents married in 1934, my sister Margaret was born on 27th June 1936 and I was born 27th June 1938. You’ll find my name entered, under, (‘Twins: Longest Gestation’)—in the Guinness Book of Records. Nah that’s not true, only joking, that part was left up to my mum and dad. I was born at Balmain a suburb a couple of tram sections west of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Not long after I was born, we went to live at Cabramatta, New South Wales, a town beside a railway line. The town consisted of two sawmills, one grocery –general -produce store, two butchers, chemist, hardware store, barber and Pub, Oh, and Picture Theatre. The reason we shifted: my grandfather, (my mother’s father), a widower, was 86, lived alone and needed looking after. This of course suited my parents, as my mother had been in service. She had worked for one of the wealthy Sydney Departmental Store owners (Hordens) as a maid at their country estate at Bowral in the Southern Highlands.

And I suppose, this is where my story begins.

We weren’t a rich family, we weren’t middle class, and on the social ladder of wealth I suppose we settled in around about the kneecap. My father, the sole breadwinner, worked long hours as a storeman with the Atlantic Union Oil Company (Esso); catching the first train to Sydney in the morning, and during the dark days of the WW11 he’d arrive home after midnight. He was responsible for keeping the rail transport of Esso’s fuel and petrol flowing throughout the country rail network system. Probably these days he would some highfalutin middle-management name.
Except for a house next-door that had been built by an uncle, our house was surrounded by scrub and bush (gumtrees). The road was dirt, there wasn’t any curb guttering or footpaths, each side of the road were unformed stretches undulating embankments. When travelling to Cabramatta—going by road to the railway station and the town was the long-way. We had a gate in a fence beside our kitchen that opened onto a bush track that went in a straight line through the bush from our place to the railway station. Talking about excitement, probably my first recollection, besides when I was in mum’s womb, I think we all remember that don’t we? My first clear recollection from my childhood was when I was about four, I had acquired a box of Federal matches, I probably got the matches from the washhouse. My first entry into the fascinating world of pyromania, I must have been pretty bright < pun; for a four year old, because I had a decent fire going in the dead grass beside Uncle Jim’s place and ours. There was a rustic house across the street and the two old people who lived there rushed across helped mum put out my conflagration. Naturally I pleaded innocent on grounds that I was a child prodigy performing my first scientific experiment.

It’s true what they say about old age, the older you get the more clarity you have in remembering early childhood. Life’s like the face of a clock; at the time of conception the clock starts ticking and the life cycle begins, we have only one circuit of life to complete. In 1945, when I was seven, my grandfather died. I knew my grandad was very old and sick, when I asked, what did he die from? Mum replied that the doctors said he had just worn-out, which I thought was a pretty good answer and acceptable to the uncomplicated mind of a seven year old. At the finalisation of the estate, my mother became the sole owner of my grandfather’s property, the house, the orchard, and broken-down tennis court. My uncles didn’t complain they all had pretty good jobs and we were the worst off. As far as my father’s side of the family was concerned, two brothers followed his incentive and migrated to Australia. They didn’t have much contact with us, one brother Neill, became a Presbyterian minister and rose through the ranks to become the Moderator of the Presbyterian Church, New South Wales, (A high as he could go within the theological hierarchy in the State), the other, Norman became an educator and Head Master of Wollongong High School. You can see by their vocations that they didn’t fit into our scene on struggle-street; and they reinforced their views of social superiority by making no contact with us at Cabramatta, any news of importance being relayed, apparently, to my father at his workplace.
When I was eight I was staring to appreciate the good stuff in life. The safety of snuggling under woollen blankets when rain was pelting down on the corrugated iron roof, the loyalty of my black spaniel, the love and gentleness of my sister. Like all kids at times I was naughty, if the dastardly deed happened inside the house, I would bolt out the back door (I knew I was a good five or six seconds faster that my parents) I’d scoot around the high side corner, and hide under the house, out of sight, behind the low side of the chimney, about fifteen minutes later my sister would poke her head into the darkness and whisper 'you can come out now, no-ones mad anymore.' Ha, ha these are some of my precious memories.

