REJECTING A DIVA

INVITATION FROM A DIVA (1954) It’s sad how we let the most sparkling opportunities slip through our fingers. Now, if I had not been so naïve, innocent, wet behind the ears and with less than a robust self image I might have grabbed this sensational invitation. The fact that the occasion marked me for life, making me a hopeless lover….opera tragic, probably makes it more poignant. It was all so improbable. Near 2000 miles north from Sydney, in fact a three days’ train journey from Bennelong Point where the most resplendent Opera House was to rise but twenty years into the future, slumbered the little sugar town of Innisfail. It was here that the drama, was to play out. The cultural scene in Australia in the 50s was about as barren as much of the land itself. We were swaying to the bland tunes of Pat Boone, with Perry Como still a heart swoon for the slightly older folk. I think Bill Halley and his comets were not a serious threat or into orbit yet. Having been “infected” with World Famous Tenors and the like in my training days at Drummoyne I was starting to blossom. The memories of singing around the piano in our brief recreation each night are still fresh and precious. There was the master, Ronny Fogarty playing the violin, and gentle Gerard from South Africa caressing the keys while the likes of Sixtus with some tenor punch led the other three or four of us in sometimes rowdy singing. I even recall the most curious occasion when we “Scholastics”, in chapel for night prayers, were standing for those painful ten minutes silence of the particular examen, when we rummaged the day for peccadilloes and the occasional good deed, when, floating up through the balmy night from the rich folk, McNivens next door came the unmistakable tenor of Ronnie!!! What a man! There he was winning friends and influencing Scottish Protestants!! The next year, by some great chance, I was able to beg, borrow or steal a small radio for my classroom. Yes, I was keen on musical appreciation for the students and used regurgitate some great demo lessons from our visits to Haberfield Demonstration School. The radio stations around North Queensland were few and limited to popular music. But, for a precious thirty minutes on 4AY on Sunday afternoon I was entranced with the magic of those fabulous tenors: Richard Tauber, Joseph Schmidt, Beniamino Gigli, Bjoerling, Richard Crooks, and even Caruso. That infusion kept me alive for the week. I still swoon when I hear the signature tune- the intermezzo from Caviliera Rusticana. So, when the news broke that the Queensland Opera company was on tour and would be giving a one night performance at our sunny little town I leapt at the opportunity to attend my very first opera. It was strange really, as the movies were verboten for the Brothers. Not that they were anyway risqué or provocative. But there was always the risk of some bikini clad siren to stir the passions of vulnerable young monks. But opera was different, so different. After all, didn’t all the heroines take a fatal leap at the end or end up in gore on the floor. Such femmes fatales offered no great temptation to an ingénue like me. Certainly, LA BOHEME ends tragically after some of the most glorious arias and duets. And yes, the “boss’, Br. Colgan gave the nod. So, Marty and I headed up the hill and around to the most impressive Shire Hall (second biggest building outside Brisbane and certainly it dwarfed any such building in Cairns.). Dressed in black suit, topped by that white dog collar I always felt I was caught in some spotlight but bore up bravely. I had no idea what a new world we were walking into as we entered a packed hall and found our seats up the front. We settled in as the orchestra was tuning up. As orchestras go it was on the modest side. About 10-15 players all up, it was enough to entice me into a new world. Maybe the Vienna Philharmonic would not have done it any better. They launched into the prelude and I was swept away. When the curtain went up I was transported from steamy Innisfail to some freezing garret in Paris. (some 40 years later, this was my reality in my two months course at Ecole Berlitz and living with the Brothers!!) For me, the standard of the singing and acting was impressive. My emotions ran riot. From the ebullience of those feisty students on stage to the pathetic rags and cold of Mimi I was a willing victim. As we sailed through on glorious melodies towards intermission I became more involved, especially with the tragic soprano. Now, I must admit that the range of names on the program did not match the colourful Italian names of our students at Good Counsel school : Demetrio Brunnelo, or the Catalanos, or Zampalas and Sultanas but then I wasn’t aware of any real dissonance as she charmed this peasant from the south. Except that this lovely soprano did deserve a more harmonious name. Yes, Molly Maddock was not the name that MGM would have chosen. But, she could sing and enchant. And I fell right under her spell !!! The intermission came all too suddenly. When Marty started to comment or analyse I must have still had stars in my eyes and was not all that communicative. Then, something extraordinary happened. Here I was near the aisle when a chap came down and knelt at my knee!!! “Excuse me but Miss Maddock would like you to pop around and see her in her stage room”. I was confused, staggered and totally at a loss to know why the Diva would want to invite me! I suppose at some level I was flattered, chuffed, exalted. But, my other emotions spoilt what would have been so memorable. Now, over the years I’ve replayed this scene to a much happier conclusion. But sadly, it would take some time to develop the gall! The said gent saw my confusion and inquired: “You are Father Barry aren’t you?” So that was it. In between arias she’s been checking out the audience. And there, in the dim light, was “her” Fr. Barry I found out later he was a very popular (and handsome) young priest at Cairns and knew the Maddock family well. No doubt, after hearing the young Molly perform as a high school girl, he had encouraged her to pursue a career in music. I demurred of course. I could see he was disappointed. And do doubt Molly was too when he returned alone!! She certainly seemed to a little off key for the last Act and ‘died’ unrequited. It was a world away and some thirty years later that I grabbed my opportunities to revel in turbo-charged and opulent opera of the highest class. As a penurious student in New York in 83-84 I haunted the Met. Maybe that’s an overstatement. But I did attend four operas in such glorious splendour at the lowly price of $10, as a standing-room-only patron. I can take certain pride that I, in fact, had a hand in “discovering” that rising star, that stunning gospel singer from the South, Kathleen Battle. Well, I was at her first performance at the Met, and that would have to count for something. The first experience I was almost into stellar space myself, way up in the “gods”. I really needed binoculars but at least I could learn on the railing and enjoy the full sumptuousness of the sets and the unforgettable singing. I did get a little more daring and was able to squeeze my budget a little and hand over $13 for similar comforts on the mezzanine floor. Very graciously, they supplied a series of railings to allow for some relief from aching legs. From there you could actually see features of the singers. There was yet another slice of largesse. If there were unoccupied seats after the first act, you could scramble and claim. So, it was at Xmas 83 that I had two guests from Chicago who were dying for the Met experience. But that night, in mid winter, a vicious low trough brought the most freezing conditions with below zero temperatures. Undaunted and not wanting to squander those $40 for our “seats” we tramped up to 241 Street Subway and rock and rolled into the city . No trouble finding good spaces on the railings. And yes, there did seem to be a scattering of lovely, alluring spaces among the plush seats. But one had to be patient. Maybe, the clients were running late. So, we enjoyed the first wonderful act of La Boheme!! As the curtain rang down we were out of the blocks and like Aussie kelpies we rounded up three seats that would have commanded $100 each. Such prize seats, at a mere $13 certainly heightened the magical experience. It was only when we were leaving that it struck that there could be arctic blasts to brave. But our luck continued. Quite miraculously some six inches of snow had lightly fluttered down, transforming this booming city into some muffled murmur, with traffic swishing by with much caution. Running the gauntlet from 241 St. Subway station to our house could be a little “hairy” at times with some danger spots to avoid or negotiate. But this night, there were no muggers about. I scuttled back through the snow, eager for a mug of hot chocolate and a warm bed. Looking back I was somewhat annoyed to see my guests, Paul and Kate savouring the experience and seemingly “mooning” their way back to Murdock Street. It was also a first glimmer that love had struck. And surely, such an opera was perfect to fuel such a dream!! Back in my home town of Sydney, some years later, I finally caught up with the most successful and popular opera of all time: CARMEN. It was the perfect birthday present for my sister, Carmel and we celebrated in some style, with a light dinner by the harbour and a spectacular evening of entertainment. But I had only one complaint. While Carmen was extravagantly tempestuous and fiery, her “mark” or hero was a little miscast. While he had a splendid tenor voice, the whole impact of a volcanic love affair was a little dulled by his less than stunning appearance. In fact, he was positively portly!!! Now, while that might have been acceptable in Innisfail Shire Hall in 1955 with Molly Maddock, it just didn’t seem appropriate for this the audience in the most beautiful Opera House in the world.

