MY FATHER CRYING - WHAT COULD IT MEAN?

Seventy-one years ago today, my paternal Grandma died - at age Sixty - six years. Here is a Post from 2011 which relates what for Eight Years old me, was a sadly memorable event.

 My Dad John Joseph Dixon 

      at about the age I was that

morning 

                                                                      

His Mother Eleanor Margaret Dixon
  taken the same day as Dad above.

Friday, 20th August 1948:  I was asleep in my bed, just clear of the inward opening door of my bedroom at the front right-hand side (facing), of our two-bedroom timber cottage in Second Avenue Berala NSW. I was woken when the door opened hastily.

There stood my 41 years old Dad. A tumble of thoughts into my gathering consciousness: Dad doesn't wake me in the morning ( Shift work meant he was either at work or not long in from work and sleeping at this hour),  why was his hat crammed on his head in the house? and....... what! My Dad was crying..... what could this mean?  "You'd better get up quick Anth, Ma has died", and he sobbed even more. 

Turmoil. Mum was already up at Grandma's which was in Third avenue just behind us and a tad higher on the gentle hill. Up I got, dressed quickly, no breakfast and round the block we went. The 1900 vintage cream painted timber house, had originally been much smaller but had been added onto. Up the front steps into the hall and I was taken down to Mum who was busy holding the family together, consoling this one, calming that one, and meanwhile getting them fed. My maiden Aunt Nell who was a very good-hearted soul, but at that stage of her life very tense, afflicted with a bad stutter, suggested while Dad was there, that I should be taken into Grandma's room to see her body. 

You can perhaps imagine my horror - at eight years of age - at the suggestion. I had no experience of death and I had no desire to see the Grandma I loved so devotedly, and who loved me, in death. I would NOT go in.

 Dad was too absorbed in grief to intervene, but mercifully Mum came across, asked what the fuss was, saw my reaction and put an end to that idea. I can't remember the rest of the day.

The funeral was some days later leaving - after the Requiem Mass - from our Church-School - St. Peter Chanel's on the hill at Berala. My mind boggled at all the relatives and friends and fellow Parishioners - the Dixons were not the greatest Churchgoers( masterly understatement - I'm getting better at it!) , but in earlier times the wooden Church as well as the Convent, had been in Fourth Avenue behind Grandma's house  and there weren't many houses in those earlier days ,so " Mag. Dixon" was well known to the Nuns and to many Parishioners. That old wooden Church had been hauled up the hill to the new Parish location, by draught horses, sometime in the '20s or '30s, and was now the Parish Hall.

Grandma was 66 years old.

Dad's Father, Thomas James Dixon died on the 2nd August 1950. I had rarely seen him. He had left the family home many years before, had a major problem with drink, and was not a very endearing person (actually, I'm getting better at understatement !) He was 66 years old also - I had never realised the coincidence of their ages at death until a minute ago, when I came to write this!

Deaths in August were to become more common in the family for some reason as you will see if you bear with me.And, as it happened, when my dear Mum died in August 1971 she was also 66 years old.


Requiescant in Pace.

FATHERS DAY MY DAD

HERE, IN 1927 DAD LOOKS LIKE THE TYPICAL YOUNG BANKER OR CIVIL SERVANT

WHICH HE WAS NOT, HE ALWAYS WORKED IN BLUE COLLAR OCCUPATIONS

There are no more pleasing words to a father's ears than the proud announcement "This is my Dad!" Well, "This is MY Dad!"

To-day , Fathers Day, I remember and honour my own dear Dad John Joseph ("Jack") DIXON.Sent to work at age 11 years in a metal foundry, he had a pretty tough life. Dad died on 12th May, 1992, just three weeks short of his 85th Birthday. He had survived the death of my Mother by almost 21 years .

His life experience together with his local social network, made him a lifelong Labor Party voter. He persevered in this even after he said he was convinced that the Labor Party was riddled with Communists whom he despised - he just could not bring himself to desert the "working class party". And in fact he did see the world and the nation in those Victorian era Class terms.

