SALUTE TO BR. FRANK.

8. SALUTE TO FRANK (1989)

Br. Frank McMahon was a one-off, a Marist phenomenon ; so kinetic, seething with energy and totally unstoppable. No slipping away quietly for Frank, when the trumpet sounded ! He went out with such panache and style.

 When I heard the story of that last extraordinary night in Port Moresby, I took great comfort in losing such a marvellous companion.

I had a long, enduring friendship with Frank, reaching back to our boyhood days. First, as harum-scarums in the Juniorate in mid 40s and burgeoning over a lifetime.  Frank was two years ahead of me and one of a mischievous, daring and irrepressible bunch of tearaways. It was a period of high spirits and pranks.  This “lawlessness” peaked every Saturday on the walks to Maguire’s Crossing, or Cupitts or Pot Hole Falls. Franks’ particular class had been fired by that “poor” teacher but great educator, Br. Gregory MacKechnie. He’d infected, inflamed them with his passion for Scottish history. Little did he know he had unleashed the CLAN, who engaged in ‘guerrilla’ warfare on the weekend. This band of “delinquents” wore a most odd assortment of Scottish paraphanalia. Frank was the jauntiest in his small felt hat with a feather aloft, his slash of tartan against his shirt, brown “strides” and boots.

Of course, their challenge to a “stoush” was reciprocated by other lawless elements in other classes, except the righteous LC boys. Even our scrawny and runty first year lads took them on! Despite all the huffing and puffing, it was generally good natured and lots of fun. I recall, in our defence of Dingly Dell, a tumble down sandstone inn from the 1850s, when these mad pikeman came storming out of the bush. They brushed aside our fusillade of rocks to take the “castle”. That is, all except Herbie Askew who was felled by a gibber to the head!! It could have killed him of course. But it must have been Mary who looked over such high jinks of her Hermitage boys.

I always found I had a ready bond with Frank. And that was his gift: he made a sunny and exuberant friendship with all. Decades later, I recall being invited to his great send-off at Ron Johnson’s “pent house” at Double Bay when Frank headed north to take over the Rural Training School at Vanga Point, Kolombangara in Solomon Islands in 1974. He was just so enthusiastic and with such bagful of innovative schemes, such as providing power with piggery methane project as well as a  hydro scheme to harness some swift flowing stream tumbling down from the mountain.

The very next year, 1975, I was heading to the Solomons myself. Having been appointed to teaching church leaders at Nazareth Apostolic Centre at Tenaru in Guadacanal. It wasn’t long before  I met up with Frank. He was down  from Kolombangara visiting and scouting around and scrounging a variety of “stuff” for his school. It wasn’t long before I took the opportunity to join him on the good ship “Dominic” for my first of many visits to Vanga. It wasn’t a happy trip- we really shouldn’t have had those beers in the Yacht Club when only peanuts were available to provide some ballast.  The first few hours of that trip were upsetting to say the least.  I swore never to repeat that mistake. After the initial trauma I actually enjoyed the trip through some fabulous lagoons.

Vanga Point , with it’s Rural Training school, became my favourite spot in the Solomons. I recall making a movie with Frank and another Mittagong mate,  Kev Murray as a kind of Clarke Gable and Frank as Gary Cooper. It was a promotional movie and Frank even used this twenty  minute creation to show to the good Brothers of Rechlinhausen in Germany who were great supporters and assiduously “milked” by the importunate Frank.

From a struggling concern, Frank built up Vanga to be the best rural training centre in the country. He was brim full of ideas and utterly relentless as he poured out his creativit . I recall he toughened himself to walk barefoot everywhere, as boots became an encumbrance, especially in the wet and mud. With that very prickly “sensitive” weed abounding, that was quite a feat. He even found a local medicine to cure his scourge of an open shin sore (caused by the kick-back when cranking the generator) when all ointments and treatments failed. Well, he was continually in the water, and so never gave it a chance to recover. But, those pawpaw leaves that he wrapped around his leg, eventually did the trick. There were tough times as well. One of his regrets was lending his bulldozer to the Seventh Day Mission just a few hours along the coast. Unfortunately, there were some rough seas and his precious road plant shifted on the barge and tumbled into a few thousand metres of Iron Bottom Sound. His battle to get compensation from the SDA’s was a saga in itself but Frank eventually won the day. I reckon he would have taken the case to the Privy Council if he needed to.

After his years of expansion and success in Kolombangara, he came to join our community and Saint Joseph’s High school at Tenaru. Again, he was a mini-cyclone in achieving so much. More importantly for me- us he was great company to raise flagging spirits. If anybody was living life to the fullest, it was Frank.