FAMILY TRIBUTE 33-

March-April 2013 have been hugely satisfying for me and so many family and friends. My 80th birthday acted as a catalyst and spur to so many enjoyable and even memorable events. It seemed a good idea to share even more IN WRITING account that includes the events, recollection and reflection on the blessed few weeks and more. No doubt slipping from 70s to 80s is a challenging call. Most would regard it’s a pretty deep and rushing Rubicon really as there is no going back when you’re an octogenarian. Not to be taken lightly. Officially, you are old when you breast 65. Why, even the Government is impressed and pays you for the privilege. And where else in the world can you take a “round the world trip” on just $2.50 you sail to Manly, get a bus to Palm Beach, a ferry to Ettalong and a train back to Central ? Statistically, when you hit 75 you are very old. Crashing through into the 80s almost defies gravity. I mean not all that many come out the other side do they? Biblically “Man’s life on earth is three score and ten more for those who are strong” seems the summit. But in Canticles one wonders at the mathematics of “sixty queens, eighty concubines and maidens without numbers” and how possibly they could all be employed?” Our genes are promising enough. The grans on the Murphy side both notched up 80 and the Bashall side performed even a little better- mid 80 and a very creditable 90! And that was before Medicare and a new world of medical miracles. Early enough in January I realised this was a year with a certain promise. I mused at the possibilities. After all, my 75 was a non-event. I would have to put that right. Then, suddenly one night I had a dream-apparition. My mother, Mary Bashall, was hovering, ghost-like but with a smile, in the corner. “Now, Terry, who don’t you do something for the family?” That started a whole train of thought and imaginings. In fact, when I started to apply myself, it unleashed a “storm” of creativity that positively swept me along for the next few months when ideas crystallised into plans with rich in possibilities. It somehow connected with the “solidarity” among our mums who met for so many years to picnic and chat and share the “goss” about families. Now followed on by their daughters. Wouldn’t this be a grand opportunity to recognise, thank, pay tribute to and celebrate with so many who had played rich roles in ensuring that I had even reached this high point as a Marist Brother? “Family first” I always say. Gradually a plan began to emerge to engage widely. The timing was opportune. I discovered that mum’s family, the Bashalls from Proud Preston in Lancashire had emigrated 100 years ago! Pop and John came earlier to set up for the family and later, the “Irishman” sailed through the heads with those four pretty Pommy girls and Jim, escorted by grandma. Shortly, they were settled in Rose Bay and they used wave to the “Irishman” every few months as fresh cargo sailed in.