My Dad was born a Catholic and educated in a Convent School, but for long periods did not practise his religion. Yet when his "kind eyes"won the heart of Miss Elsie Georgina Beckmann a petite and beautiful,modest girl from a devout Evangelical Protestant family , he required that they be properly married in the Catholic Church. Miss Beckmann was instructed in the Faith and duly became a Catholic, and they were married in 1927.

To-day's cynicism might suggest that he was being hypocritical. But in those days people were honest about doing wrong  - he knew it was wrong not to practise his religion, but he also knew that there are absolutes of such importance that you don't abuse them : he would not betray his Religion, even if he did not practise it - that Truth was bound to him for life.

When I was born, Dad was 32 years old ,he was never unkind to me, but not outgoing or physically demonstrative of his love. ( The Poet James Macauley writes powerfully of his own Father's inability to physically express any affection.) He worked on the construction of the great Garden Island Graving Dock, for the Navy. This was a protected employment category, which stopped him being sent on labour battalions to Darwin when he received the call-up. He could not be in the regular forces because of faulty eyesight resulting from an accident at the Foundry when he was about 13 yrs old.

JOHN JOSEPH DIXON (L of Photo) around 1911
WITH HIS MOTHER, ALBERT (R)
AND BABY BROTHER BILL WHOM DAD GREATLY ADMIRED

As I grew up, all my interests were largely alien to my Dad except Politics, and even then we were on opposite sides of the fence! Only after many years did  I hear that Dad was very proud of my progress in Banking  and in other areas and used to regale his regular drinking mates at the hotel in Lidcombe with my latest efforts. We almost never got to talk at any length on any subject , conversation being limited to brief exchanges of statements never pressed too far lest the heavy crunch of disagreement should wreck things.

Dad was remarkable for his ability to tackle any manual task with great skil, even the trads of carpentry, roofing, painting, and even (shhhhhh don't tell ) electrician and plumbing. he had a formidable collection of tools of all sorts for tasks both small and large.

In my twenties and thirties , I could perceive all my Father's faults with clinical efficiency, whilst making every allowance for any tendency  to deficiency on my own part. As the years went by my Dad evolved, particularly after he came to see the devastating effect of his faults on my Mum's fragile mental health following a Hysterectomy. He came to see in time, how cruel was the effect of stubborn,sullen silences - sometimes lasting 3 days - over some exaggerated "offence", on someone so vulnerable. He was transformed.

He also returned to the practise of the Faith which was very pleasing to see and took great delight in his three grandchildren, Marianne, Justine and Matthew and never ceased urging me to look after my wife!

But still he could not freely and easily communicate either emotions or ideas.Whether or not this disability stemmed from the treatment he received from his brutish and drunkard Father, I cannot say for sure, but if I were a betting man......

My Dad in 1947 aged 40 yrs.

Dad's later years were plagued by troubles with his heart - suffering from an "enlarged heart"which caused recurring build-ups of fluid around the heart, these required repeated hospitalisation to relieve them but there could be no cure.

In fact he had just successfully completed one such routine, and was about to be released, when he suffered a heart attack and died. The Catholic Chaplain to the Auburn Hospital where Dad died was quickly on the spot to minister to  his poor body and pray for his soul. His name was Father Stephen Swift and I was most impressed by the card he left endorsed with all that needed to be done to ensure a proper Catholic burial - for he knew nothing of the family.

We were living in Brisbane at the time and I received a call from my Brother Pat telling me of Dad's death and saying that the Hospital  wanted to perform an autopsy. I was on the first plane down next morning and went straight to see the Doctor in Charge -  a young Asian gent. He was prompt to offer condolences and almost as prompt to proffer a form authorising an autopsy for signature. When I objected that they clearly knew the cause of death, and that  this was unnecessary, the form quickly disappeared into the pocket of his white coat. I informed him that after the long periods of my Dad's health problems, I did not want his body used for training purposes. This is a matter which I believe the Hospital handled very badly to say the least.