As far as awareness was concerned, the whole world consisted of that area within a two-mile radius of my home, outside this circle— a venture into the unknown.
I was eight and I was in love. Love, in this instance belonged to a pretty face named Colette. (Just like the poem I wrote recently) The rules of immature love are simple, no fraternising in classrooms, only sly glances in the playground and a total rundown of the days events when walking home from school. For romance, there was the holding of hands, and yes, even the kissing of full soft lips. After four weeks of innocent romance, I became totally committed to the fairest lady in Cumberland (we lived in Cumberland Street) I dropped a bombshell: I proposed marriage! To add a piquant of spice to my proposal I threw in a sea trip, first class of course, by luxury liner to the Scottish Outer Hebrides, where we disembark and romp through the heather to this enormous house full of maids. With a flutter of young black un-massacred eyelashes the proposal was accepted with admiration and dignity. How on earth I ever could afford such extravagance on an income sixpence to one shilling a week, that sometimes stretched to three shilling and sixpence, when my next-door bachelor uncle contributed to my finances was totally inconsequential, to myself, or my under-aged fiancé. I suppose the adage ‘It’s the thought and not the money that counts’ applies when plans are made for underage honeymoons. My mother was not a tall woman she stood about five foot two; she had a gentle loving nature like my sister Margaret, the best way to describe my mum would be the example of a mother hen with a brood of two chicks. After I bade Colette farewell, I walked home and entered the kitchen and related that Colette and I were getting married. First came the frown, then the wry smile, the canny Scot asked in serious tones, had Colette said Yes? Did Colette’s parents know? Had a date been set for the wedding? Would I need an increase in my allowance? (Colette’s parents may be rich) I sat, faced my mother, who by now wore a big smile. Yes, Colette had said yes. No, Mrs Hall did not know about the intended marriage: Colette only had one parent. No, no date had been set, and yes I would like an increase in my pocket money. Well, mum said, you can’t get married until your eighteen, so I don’t have to by an outfit for your wedding for some time, so it looks like Colette and you’ll have to be just real good fiends till you can get married legally. Oh, and about the pocket money, seeing your not taking on any more responsibilities other than the normal chopping wood and feeding the chooks your allowance will remain unchanged For goodness sake, at eight years old I felt like a disgruntled Union rep, I’d put two claims into the boss and they both had been knocked back. But things got worse, the next afternoon walking home from school with Colette, she told me that not only had she told her mother about getting married, she had also blurted out all that other junk about luxury liners and eloping to Scotland.

Oh no!
Things weren’t the same between the two of us after that, sure, we would hold hands, but there was no more kissing.
A couple of months later Colette and her mother left the district and I never saw or heard from her again.


My father was 37 when I was born my mother 34. My sister and I as were never shown any tenderness by my father, we were the children— he lived in the world of an adult. We would go to the beach or the Zoo (Taronga Park, Sydney) but for us there wasn’t any comforting embraces or, as young kids, feeling that our father was really interested in what we felt or thought. Our mother, before we set forth, on our weekend excursions on the other hand was the opposite; she was the maker of corned-beef sandwiches and thermoses of hot tea, spat on her handkerchief and plastered-down the tuft of hair that prayed to the heavens on my tawney scalp, the rough scrubber of invisible grime on my forehead. To illustrate my father’s odd streak of genetic insensibility, which I think at times, might show-up in my attitude, I remember one day, one weekend, when my mother had to go to Sydney, which left dad looking after Margaret and me. After all the ablutions and kitchen and lounge room jobs had been completed my father asked us what we like to do. Being a smartie I said, hey how about a game of cards (house of cards perhaps). Did we play Snap or Old Maid or some other kid’s game? No! We played three-handed poker! These were the rules, when the dealer dealt the other two players must have both hands on the table with fingers spread. (Hey, these are rules for serious players in gambling circles betting thousands of dollars per hand, not nine-year-old kids betting matchsticks) I chuckle about it now, but that afternoon the three of us sitting around the lounge room table things were dead serious. There was deadeye dad the head of the syndicate playing two cunning sub teenagers. Margaret and I would glance at each other; we were scared, our eyes apprehensive steeped in suspense hoping not to make a wrong move. No talking please— the only one that spoke was the dealer. My father was a champion Piper, he had silver and gold medals that he had won at the Highland Gathering, held at The Sydney Showground every New Years day. Yet, the only ones in my family that didn’t learn to play the bagpipes were my uncle Iain and uncle Jim on my mother’s side and myself. All my cousins and uncles played the pipes, uncle Bob was the Drum Major of the Auburn Pipe Band, but I was—the son of the best piper—a reject. I asked my father if he could teach me to play the bagpipes. He brought forth a chanter, a musical instrument, not unlike a clarinet, a teaching flute on which one learns to play pipe music. He spent half an hour teaching me the various notes by placing fingers over the calibrated pipe holes. A week later he came back and asked me to repeat the musical exercise of the previous week, when I failed the test, he put the chanter back in the case, and with his hand on my shoulder he said, you’ll never make a piper son and walked away. My father’s philosophy on life was ‘don’t start at the bottom and work your way up, start at the top.’