FAMILY TRIBUTE

March-April 2013 have been hugely satisfying for me and so many family and friends. My 80th birthday acted as a catalyst and spur to so many enjoyable and even memorable events. It seemed a good idea to share even more IN WRITING account that includes the events, recollection and reflection on the blessed few weeks and more. No doubt slipping from 70s to 80s is a challenging call. Most would regard it’s a pretty deep and rushing Rubicon really as there is no going back when you’re an octogenarian. Not to be taken lightly. Officially, you are old when you breast 65. Why, even the Government is impressed and pays you for the privilege. And where else in the world can you take a “round the world trip” on just $2.50 you sail to Manly, get a bus to Palm Beach, a ferry to Ettalong and a train back to Central ? Statistically, when you hit 75 you are very old. Crashing through into the 80s almost defies gravity. I mean not all that many come out the other side do they? Biblically “Man’s life on earth is three score and ten more for those who are strong” seems the summit. But in Canticles one wonders at the mathematics of “sixty queens, eighty concubines and maidens without numbers” and how possibly they could all be employed?” Our genes are promising enough. The grans on the Murphy side both notched up 80 and the Bashall side performed even a little better- mid 80 and a very creditable 90! And that was before Medicare and a new world of medical miracles. Early enough in January I realised this was a year with a certain promise. I mused at the possibilities. After all, my 75 was a non-event. I would have to put that right. Then, suddenly one night I had a dream-apparition. My mother, Mary Bashall, was hovering, ghost-like but with a smile, in the corner. “Now, Terry, who don’t you do something for the family?” That started a whole train of thought and imaginings. In fact, when I started to apply myself, it unleashed a “storm” of creativity that positively swept me along for the next few months when ideas crystallised into plans with rich in possibilities. It somehow connected with the “solidarity” among our mums who met for so many years to picnic and chat and share the “goss” about families. Now followed on by their daughters. Wouldn’t this be a grand opportunity to recognise, thank, pay tribute to and celebrate with so many who had played rich roles in ensuring that I had even reached this high point as a Marist Brother? “Family first” I always say. Gradually a plan began to emerge to engage widely. The timing was opportune. I discovered that mum’s family, the Bashalls from Proud Preston in Lancashire had emigrated 100 years ago! Pop and John came earlier to set up for the family and later, the “Irishman” sailed through the heads with those four pretty Pommy girls and Jim, escorted by grandma. Shortly, they were settled in Rose Bay and they used wave to the “Irishman” every few months as fresh cargo sailed in. Meanwhile, south of the border, in booming Beechworth, a gold mining town, the Murphys enjoyed the roaring days. In fact, John Andrew was born 150 years ago. Later, after Matthew the great-grand dad, died they moved to Sydney, setting up butcher shops. In the 1990s, David, our brother researched to find his burial spot – with no headstone. So Dave righted that with a new headstone, to which we have made pilgrimages. So, the stars were all aligned and just clamoured for a big celebration. There were a few “problems” like WHERE TO HOLD IT? WHEN? , WHO TO INVITE AND HOW CONTACT THEM? HOW WILL WE ORGANISE IT- to name a few. Gradually, the ideas emerged and I struck. The fact that I turned 80 on Easter Sunday gave impulse. The fact that I had some useful contacts also helped. A week later, I’m sitting down with the Headmaster of St. Joseph’s College, Ross Tarlinton, a good friend, and putting forward a plan. Some 15 years before, when I had a certain clout there, helped the cause. Christmas usually saw our Murphy-Ruddy clan taking over Years 12 common room and using the nearby swimming pool. So, why not go that way? Ross considered and trumped that. “I think we can do better. Why not use the Board Room?” I gulped - momentarily. Now, this is a most imposing building and the early Brothers, with huge foresight, planned big and beautiful where needed. (Why, they even “snatched” the imposing gates to Sydney Town Hall, when the underground rail was built!) No, it’s not Versailles but the closest to that is the Board Room!! “And why not use our caterers?” A done deal. Next day, I’m using wile, wit, charm and guile as I hammer out an arrangement with Pat Burgess, the catering manager who ensures that nearly 1000 students eat well each day. He was so cooperative, so professional, so friendly: and the menu he sketched out was impressive. A quick trip to the Board Room and we agreed that six tables of eight would be idea. But the original idea to staging on Easter Sunday was quickly discarded- with the costs being prohibitive. Two weeks later, April 14th seemed idea, especially as the students would be on holidays and our tribe would have the whole college, grounds and all, to ourselves. We were up and running. Ideas kept popping up, most especially around four in the morning! The challenge was: how can we make this memorable, interactive, involving, exciting, FUN ? Well, it became obvious that I’d need more talent. So, enter Bernadette, Sophie and Vince to form a dynamic team. Meeting would be difficult as they were fulltime “workers”, unlike me; and so most communication was through email, mobile and phone. So, we would plan for AV display, entertainment, sharing stories and maximum mixing and melding. We would need some cool dude as a MC. As a retired type I had plenty of time to splurge my talents, honed over decades of teaching, training and various roles. My first calls to cousins really uplifted and dynamised me. They were immediately interested, excited, encouraging. The same response followed as I made more calls and gathered the four dozen guests. In fact, it struck me much later, that this would be the first time the two clans had been together since Mary and Denis married at Rose Bay in 1928! Of course, we had to keep a fair balance. It was first time to “meet” various members of the Bashall-Murphy clans. We cast the net wide- even over to Perth Murphs! Unfortunately, we would have to be satisfied with Vince-Sophie, as transplanted winners. But Queensland came good with Bernadette and Greg from just below the border at Inverell. Since the mid fifties, teaching in Far North Queensland, I had been a convinced Audio-Visual teacher, making my own slides from a new you-beaut 35mm Braun camera. I already had years, decades of family, Brothers’ photos that filled many albums and now spilled into hordes of digital shots. We needed a display for the 1890s to now!! So, many calls, urging, We sent out classy invitations along with a map to help arrive at “Joeys” without too much hassle. We were moving along. But what about the BROTHERS. Mark and I had celebrated our Golden Jubilee and then Diamond Jubilee at Joeys just three years back with a solid family presence. I saw this year as an opportunity to recognise, thank and pay tribute to so many Brothers who had been “Marvellous Companions” to me over those last sixty plus years. This story started when twelve year old Mark Murphy took on the grand challenge an adventure when he left our family at Meadowbank with a tear-stained mum waving goodbye from Central station and dad cracking hardy at losing a beautiful son. Terry followed a year later– with a tiny wave from baby Carmel! This would be a great chance to gather and celebrate the story with some very key players. At a more simple level it was a matter of selecting, inviting and ensuring that we enjoyed a heartening and uplifting time as Brothers. A simple celebration with some 23 Brothers gathering in our back yard at Daceyville with a bar-b-q with certain frills. Our community really pitched in with setting up and organising. Pete as the maestro was so deft in orchestrating the steaks, snags, onions…….Of course there had to be a picture/photo display taking us back through the years. And so the invitations went