My Dad in later life. His left eye had been lost to Glaucoma in 1957 and replaced by a glass eye.
He never once complained about the inconveniences and problems of orientation this necessarily involved.

So John Joseph "Jack"Dixon I love you dearly and hope we have the opportunity to understand each other far better in Paradise.My prayers for the repose of your soul and of Mum's are daily made.

FATHERS DAY

For Fathers’ Day

Fathers‘ Day calls up a number of thoughts and this photo, which is one of my favourites, can serve as a hub for them.

It has, I suppose, never been easy to be a Father (or a Mother for that matter). But in these cynical, politically correct times, in the death grip of American left liberalism which has spawned radical feminism as well as environmentalism, multiculturalism and a grab bag of other –isms, it is hard enough being a man, let alone a Father.

Sure, for the sake of commercialism, Fathers have been emphasised over these days running up to tomorrow, but there is no depth or conviction about it.

But it is a grand thing to be a Father and even a Grandfather! I speak from experience.  The earliest years of a child’s life are wonderful despite the stresses and cares, the dirty nappies and the occasional smile that gives way to a projectile output. The consolations of the responsive love and joy of one’s own little child are immeasurable. 

 Despite the fact that many children still feel the natural need to distance themselves from their parents as they struggle through the pre-occupations of finding themselves in their teens and coming to terms with puberty, they generally reach the stage where they can relax and regard their parents quite comfortably. There is an immense fulfilment, pride and satisfaction in seeing the achievements of anyone we love – but in the case of our children and grandchildren, it produces a special inner glow.

It is true that there is the down side:  the problems of illness – suffering and risk are hard to endure and the failures and occasional, even fundamental faults they might display. But the anxious prayers of a loving parent are a special privilege to offer up. They also provide opportunities to look at ourselves afresh and consider our own faults and failures.

So, as Fathers’ Day 2017 is about to dawn –THANK YOU TO : my own late dear Dad and those who went before him ( at least one not so nice) and to my dear wife who made it possible and to Maz and Jut and Matt who have given this Father so much to be grateful for. And thank you also to ( in order of appearance) Stephen Dixon ( see photo asleep on his Fathers tummy),  Josephine Dixon, Emily Whiting, Gabrielle Dixon, Christopher Whiting, Anastasia Dixon and, last but not least, Daniel Whiting, all of whom have re-juvenated their Grandparents and none more than this Grandfather!!

It will be a Happy Fathers’ Day for me and I wish my dear son Matt a Happy Fathers‘ Day 1,000 Kms to the North in God’s own country!

1947 RELAXATION - MANLY BEACH AND A CULTURAL ICON PEEPING OUT

WITH MY DAD IN PITT STREET,SYDNEY 
OUTSIDE THE WATER BOARD HEAD OFFICE

 It may seem bizarre, but here I am with my Dad, going to the beach! Yes that was the way we and most others dressed for a casual day out! Did you spot the "Cultural Icon "peeping out? Take a close look at my beach bucket - made in good sturdy tinware - no plastics then. (There was Bakelite - widely used in the ever more popular mantel radios, but it was brittle and far from suitable for any knockabout purposes.) On the bucket you will see the reproduction of the bow of R.M.S. Queen Mary whose image wrapped around the bucket - what more could a boy want! 

"The beach", for us almost invariably meant Manly -"7 Miles from Sydney and 1,000 miles from care!"as the signs inside the stately, steam powered ferries used to say. I loved the trip! The ferries themselves were impressive to me with beach names like "Barrenjoey", "Dee Why", "North Head"and the latest and greatest was "South Steyne"- stories of her sailing out from England ( where else!) were listened to in awe, including the tales of the seating having been burnt when fuel ran low!!These steam ferries had engine rooms that were visible from the passenger decks - looking down onto the tops of the cylinders with glimpses of the great piston rods and the cranks of the driveshaft. Scent of steam, oil, grease, sounds of the engineroom telegraph bell, the hiss of steam and the mechanical throb of the thrusting pistons and turning cranks were all come together most powerfully and enchantingly for this little boy.