I think if I had been born a genius, my father and I would have got along just fine.

As fate went, when I was aged 12 my father suffered a massive heart attack and died.

This is where I end my contribution to this thread— Other than the poem below.

Regards,

John


This poem is dedicated to my mother, Marjory Margaret Annie Grant, who as an eight year old, in 1911, migrated from Scotland to Australia aboard the SS. COMMONWEALTH.

A true story told to me, as a child, by my mother. The ‘SS Commonwealth’ was about an hours steaming out of Durban S. Africa when the vessel ran into a horrific cyclone. The area where the storm occurred is purported to be the same location where the Commonwealth’s sister ship the ‘Waratah’ was lost with all passengers and crew a few years earlier. One of the waves that hit ship was so tremendous that water gushed down a funnel and blew a boiler. The crew were Lascars who worked barefooted, which was unfortunate for them, most, if not all suffered lacerations to their feet due to broken glass.
In my poem I’ve substituted a gigantic wave for the storm; basically, because I find it would be too hard to prolong the intensity of the storm to any length over several stanza’s.

It was the Commonwealth’s last voyage for the Blue Anchor Line, she had been
contracted by the Australian government for the purpose of migration from the British Isles under our first governments migration scheme.
It was the Commonwealth’s last voyage and the captains first.
He showed exemplary skills and did a marvellous job in saving his ship.
The Commonwealth was later sold to an American company and ended her days as a cruise ship on the south east coast of America.


Poetry/prose form. My own concoction! Does not fit a set form


SS.COMMONWEALTH


Glasses raised the first mate peered long; then gave an anxious shout’
“Above the bow sir, about six miles, a gigantic wave and waterspout.”
Eyes on the bridge turned towards the horizon at a frightening sight.
Out to sea, a moving twister and wave that stood above funnel height.
The mate cried. “We can’t meet bow on, she’ll break and split in two.”
With six and a half thousand tons beneath the bridge what the seaman
said was true. “Hurry number one, to the signal stowage, bring a cable
U bolt and key, it’s the only chance the old girl’s got in this roguish sea.
Helmsman, run a cable around mainframe pillars and secure the wheel;
leave enough slack to turn five degrees port or starboard from the keel.”

The green water towered before them— combing angrily in the sky
the captain turned five points east to starboard, the bow stem lifted high,
she bared her red port underbelly then listed some twenty-eight degrees;
steel rivets straining, twin screws whirling, canted down in angry seas;
stressed cable bending stiff tube pillars, kept the rudder deep and straight,
with the bow still pointing a starboard; she rose upwards to her fate.
Four hundred and fifty feet of black hull smashed through the foamy crest
with gunwale scuppers draining— her course true— equal to the test.

Jaw set, the captain moved to the wheel and rang down a speed decrease
he braced his feet then brought the bow around to a heading due-due east.
The vessel quickly gathered way— nose-beating rhythm to the ocean,
flared forecastle fanning fine silver cascades in a showery motion;
down she planed, down the crescent, to meet the oceans flowing course
that broke— then rumbled along the deck with an all-consuming force.
The rolling swell tumbled to the bridge, and crashed into the fore funnel
then parted churning onwards down gaping holes an overflowing runnel.
Foremast and mainmast bent, rigging and wireless aerials sent a drifting
the wave swept to the aft deck, and poop, with loosened lifeboats lifting.

The bow came up, the stern sat down, the sides rolled along the quarter
she shook from stem to stern then settled on an even keel in the water.
The captain signalled below decks for a report on engine room damage
the answer, one double-ended boiler gone— six knots all they’d manage.
The battle won, arms punched the air, with shouts of excited commotion,
while astern the towering green wave thundered to the west in the ocean;
and below, rhythmic thumps of pumps were slowly the vessel trimming,
in tune with deep engine throbs, both shafts turning, both screws spinning.