out. Sadly, some of the veterans, Coman and Vales, were unwell and so declined.Even so, it was a stellar group. There was Jeff, first Provincial of the new Australian Province of Marists who had long role in leadership starting from Melanesia and topping at Rome. There was Julian, starting in PNG, spilling over to Solomons before an even wider involvement in Asia before Adult Education in West Sydney. Paul with similar Pacific experience before10 years working with street kids in Manila and pulling off some remarkable developments. These three became great friends through my Solomon and PNG experience.Oh, there was Gerry, whose drive and vision moved us from St Vincent’s Boys’ Home at Westmead to an Australia wide involvement with struggling Youth through Marist Youth Care. There was Tommy More, lifelong friend from back in the 40s at Mittagong. Fred, the tireless Marist chronicler and compulsive pedagogue, still strutting the boards at Wesley (to awed oohs aand ahhhs from a mostly female fan club!!) And there was Kel. From lowly 4B primary at Parramatta in 60 he blazed a way through all levels to take command of Catholic Education in Sydney and lead with such vision for 20 years. ( How did her organise that grand celebration of Catholic Education, a dry run for the Olympics in 2000 when over 90,000 students gathered and performed before 1000s of old teachers, given places of honour. I even had a tear in the eye as school groups with banners flying made a circuit to acclaim. It suddenly struck me: If we 1000s of nuns and brothers had not answered the great challenge over those early decades this would not be happening) What a group of us in this garden setting: from Provincials, professors, principals, directors, missionaries, to classroom teachers we really formed a rainbow group of Marists! One absentee, who impacted on the entire “Marist world “was Brother Charles Howard. I expect he was hovering with a big smile as he gently strummed his harp. But, his young brother John, also a man of big ideas and commitment, was a worthy he’d returned from a “pilgrimage” to Nairobi where the Brothers had recently blessed and opened Br.CHARLES HOWARD GARDENS. There was the customary ritual of eloquent toast by our community leader,,Paul, a round of compliments and stories!!! Despite my customary modesty I would have to admit I did enjoy even though I did squirm appropriately! Then the cutting of the cake before I had right of reply. It was a priceless opportunity to thank and pay tribute to the Marvellous Marists and such great-hearted companion. Easter Sunday itself was a high point. I was sure that the good Lord had organised this date from ages past! The family celebration gathered some 14 of us at Damien and Qing’s home at Epping. Beautifully redeveloped by Damien, now an unemployed chemist, it was ideal. And Qing’s superb cooking magically produced such an array of irresistible dishes> We indulged; even over-indulged. The car ride from Eastern suburbs to Epping allowed the committee to meet for the first time and to hammer out some details. After we well wined and dined and the cake had been cut and nice things said we were able to invite and involve all in the BIG PARTY. “Our family are the hosts” was the message and volunteers for meeter, greeters, taggers, ushers, and more were quick to put hands up. Mark was the first and that raised a cheer….as he was already an octogenarian. amily rep. Recently, At some kind of preternatural or higher level some strange things were happening. If pushed I’d have to admit they were mini-miracles that sprinkled the way and eased us along. For instance why should Martina, the deputy principal of St.Michael’s primary, just across our back fence, just happen to pop into the classroom that Saturday morning when I was becoming so exasperated? I was setting up just four panels of photos for the Brothers’ bash, having so much trouble as the Velcro was not working as it should. With the cup of tea she supplied she saw my frustration, supplied better aids and the problem was over. “Martina, this is nothing compared with eight panels I need to arrange for next Sunday.” “Brother, I can help. Just send me the photos and I’ll have the children stick on the Velcro.” What an angel! A bunch of roses was surely appropriate. Then there was Carmel Farrugia from CEO next door, who arranged the fifty classy name tags. And Brother Ben. As a back up at Joeys he was indispensible. The “man of a 1000 keys” I call him. With just one flourish he produces a key that opens every door in the College. He went to the trouble of putting casters on the panels which made it all such a cinch. And what about that perfect day? There was surely some higher power at work. At some kind of preternatural or higher level some strange things were happening. If pushed I’d have to admit they were mini-miracles that sprinkled the way and eased us along. For instance why should Martina, the deputy principal of St.Michael’s primary, just across our back fence, just happen to pop into the classroom that Saturday morning when I was becoming so exasperated? I was setting up just four panels of photos for the Brothers’ bash, having so much trouble as the Velcro was not working as it should. With the cup of tea she supplied she saw my frustration, supplied better aids and the problem was over. “Martina, this is nothing compared with eight panels I need to arrange for next Sunday.” “Brother, I can help. Just send me the photos and I’ll have the children stick on the Velcro.” What an angel! A bunch of roses was surely appropriate. Then there was Carmel Farrugia from CEO next door, who arranged the fifty classy name tags. And Brother Ben. As a back up at Joeys he was indispensible. The “man of a 1000 keys” I call him. With just one flourish he produces a key that opens every door in the College. He went to the trouble of putting casters on the panels which made it all such a cinch. And what about that perfect day? There was surely some higher power at work. Well, Noel and I had met only last year, after some 50 years of silence. And it was a miracle we ever made contact again. If it had not been for the Anzac Day ceremony at his old school at Randwick, now called Marcellin College we might never had reconnected and died in ignorance even if only 5 km apart. The catalyst in this was a Br.Vincent Shekelton, a mate of mine from our Solomon Days in the 70s. As Noel was taking in the old school, after an impressive ritual where he was an honoured guest, he sidled up to Vince and a short conversation followed. “You know Brother, I seem to remember I had two cousins who joined the Brothers way back.:” “What’s their name?” “Murphy- Mark and Terry.” “Ah, that’s Des and Bernie. Des is just down at Daceyville and Bernie is out at Westmead.” Contact followed and shortly he was a guest at a party as well and another cousin, Peter and wife Val. There was a lot of catching up to do. Soon enough I had a grip on his story. The more I learnt, the more impressed I became. I seemed to remember he was a good golfer……MATE !!! As a young feller he was twice amateur champion of NSW! At his club , NSW Club- with the most superb views across Botany Bay, he proudly showed me a “shrine” they have set up to their champion, with such an impressive list of victories it’s a wonder he did not don the Green Jacket in Augusta, Georgia! He was also an entertainer. With a fine tenor voice, a brilliant raconteur and an able joker he could hold an audience spell bound. As a matter of fact, after he returned from PNG where he served in WW2, he decided to have his voice trained. After all, he had starred in school productions of various operettas in the 30s!!! He even performed in the SUN ARIAS. Now, if it hadn’t been for a young talent from Eastern Suburbs, who knows what operas he might have starred in. Her name, he seemed to remember, was Joan Sutherland! We had signed him up for our party. Sadly, he took on a cockroach and lost. He was just pouring himself a cuppa when this pesky insect popped up. Noel stomped and missed and toppled, cracking his head and injuring his top vertebrae. Luckily, his daughter, Denise and hubby in the apartment above came to the rescue and soon he