Leaving Solomons was not easy after some eleven years. But he found a niche working with unemployed youth in Toowoomba in Queensland. Despite the difficulties and lack of interest from this floating and jaded bunch of early school leavers, Franks still bubbled on. His enthusiasm never waned. As well, he ranged around the State High Schools and ran an RE program. He drummed me into joining him on my visit back home. He surely was getting through to those country kids. And of course, he never lost his sense of adventure with his project out at Murphy’s Creek and his big Honda bike which took him to Sydney on a few occasions.

It was this energy that moved the Marist Council to send him back to Melanesia as a vocation promoter, to fire up young Melanesians to throw their lot in with us.  His health had suffered around this time and he was on a range of pills to control blood pressure. It didn’t seem to impede him as he ranged over the country: from highlands to coast and islands. But, it was all taking toll. He had topped sixty years and even his heart had taken a fair beating.

So it was that the Brothers had gathered at Sixteen Mile residence outside Port Moresby for R and R. After a hearty meal and lots of good time conversation, a game of cards was proposed. Quickly enough a foursome gathered around the table and the first hands of 500 were dealt. Now, Frank was a keen player and always ready to “have a go”. After a few hours it was honours even and the third “rubber” got underway.  Card sharps like Frank with a fistful of Aces and Kings and also the Joker, kept a poker face as he started with modest bidding, “a few hearts”. But as the bidding revved up he staked his claim in no trumps. The ultimate challenge came when the opposition king hit with misere. Unruffled Frank went for “8 no trumps”. Then came the ultimate challenge” “Open misere” said Julian with a certain smugness. Frank considered. Who had the joker? This was crucial. And his partner was sitting very still, not revealing anything. Win this hand  and the night was theirs! Lose it and ….shame.  In the same spirit he’d shown through his life, a spirit which had lifted him and so many with him and carried them over the reef and into calm water, Frank riposted “TEN NO TRUMPS”.

Well, in the words of Banjo’s Geebung Polo Club, ‘the game ebbed and flowed’. But this was desperation time. His nerves were steady, his eyes unblinking. With that same flair and absolute confidence Frank waded in and left the opposition floundering in his wake!! What a coup! It must have been so disheartening as Frank swept each hand from the table1 He was riding the triumph like a board rider taming some colossal wave and riding it to shore.

During the post mortem drink and discussion afterwards Frank begged off saying he was a bit weary. It was sometime later when Julian Hakumin and some others were yarning outside that they heard some unusual noises from Frank’s room.

Someone noted: “Sounds like he might be having a nightmare……..”

So little they knew. Frank was fighting his last brief battle as his heart finally capitulated.

It was very brief .Frank must have had a smile on his face as he would not want it any other way.

 It wasn’t till next morning that a Brother went to check, as Frank had not appeared for prayers and breakfast. Frank had taken his leave gone home! That marvellous ten no trumps had capitalised into bonanza!  He took that fiery chariot, or was it a Super Honda? The welcome and “Well done good and faithful servant” brought that ecstatic smile. And, so many of the McMahon clan were there to welcome him.

It was a day or so later that I heard the news. I felt immensely sad. So many marvellous memories bubbled up and I felt a great sense of loss.  I needed quiet and space for reflection and prayer. I headed down to one of my haunts down along Duck River at Auburn. It was a wonderful place to walk and the Japanese Gardens were a jewel out here in the Western suburbs. Luckily the Botanical Gardens were not closed for the day and I wandered in, replaying Frank’s life and the times we’d shared. I climbed up to one of the low hills there. And there were “my pigeons” in their late afternoon fly bys.  I never ceased to tire of watching a few flocks from local pigeon fanciers doing their training “laps” in the early morning or late afternoon. It was a moment of rare delight to see them sweep and swirl aloft and as they wheeled the sun would light up the underside of the wings like a star burst. Well, we must have had some empathy because they engaged in a tribute, a flypast to Frank. There I was with a stick in my hand and this flight came lower and lower and continued to swirl around me. For those ten to fifteen minutes I felt like some maestro as I “conducted” this amazing performance. I was aware that this was most unusual, even straying over the borders of the natural into mystery. It was quite moving and I was dazed by it. Yes, there was mist in the eyes as well.

Sorry I wasn’t partnering you on your 16 Mile triumph but I certainly got a glimpse into a prize that his 70 years of turbo charged commitment and love as a Marist and Brother opened up for him.