As is still the case, nature being what it is, the matter of boarding the ferry was always a changing task as the tides at Circular Quay or at Manly ebbed and flowed. There were pairs of short , simple wooden planks with guard rails on one side only - for the lower or main deck, and very large and heavy steel framed ramps on wheels which the wharfhands moved into place for the Upper Deck.

The scent of the sea water at the Quay was complemented by the salt on the "Smiths Crisps" which were an inevitable complement to the journey.I can taste them now. Calls of "Stand Clear!"and the boarding ramps were withdrawn, the faces of disappointed late arrivers littered the wharf.The engineroom telegraph gave its double ring and gracefully we began to move away as the last of the mooring ropes were being coiled down. Generally we stayed on the Starboard or right side, the better to see the naval vessels at Garden Island Dockyard which is still the largest Naval Dockyard in the Southern Hemisphere, and had and still has, the largest heavy lift crane in the Southern Hemisphere.

As we turned out of Circular Quay and headed East down the Harbour we passed on our right the red brick pile of Fort Macquarie which, its name not withstanding, was a large tram depot.( Someone later had the idea that this would make a fine site for an Opera House....and you know the rest!)

For all my later and continuing interest in the Navy and Naval Vessels, it is a cruel truth that I have no memory at all of the many USN, RAN and even RN ships of all sizes that I must have seen there. However I have a very clear memory of the Hospital Ship "MANUNDA" beautifully white with a green band around her hull and emblazoned with the Red Cross on her sides, passing our ferry on her way back to the war. I can still recall the appalled reaction of my parents when, having heard that "MANUNDA"was her name I, very pleased with my rhyme announced "The "MANUNDA"went under"!.Perhaps it was this audience reaction that led to my disinterest in poetry for very many years.

S.S. SOUTH STEYNE Just past the Heads and running in to Manly Wharf

We swept past the homes of the rich and famous and the next point of interest was the Rose Bay Flying Boat Base - the Flying Boats themselves were sometimes to be seen at their moorings, and joy of joys, very occasionally taking off or landing - quite a show!

Some of the older ferries- still quite large, had internally an opening from the midships section of the Main Deck from which we could look down into the Engine Room and see and hear the  great steam piston engines driving the swiftly turning cranked propeller shafts! Sights , sounds and smells to win a young boy's heart! O how I loved it! And I was continually torn between this great drama and the colourful and varied scenes we were passing and the scent of the sea itself!


A gentle turn to Port (left) around Bradley's Head where I was taught to observe the masthead of HMAS SYDNEY ( I ) and reminded that "the SYDNEY sank the (German) EMDEN"in WW I. No-one mentioned the too-painful mystery of the loss of HMAS SYDNEY ( II ), still unexplained at that time.

Then , by degrees we began to feel the influence of the sea as we ran by the Heads. At times this was almost a non event - a mere tummy tickle, but, at other times the effect could be challenging - everyone looking for a handhold and the occasional person being ill. As the ferry headed some of the heavier waves, water would spray on board , what fun!Sometimes it was necessary to cancel the services due to rough seas. Later, as a teenager, I used to wait for days when the seas were reported rough at the Heads, and go into town (the City) with a friend to make the exciting crossing of the Heads - "exciting"- but safe otherwise the Ferries would be cancelled!

But "all good things must come to an end"and all too soon we were past the Heads and gliding into Manly wharf.Then we walked off down the Corso past the intriguing string of Milk Bars, Fish and Chip shops etc. etc. to the Promenade which gave onto the beach backed by the tall and pleasant Norfolk Island Pines. Looking up to the right we saw the imposing sandstone bulk of St.Patrick's Seminary. There are several points of departure from this point - but I shall take them up on later occasions.

*"THEIR OWN PRE-OCCUPATIONS"

HOME AGAIN

"Their own pre-occupations” indeed.

I did not have long to dwell on these subjects before I arrived home to some shocking news.