was being ambulanced to a local hospital. Six weeks in a medieval brace was the verdict. Poor Noel! He was disconsolate at missing this grand party. And this rare encounter two years earlier: was it chance? I don’t believe so. Was it coincidence? Even the UCOS team in “New Tricks” don’t accept that . And for me, that explanation is just so bland and bloodless. No, I believe “it was written in the stars” and the Spirit was at work in our lives here. We would have to find ways around this sad deprivation. And at 4 am a few days before the event, the Spirit did show a way forward. What about some family stories? What about cooping cousin Greg into a duo? Come the day the grand symphony began quietly enough with a walk around Astrolabe Park before I drove over the Joeys, arriving around 9.30 to put final touches before the first guests arrived around 11 o’clock. Fortunately, the first couple to arrive were my cousins and Val happened to mention she had invited two of the boys as I was showing them around the dining room. After a great gasp I had a moderate “hissy fit”. And then went into damage control. Graciously Sophie took the situation in hand and shortly had rearranged names and seating. Drama over. From the time guests swept up the drive, up the stairs and into the foyer and accepted name tags and a glass of wine they were swept along in this wonder tide of family richness and story. And what a wonderful cast we had. There was Bernardette (O’Connor) from just across the Queensland border and Greg Leach from just below. There were the Bashalls and Cotters from the Illawarra. We nearly scored a brace of Murphs from Perth and had it not been an early booking to Bali they surely would have been there. But, we did have Sophie and Vince – refugees from Gina’s patch. But the bulk were Sydneysiders – O’Connors, Leach, Bashall, Cotters, Ruddys, Murphys, Nielsens, and Weekes. All “very special”. No, much more , “of royal blood.” ICome the day the grand symphony began quietly enough with a walk around Astrolabe Park before I drove over the Joeys, arriving around 9.30 to put final touches before the first guests arrived around 11 o’clock. Fortunately, the first couple to arrive were my cousins and Val happened to mention she had invited two of the boys as I was showing them around the dining room. After a great gasp I had a moderate “hissy fit”. And then went into damage control. Graciously Sophie took the situation in hand and shortly had rearranged names and seating. Drama over. From the time guests swept up the drive, up the stairs and into the foyer and accepted name tags and a glass of wine they were swept along in this wonder tide of family richness and story. And what a wonderful cast we had. There was Bernardette (O’Connor) from just across the Queensland border and Greg Leach from just below. There were the Bashalls and Cotters from the Illawarra. We nearly scored a brace of Murphs from Perth and had it not been an early booking to Bali they surely would have been there. But, we did have Sophie and Vince – refugees from Gina’s patch. But the bulk were Sydneysiders – O’Connors, Leach, Bashall, Cotters, Ruddys, Murphys, Nielsens, and Weekes. All “very special”. No, much more , “of royal blood.” n my welcome speech I made some important points: Thank you to all who responded to the invitation and more especially those who played a more immediate role in the organisation. “We are on holy ground”. We acknowledged the aboriginal custodians, the Wallumatta tribe We were on sacred Marist ground. Since 1881 tens of thousands of your men had received a Marist education here. AndCome the day the grand symphony began quietly enough with a walk around Astrolabe Park before I drove over the Joeys, arriving around 9.30 to put final touches before the first guests arrived around 11 o’clock. Fortunately, the first couple to arrive were my cousins and Val happened to mention she had invited two of the boys as I was showing them around the dining room. After a great gasp I had a moderate “hissy fit”. And then went into damage control. Graciously Sophie took the situation in hand and shortly had rearranged names and seating. Drama over. From the time guests swept up the drive, up the stairs and into the foyer and accepted name tags and a glass of wine they were swept along in this wonder tide of family richness and story. And what a wonderful cast we had. There was Bernardette (O’Connor) from just across the Queensland border and Greg Leach from just below. There were the Bashalls and Cotters from the Illawarra. We nearly scored a brace of Murphs from Perth and had it not been an early booking to Bali they surely would have been there. But, we did have Sophie and Vince – refugees from Gina’s patch. But the bulk were Sydneysiders – O’Connors, Leach, Bashall, Cotters, Ruddys, Murphys, Nielsens, and Weekes. All “very special”. No, much more , “of royal blood.” for Mark and me, as Brothers this college was so significant in our story. More recently, we had celebrated our Golden and Diamond Jubilee here. Among some remarkable Alumni special mention had to be made of “the best Governor General ever” Sir William Deane. There were some apologies including Noel and our brother David in hospital. He had played a major part in “resurrecting” the Murphy early days in Beechworth, going back to the gold rush days. In fact, he had researched to find Matthew Murphy’s grave site and erected a headstone. Our Queensland guest, Bernadette, said the Grace and then we settled into a sumptuous meal in the most lavish of setting. Fit for our ROYAL LINE! By the time we all gathered for the grand family photo, some four hours later, on the steps we had, together, journeyed “centuries” and been filled with thanks and wonder. You can see it in the smiles and delight shining out in that photo. Our Queensland guest, Bernadette, said the Grace and then we settled into a sumptuous meal in the most lavish of setting. Fit for our ROYAL LINE! By the time we all gathered for the grand family photo, some four hours later, on the steps we had, together, journeyed “centuries” and been filled with thanks and wonder. You can see it in the smiles and delight shining out in that photo. Next morning I wrote this reflection: This 80th birthday caper has been a great romp…a hoot even. I reckon that this project has “consumed” me over the last 2-3 months. I’ve eaten, drunk, slept and dreamed it as it unleashed a surge of creative energy which has swept me along. And yes, I have enjoyed the challenge and the many facets of connecting with relations, working with a little sub committee and family to pull a 1000 details together, refine and orchestrate. I’ve been sustained, empowered, impelled by the interest and excitement of all at the prospect of a truly rare and memorable event. Talk about orchestrating: it began almost sotto voce on Easter Sunday, the official 80 th birthday when the family, some 15 of us, gathered at Damien and Qing’s home at Epping and enjoyed a modest and warming family celebration. Being “chauffeured” by Bernadette allowed me to indulge modestly. A week later, we upped the tempo with some 22 Brothers here at Daceyville. These were the “Marvellous Companions” who’ve journeyed with me over the years. Again, modest: a bar-b-q in the backyard on a beautiful day with tables arranged under shelter and with 4 display panels that featured all, going back to the 50s. Few formalities but some generous tributes warmed by depleted ego….. It was a truly wonderful occasion. But the BIG ONE, the SUPER SUNDAY outstripped those two events by some light years! This was a TRIBUTE TO FAMILY (and not Terry’s 80th!) Some 50- 25 from mum’s Bashall side and 25 from the Murphy clan gathered at St Joseph’s College. To say there were delighted with those 4 hours would be an understatement. They came away reeling, gobsmacked and with smiles a mile wide. Was it the marvellous setting of the most noble, impressive school in Australia? Was it the entrance when they pinned the name tag, accepted a drink and wandered among the 8 great display panels that featured their families sine 1890s? Was it the Versailles- like Board Room with numbered tables with personal settings? Was it the superb