The signal station, man-on-watch, studied a ship that hove into view
damage on the superstructure, lifeboats missing, and rigging cables few,
house and code flags sagged along the port-side wheelhouse deck.
Code book in hand and glasses to eyes, each flag he closely began to check;
the first, the ensign of the Blue Anchor Line followed by code flags T R B P,
reaching the phone he lifted the handle and returned his gaze to the sea.
“This is the Fremantle Signal Station: harbour pilot, I see a pleasant sight
SS COMMONWEALTH, weeks overdue, will be arriving in port tonight.”




A poem by John Macleod Copyright © 22nd March 2006

[manfredvijars]

Now THAT'S a Tome ...
Thanks for sharing John ...

[Frank Daniel]

A good story John,
Whenever we were in trouble we had a couple of avenues of escape.
Firstly, we couldn't fit under our house, and if mum was in close range, we used to climb up on a six foot paling fence that ran between our house and a wooden workers hut which was just behind. It was a fairly safe possie, as we could sit and wait till we sighted Mum, if she was coming from the south we descended to the North before she could see us - and vice versa. We then kept out of sight for the rest of the day.
If we had a little more leeway, we could do a bolt for the Shearing Shed, (fifty yards) and pretend that we were not at the scene of the crime - even if we were the only ones at home.
'You wait till your father gets home!' or 'God'll get ya!' were two of her favourite threats, or 'there'll be no tea for you tonight'.
Somehow we managed to survive until tea time, and we never went hungry once. When Dad got home he'd only have a grin on his face and God never seemed to take any action, that is, unless He's still keeping a diary.

Joe

Joe

[Maureen K Clifford]

Wow - what a story and what a lucky escape. Just think John had the SS Commonwealth foundered how different things would be...this story would never be told for starters.

Much enjoyed the read.

Cheers
Maureen

[warooa]

G'day John . . not wanting to get ahead in the story, but did you ever make it to the Western Hebrides? Mate I spent a couple of years in Ullapool (the small coastal village in the Western Highlands where the Stornaway ferry leaves from), actually met my missus there and we lived and worked amongst Mcleods (and McRae's and McKenzies and Mackay's). Aaah shades of Old Caledonia . .

Good stuff,

Marty

[Jasper Brush]

G'day Manfred.

Yes, it is strange how much I can remember about my childhood days.

Actually my sister and I were lucky our lives have been blessed, and still are, to have been born in Australia, a country with a heritage of democratic freedom. My heart goes out those ABPA members whose start in life was unrewarding and in some cases filled with fear and the hardship and struggles parents put up with to reach Australia.
Regards,

John

[Jasper Brush]

G'day, Joe.

Yeah, my sister was my protector when I was young.
I was well aware that my motherwould cool down in a short time.
So, when I was naughty the best thing to do was disappear.

I remember on one Saturday morning my mother asked me to wash the dishes and sweep out the kitchen (lino floor). Then my mother grabbed a couple of string bags and took off to Cabra, to do some shopping. After I'd washed this dishes I had a brilliant idea (i thought). I turned on the garden hose and stood in the kitchen doorway hoseing out the kitchen. Hmmm One problem. The water was trapped--no where to go! The water drained to the walls and fell down the cracks between the skirting boards and the wooden floor and banking up run under the lino and soaked into the newspapers on top of the floor boards. In a terrified panic i grabbed a galvanised bucket and mop and scooted around the kitchen trying to soak up surface water, umpteen swabs with the mop and wringing out into bucket produced a three quater filled bucket.
Not Good.
I emptied the contents of the bucket over the back steps and discarded the mop and made for my safety bunker under the house and waited with my back against the chimney.

Well sad to say my efforts were in vain. Yep! I got a hiding.

John

[Jasper Brush]

Quite true, Maureen.

The passengers were asked to leave cabin doors open in case of evacuation of the ship.

When the big wave hit, water tumbled down stairs and flowed into cabins. My mother told me a lot luggage was floating in the cabin. My uncle Bob was sitting on a top bunk using a walking stick to try and fish his baggagea out of the water.

The radio rigging had been destroyed, The Commonweath was a waterlogged vessel slowly making way with sea pumps working overtime to lighten the ballast. If the pumps broke down there was a danger of sinking.

Yep, I lucky to be tapping away on my keyboard.

John

[Jasper Brush]

G'day, Marty.


Nah. Never been back to see my parents country.

Too old now.

Good to see you mate.

Regards,

John

[Heather]

Enjoyed listening John. I wonder what happened to Colette?

Heather