My Dad had lost his eye to Glaucoma which is a buildup of fluid behind the eye. Nothing had been said to me, no inkling of this was given by letter. Lest it should cause me to return home! Or lest it should disturb my mind! What amazingly selfless action on the part of my Mum and Dad, who in the first instance had not wanted me to go. They had endured this traumatic event with their own quiet stoicism. The event had been entirely sudden and without warning. Dad had been riding his bike the several miles up to his work at Potts Hill Pumping Station along the road toward Bankstown, one evening for the Night Shift. He had worked at Potts Hill for many years since the War. It was then steam powered by coal-fired boilers and he was an Engine Room Attendant - hot, dirty work. A sudden stab of intense pain in the eye caused him to fall from his bike. He thought a passing car had thrown up a stone and struck him. By sheer grit he got himself to the Station where help was called and at the Hospital the Doctor gave him the grim news. The operation was prompt - his left eye was gone- replaced by a temporary glass eye, until a tailor made "eye" could be prepared.

This permanent eye had not been produced, when I arrived home, the whole trauma was not much more than a week or so old.

MY DEAR MUM & DAD A VERY INFORMAL PHOTO EARLY IN THE MORNING
ONCE ONE KNOWS THE DIFFERENCE AROUND DAD'S ARTIFICIAL EYE (HIS LEFT) CAN BE DISCERNED

I have endless admiration for the courage with which Dad dealt with this distressing development. I never once heard him complain or ask for consideration in any way, yet the disorientation, inconvenience and no doubt pain and discomfort must have been immense. Jack Dixon was made of steely stuff!

Not many days after arriving home, I was to receive another shock. I said to Mum and Dad that I had better go around the block into Third Avenue and visit Grandma's house (as we still called the former home of Dad's Mother who had died in 1948. I wanted to see my maiden Aunt Nell (Ellen) and Dad's Brother Bill particularly. Under the terms of Grandma's Will, the house was to be a home for the two unmarried people as well as Grandma's Brother Tom "Wingy" (for his withered arm-result of a childhood accident) and Abby (Albert) who, for all his constant presence in the family in my childhood days, I do not understand his relationship. Dad's Mother only had two children, my Dad and his younger brother Bill. Her husband, my Grandfather was a sometimes violent alcoholic and had not lived in the family home for years. Grandma had taken in a number of "strays" including her brother Tom, Abby, my maiden Aunt Nell (daughter of Grandma's other Brother Jack whose wife had died giving birth to Nell - during or after the First World War he re-married to an English woman who would have nothing to do with the daughter of his first wife) Grandma also took in two sisters Thelma (Joan) and Anne who were relatives in some way, but from the country- around Goulburn I think.

But I digress (in grand style!) So I walked around to the old house at 34 Third Avenue. It was a rambling old 1890's house built in several stages. I was chatting to Nell in the kitchen, when in walked Abby. I was appalled and horrified to see that there was in his neck a large hole. When he breathed or attempted to speak, the most ghastly noises resulted. I felt physically sick, my mind was reeling. The poor fellow had of course had one of those distressing cancer of the throat operation which normally result in the person adopting the wearing of a special cravat. He was not the most sensitive of souls, and had not yet been convinced of that necessity, though he was to do so not long after.

1911 MY GRANDMA DIXON WITH MYDAD ON THE LEFT  AND POOR ABBY ON THE RIGHT
DAD'S ONLY SIBLING, HIS YOUNGER BROTHER BILL IS ON GRANDMA'S KNEE
WHO ABBY WAS I DO NOT KNOW

here was no way I could "stay calm and carry on”, I could not get out of the place quickly enough and tried to make some pathetic excuse as I left. Not one of my more glorious moments.

When I got home, Mum and Dad were mortified that in all our pre-occupation with our own problems, they had forgotten to forewarn me.

Plainly, others had greater and more traumatic problems than I had.

As the days passed the question of what I should now do came sharply into focus. Having planned and hoped for so many years to work directly for the Saviour of the World, all other things seemed like so much dross- all equally mundane and unimportant. But that was my choice. I wanted time to sort things out. But Mum and Dad were concerned that this would result in mere brooding and advocated that I should promptly seek work. The euphemistically titled "gap year" had yet to be invented. We could not have afforded it in any case!