menu, so prodigally presented? (Should have brought doggy bags) Was it the great-hearted welcome that embraced all? Was it the 100 pic Power Point that lit up the wall and swept us through the years? Was it the sharing of stories? Both in tables and in the whole group. Was it the entertainment when, Barber shop duo Greg and Terry enthralled with Gendarmes Duet, Danny Boy and Oh What a Beautiful Morning? In which all joined lustily. All of which ignited and carried through a most lively interaction among the 50 guests. Yes, all of these and much more. Those “ancestors” looked down, smiled and cheered. Yes, the Spirit was really moving among us. A long range program for 100 is unlikely to get off the ground! I arrived home at 6.00. Sat in the back yard, watched the stars come out to play, and sipped a scotch, so deeply contented and full of thanks-.AAhhh. I flopped onto my bed around 6.30 and woke at 7.00 next morning! But there was a dream. Must have been strains of Puccini percolating through our monastery! What about composing an opera? Scenes and songs flittered through my fervid imagination. Yes, all of these and much more. Those “ancestors” looked down, smiled and cheered. Yes, the Spirit was really moving among us. A long range program for 100 is unlikely to get off the ground! I arrived home at 6.00. Sat in the back yard, watched the stars come out to play, and sipped a scotch, so deeply contented and full of thanks-.AAhhh. I flopped onto my bed around 6.30 and woke at 7.00 next morning! ould work on that. But later… Creative juices have been flowing. How about a three act tour de forces Act 1 The Village Green at Epping Act 2 In a Monastery Garden Act 3 The Ball in the Royal Palace. Actually, this would not cover many aspects of a certain extended celebration. It all started with Tommy More and I driving north west to Quakers Hill, where the Kendal family what I called the Perfect Party. We were celebrating 50 years of friendship when Tommy and I were blessed in being “adopted” by the Eggleton family. Maree, Paul and Carole joined the lucky dozen. With a theme of JAMES BOND 007 gave much energy to creativity. I came away humming “What a swelligant, elegant party this is”> From High Society of course. Then there was the lunch at the Icebergers, Bondi, on that sparkling day with views across the beach so filled with boyhood memories before we were uprooted and moved up to Meadowbank. Incidentally, I did not overlook a most significant event called out for recognition. On the 9th April made a pilgrimage to Mary Immaculate Church at Waverly. If there is a more beautiful church, in Italian style, with impressive frescoes, a company of saints aloft and some surprising featureThen there was the lunch at the Icebergers, Bondi, on that sparkling day with views across the beach so filled with boyhood memories before we were uprooted and moved up to Meadowbank. And at another level there was the trip to Katoomba and lunching at the Carrington, filled with that old world charm, out of the 19th century. How can I weave all this into our opera? Maybe we need an Overture as well as a Finale. Then I’m sure we could slip in an Intermezzo or two. Lots of work to be done. And what about a name? Any ideas? I do have a capable librettist in mind who could create one of those fantastical dramas in the Mozart or Verdi stories where impossible plots keep the audience in a state of disbelief and delight for three hours. s, I haven’t seen it. It was a quiet Mass with maybe 20 worshippers. After Mass I had to pop in and compliment the Indian priest and then surprised him. “Father John, eighty years ago to the day, my mum and dad brought me here and I was baptised.” Impressed, he congratulated me. “Thanks Father and I have to tell you, we Murphies have left a large footprint here. At the front near the altar is a memorial to ‘The young men who fought for their country in 1914-18 war’. There’s M.G Murphy- who later became a Marist Brother and died the year I was born. And at the entrance there is a similar memorial for World War 2. There you will find Stan Dillon- also from the Murphy line.” A few days later I slipped over to Bondi for another anniversary Mass. It was only 73 years since my First Communion Day. I remember it well enough. Mum made really great efforts to outfit me with the best brown pants, fawn shirt with TWO pockets! There was some drama over some kid having a sip of water on that hot day, not having drunk since midnight!! I’m not sure whether he was shot or just excommunicated! And then, was it I who let the host slip from my tongue with Father O’Sullivan palpitating as he rescued the bread from the carpet. I do recall that at the Communion breakfast, lots of cakes and sweets I gorged myself while looking up and seeing mum craning to get a peep at us kids. I knew that wasn’t right. I felt a pang that injustice was happening here. Why wasn’t mum allowed in while Sister patrolled up and down and kept order? After all, she had cooked some of those delicious cakes. It was only much later that I realised the true importance of that occasion. It was one of the rare occasions, when, in a family of three or four boys, I was the total focus. Later that day we visited our Murphy grand parents, somewhat distant and awesome. Grand dad rummaged in his pocket and drew out a florin, two shillings!! What a treasure! Probably could buy a house today. Cant’ remember saying ‘thank you’. I took the opportunity for a nostalgic stroll. The convent school where the tender Sister Brigid took little Terry under her voluminous black wings, has been engulfed by some flash international school called Reddam College. The convent, a fine brick building still commanded the corner of Blair and Mitchell Streets; but somehow, it seems to have lost that conventual feel. Indeed it had. Fr. Neil Brown informed me it was now a Jewish Synagogue! Around the corner is the old Marist school, now melded into an impressive Galilee Catholic Primary. The dark brick single storied building had worn well. Gone was the expanse of sand that surrounded it and gave such pleasure at playtime. But to the right of the building there was the garage where some 20-30 of us crammed into Br. Fulgentius’ second class. It was only much later I realised I must have been his pet. Probably the connection with uncle George-Brother Canice might explain the little present, a cracked glass picture of Madonna that I treasured for many years. Reminiscing thus I realised that here I had come full circle. When we Murphs scurried up the Parramatta river to Meadowbank, with the threat of invasion on the barb-wired Bondi Beach it was a great blow to us beach boys. But some 60 years later I’m back in the gentle embrace of Eastern suburbs with its “scimitars of sun-drenched beachers and the gentling sea breezes that cooled fevered brows in summer heats.” In fact I live in the very same street that my grandparents and dad graced back in the twenties! The celebrations have a course to run. I head for Queensland in early June on my “mission” of Oral History where I spend a few weeks recording the life stories of some Brothers. There will be time for some excursions and a final kick-on, or maybe, the death throes of this fabulous Octo time. Did I deserve all this “glory” and was it worthwhile ploughing all this time into organising such a series of events? Well, the Ying side of me would modestly deny my worthiness. That Yang side would smile, smirk and say “Why not”? But, the deeper response would be a mix of wonder aAnd at another level there was the trip to Katoomba and lunching at the Carrington, filled with that old world charm, out of the 19th century. How can I weave all this into our opera? Maybe we need an Overture as well as a Finale. Then I’m sure we could slip in an Intermezzo or two. Lots of work to be done. And what about a name? Any ideas? I do have a capable librettist in mind who could create one of those fantastical dramas in the Mozart or Verdi stories where impossible plots keep the audience in a state of disbelief and delight for three hours. nd thanks. Really, if that 80 had not popped up where would I have got the energy and creativity to enjoy such a unique family celebration?

STAR WITNESS

STAR WITNESS. (1975)

 

Little did I know when I went to the aid of Ollie Torling in Honiara hospital that I would become a hero and hence a star witness in a huge compensation claim.

Ollie Torling was tough man. Nobody meddled with Ollie. The local people had a certain awe of this Swede who migrated to Australia after WW2 and thence to Solomons to set up his little empire. In a country that was poor and had little to attract tourists Ollie had set up an attractive if simple tourist resort at Tambea, about an hour’s drive along the dirt road west of Honiara. We Brothers enjoyed some of the luxuries on rare occasions.

I recall, as part of our induction in 1975 (Br. Greg Moran and myself) that Br. Paul Murphy took us along this beautiful and fascinating coastline. A string of white, coral beaches fringed by coconut palms faced across Iron Bottom sound to the spectacular volcano Island of Savo. A scene of savage naval battles in WW2 there were nearly 50 battleships ghosting away and tombs of innumerable dead sailors deep down in Iron Bottom Sound.  I wept for our Aussi boys who plunged into those awful depths as the Canberra, along with four US warships were destroyed in one night. This coastline, all so serene now, was the scene of  slogging battles for near six months as the Americans pushed the Japanese west and into extinction. Looking up into some of the old scarred coconut trees you could see where a shell had passed through leaving a neat hole as a reminder of those bloody times. As a war tragique, Guadacanal would prove a treasure for me. I must have read every book on the subject and explored the beaches, the hills, the creeks and rivers. Actually, the first major victory against the Japanese was at Alligator Creek just five minutes from Tenaru and where some eight hundred Japanese perished in suicidal dashes across a sandspit.

Along the way we diverted to the abandoned Aruligo Catholic High School which also was  falling into ruins. It had been  a brave attempt at a new style of education. Both boys and girls from all over the diocese boarded here and given a good secondary education by Marist Fathers and Sisters.  Sadly, there had been little consultation  by the Bishop and his Marists regarding the site. It proved a costly and brief venture. There was little water and poor gardening land to feed the students. Relying on supply from Honiara was hazardous in the wet season and the rivers flooded and there was no access. Meanwhile the Brothers continued with primary at Tenaru. In a rather humiliating back flip the secondary was relocated there.

By the time we reached Tambea we had developed a respectable thirst. Surprise, Surprise, there was a bamboo style bar where they served Aussi beer. Well, we didn’t mind the inflated price as we surely were supporting an admirable new venture. Unfortunately, even after a fine fish dinner, we did not find the manager, Ollie. He was in process of setting up the first “industrial size  piggery in Solomons.

So, my first encounter with him was when he was stretchered into the tiny hospital room where I was enduring my own hell of kidney stones.  He was a bloody mess, with a head heavily bandaged after some treatment and unconscious after much anaesthetic. Actually, he was lucky to survive after a savage attack. He would sleep for two days. His heavy breathing as a constant backdrop and made sleeping a little difficult at night. He had a few very concerned visitors, among them an attractive Australian girl, who actually had been a factor in this attack.