At the end of junior High School (Third Year in 1954) along with all my Classmates, I had undergone the State Government’s Vocational Guidance testing. This was obviously a fruit of the new "scientific age" and the limitless ambitions of modern Psychology, which, naively accepted, did so much to destroy many Religious Orders in the post Conciliar turmoil.

So I did all the marvelous scientific Rohrsach tests etc. staring into images of colored circles to see what numbers I could discern, all the multiple choice questions and so on. I don't think we got to examining the entrails of animals- perhaps there wasn't time. Then I answered all the "cleverly designed" questions about what I would do if, and what I would choose if, to covertly discern my inclinations etc., etc. And, having laboured mightily, with careful analysis, the highly qualified Psychologist delivered himself of my Report and the judgment that I was suited, to "Arts, Law and Economics......really anything that you choose."

The wonders of Science!

My family had always voted Labor and so I had been brought up with an admiration for the Federal Government and particularly, Prime Ministers Curtain and then Ben Chifley. And occasional exposure to Frank Capra movies only reinforced those attitudes. On my own account, I had developed an admiration for the then Prime Minister the Liberal Sir Robert Menzies.All of this, led to me in my immaturity, thinking that it would be good to work for the Federal Government. So I applied, sat for the examination, and was accepted and then appointed to the bureau of Statistics!!! NOTHING COULD HAVE BEEN LESS APPEALING. Sure, it was adequately paid, secure and all that, but it was soul-destroying and brain deadening and the published seniority lists rubbed in my face the vast numbers of people who would have to resign, retire or die before I could move up thousands of them.

The Bureau of Statistics was located near or perhaps in the same building as the large DYMOCKS bookshop still in the same premises in George Street, Sydney, between King and Market Streets. My co-workers consisted of two Greek chaps in their forties, one quiet and pleasant, the other goggle eyed, sex-obsessed and bitterly anti-Catholic. There was also a fat young Anglo fellow who considered himself a free thinker, but that did not seem to have been to any great purpose. The boss was a mustachioed ex-Army War veteran whom the others ( behind his back )regarded as a fool , and his contempt for them was pretty clear. I was on at train to nowhere.

I had gradually decided that I wanted to be a Lawyer and preferably a Barrister. This seemed to be a way to do good, to argue for what was right and to defend the innocent and all that. But my family could not afford to send me to University.

At the same time, my Dad recalled a friendship with a gentleman he greatly revered. A real gentleman that is, not abusing the term in any way. Mr. Howsley Farnsworth to whom I was introduced by Dad, was a very Senior Executive in the New South Wales Department of Railways administration.(The Railways have, in the intervening years undergone numerous ludicrous name changes and organizational changes, to give the appearance of real progress.)

RAILWAY HOUSE YORK STREET ABOVE WYNYARD STATION WHICH ALSO EXTENDS UNDER THE PARK IN THE FOREGROUND - IT WAS KNOWN AS "THE GREEN HOUSE"FOR OBVIOUS REASONS

The result of this happy introduction was that I was appointed to a clerical position in the Solicitor for Railways office in the Green House above Wynyard Station in the heart of the City.

The Solicitor for Railways was one Sydney Burke, not an endearing character, and there were about 16 solicitors in the Office supported by about16 other solicitors, supported by about 12 Legal Secretaries and  5 clerks of whom I was the least. I had found a "home" , or so it seemed. 

*JANUARY 1947 - A "CULTURAL ICON" (peeping out!) MANLY BEACH

WITH MY DAD IN PITT STREET,SYDNEY OUTSIDE THE WATER BOARD HEAD OFFICE

 It may seem bizarre, but here I am with my Dad, going to the beach! Yes that was the way we and most others dressed for a casual day out! Did you spot the "Cultural Icon "peeping out? Take a close look at my beach bucket - made in good sturdy tinware - no plastics then. (There was Bakelite - widely used in the ever more popular mantel radios, but it was brittle and far from suitable for any knockabout purposes.) On the bucket you will see the reproduction of the bow of R.M.S. Queen Mary whose image wrapped around the bucket - what more could a boy want! 

"The beach", for us almost invariably meant Manly -"7 Miles from Sydney and 1,000 miles from care!"as the signs inside the stately, steam powered ferries used to say. I loved the trip! The ferries themselves were impressive to me with beach names like "Barrenjoey", "Dee Why", "North Head"and the latest and greatest was "South Steyne"- stories of her sailing out from England ( where else!) were listened to in awe, including the tales of the seating having been burnt when fuel ran low!!These steam ferries had engine rooms that were visible from the passenger decks - looking down onto the tops of the cylinders with glimpses of the great piston rods and the cranks of the driveshaft. Scent of steam, oil, grease, sounds of the engineroom telegraph bell, the hiss of steam and the mechanical throb of the thrusting pistons and turning cranks were all come together most powerfully and enchantingly for this little boy.

As is still the case, nature being what it is, the matter of boarding the ferry was always a changing task as the tides at Circular Quay or at Manly ebbed and flowed. There were pairs of short , simple wooden planks with guard rails on one side only - for the lower or main deck, and very large and heavy steel framed ramps on wheels which the wharfhands moved into place for the Upper Deck.

The scent of the sea water at the Quay was complemented by the salt on the "Smiths Crisps" which were an inevitable complement to the journey.I can taste them now. Calls of "Stand Clear!"and the boarding ramps were withdrawn, the faces of disappointed late arrivers littered the wharf.The engineroom telegraph gave its double ring and gracefully we began to move away as the last of the mooring ropes were being coiled down. Generally we stayed on the Starboard or right side, the better to see the naval vessels at Garden Island Dockyard which is still the largest Naval Dockyard in the Southern Hemisphere, and had and still has, the largest heavy lift crane in the Southern Hemisphere.
As we turned out of Circular Quay and headed East down the Harbour we passed on our right the red brick pile of Fort Macquarie which, its name not withstanding, was a large tram depot.( Someone later had the idea that this would make a fine site for an Opera House....and you know the rest!)

For all my later and continuing interest in the Navy and Naval Vessels, it is a cruel truth that I have no memory at all of the many USN, RAN and even RN ships of all sizes that I must have seen there. However I have a very clear memory of the Hospital Ship "MANUNDA" beautifully white with a green band around her hull and emblazoned with the Red Cross on her sides, passing our ferry on her way back to the war. I can still recall the appalled reaction of my parents when, having heard that "MANUNDA"was her name I, very pleased with my rhyme announced "The "MANUNDA"went under"!.Perhaps it was this audience reaction that led to my disinterest in poetry for very many years.

We swept past the homes of the rich and famous and the next point of interest was the Rose Bay Flying Boat Base - the Flying Boats themselves were sometimes to be seen at their moorings, and joy of joys, very occasionally taking off or landing - quite a show!


A gentle turn to Port (left) around Bradley's Head where I was taught to observe the masthead of HMAS SYDNEY ( I ) and reminded that "the SYDNEY sank the EMDEN"in WW I. No-one mentioned the too-painful mystery of the loss of HMAS SYDNEY ( II ), still unexplained at that time.

Then , by degrees we began to feel the influence of the sea as we ran by the Heads. At times this was almost a non event - a mere tummy tickle, but, at other times the effect could be challenging - everyone looking for a handhold and the occasional person being ill. As the ferry headed some of the heavier waves, water would spray on board , what fun!Sometimes it was necessary to cancel the services due to rough seas.

But "all good things must come to an end"and all too soon we were past the Heads and gliding into Manly wharf.Then we walked off down the Corso past the intriguing string of Milk Bars, Fish and Chip shops etc. etc. to the Promenade which gave onto the beach backed by the tall and pleasant Norfolk Island Pines. Looking up to the right we saw the imposing sandstone bulk of St.Patrick's Seminary. There are several points of departure from this point - but I shall take them up on later occasions.