I was able to piece together the drama of that Saturday night. It was all caused by that Aussie femme fatale. It seemed that she was doing a line with a local boy, Isaac who was truly bewitched. Then, she switched to another local who was also working at Ollie’s restaurant. A volcano was about to blow.  That Saturday night was particularly busy with guests enjoying the drive from Honiara along with the beautiful setting and fine cuisine. It appears that Isaac, all liquored up, suddenly appeared and started to abuse his rival. Ollie appeared and quickly defused the ominous situation by king hitting Isaac who crumpled and hit the deck. He was down but definitely not out.  As Ollie walked away, Isaac staggered to his feet, grabbed a glass louver, chased after the boss and smashed his head. Blood everywhere from the deep wound. Ollie knew he was in deep trouble. After giving a few directions, he wobbled to his room, grabbed a towel and stanched the blood flow. He needed help and quickly. He started up his Landrover and bounced out. Murder lurked in the shadows. There was Isaac, armed with a spear gun and in a murderous rage. Somehow he missed as Ollie careered down the drive and headed for the nearest help, the Catholic Mission at Visale where the Marist Missionary Sisters ran an excellent clinic. They gave him urgent assistance but insisted he must get to hospital. Rejecting any help, the tough Swede made the dash, smoking along that rutted road to Number 9 (the hospital). And so, he ended up as my companion in the small “white” cottage.

Now, I don’t recall whether it was that night or the following, but there was an unforgivable lapse of nursing procedure which could have cost him his life. In the middle of the night, I woke with a start after this great crash. Ollie had fallen out of bed! I pressed the button for help but obviously it was not functioning or there was some great slackness. Poor Ollie was making some strange sounds. So, I tumbled out and found that he was lying face down and his mouth was flush against the floor. The strange blowing sound was his fight for air. Now, I was well aware of moving a body and possibly causing more damage but this was desperate. As gently as I could I rolled him over. He was still unconscious and it flashed through my mind that despite all those heavy bandages around his head, this fall could cause brain damage.

Suddenly, there was a rush of nurses and staff and they took the situation in hand. He was back in bed, quite oblivious of the drama. It was only in later conversation that I filled him in. He was not impressed with the nursing but was thankful that I had acted.

It was months later that he contacted me. We met and he informed me that he was bringing a case of negligence against the hospital. It surely was negligence and yes, he could have died. He was most appreciative of my actions and thanked me for saving his life. I was chuffed by that of course. But when he asked me to be a star witness for his case I was less enthusiastic. I was very thankful for the treatment I received there  and made some nice friends!! But then I realised I might not have any option.

It was an anxious time as I expected the call. But cunning Ollie must have played his cards very cleverly. I was never called. I saw Ollie in a rare smiling mood some time later. And yes, there was a settlement out of court. He never did sling any dollars in my direction but what is the price of life?

PARADISE TO PURGATORY

FOUR FUNERALS AND A WEDDING

FOUR FUNERALS AND A WEDDING

It’s been a bitter winter: stark, bare branches and no singing birds. I’ve lost four great friends to dwindle that precious circle that bring so much richness to our lives. Some consolation in knowing that they have taken that chariot to glory.  The funerals were such sad experiences even though glowing with the brightness of hope as we celebrated their lives with thanks. Each of these fine men died of cancer which caused such distress to such a wide circle of family and friends.

Mike Hammond was the first to be “called”. It strikes me as quite marvellous how even brief friendships can blossom into such rich and wonderful gifts. When I returned to Matt Talbot as a volunteer some five years ago, I was assigned to the Tuesday lunch group. I won a jackpot. Three men and three women (including Mike’s daughter, Tara) bring a lightness and kindness to the several hundred men who dine this large Vinnies hostel in Woolloomooloo. Mike and I immediately struck up an easy and happy friendship. It was the school thing you could say. I had just done a six year stint at our outstanding college, St Josephs and he was a Riverview “boy”. (the enemy across the river.) So, the joking, chiacking and competition was a backdrop to a deepening friendship and regard. As a very young boy with his brother he had a most unhappy experience at a country boarding school but when he hit St Ignatius he simply blossomed and became a “legend” in sport .He maintained a lifelong friendship with his Jesuit teachers, imbued with their spirituality. A mighty man was Mike. He even beat cancer about three years ago but it came back with a vengeance and carried him off in a few months. Always gallant and supportive, he was the one consoling and encouraging his family. till the end. The Mass at Riverview Chapel was so uplifting with his son giving a most unforgettable eulogy.  Sadly,  we never did get to enjoy the Riverview Gold Cup, a regatta in November, to which he invited me.

Vale Mike.

Dr. John Keneally (yes, the father in law of Christine the last feisty Labour premier of NSW) was a legend of 30 years wonderful service at the Children’s Hospital at Westmead. An engaging, cheerful man he brought many smiles and much healing to the children and their families battling sickness. .I was lucky I arrived half and hour early, as there were as many outside as inside the church, Villa Maria, at Hunters Hill, for a rare and marvellous funeral. To see that “wounded teddy bear” on the coffin, expressed so much and brought tears to the eye. Can you believe that Jane, his wonderful wife gave one of the three eulogies? Just eight minutes, it was pure gold with so much love, wit, and courage. ( I was lucky to become friends with Jane when she was a nurse at St. Joseph’s and we had Brothers with health problems.) She was followed by Tom Keneally (yes, that prodigious author) who entertained and uplifted as he shared his young brother’s story with so much feeling. Ben, the son, followed with much style….as befits our new mayor out at Botany- the prettiest council in Sydney.

Another “gift” of the Joey’s years was my friendship with Julian Miller. Again, it’s amazing how personalities just click!  Is it in the chemistry ? Quite often I would lunch with the staff and often enough there was Julian in the first “shift” and I enjoyed his company enormously. What a story he has! Following his dad’s remarkable footsteps he was an outstanding student at Joeys, went to uni briefly and then followed his call to Springwood to the priesthood. Obviously a star, he was sent to Rome with the “cream” and was ordained after his four years studies. Later, he was chosen to go to Oxford. He was the first priest to reside at Balliol College since the Reformation! With his charm, his friendly and open nature, his scholarship, he made so many lifelong friends. In his final year he became Captain of the Boats and Balliol was victorious- the first time for many years. At the uproarious dinner to celebrate those outrageous students were banging their tankards on the tables, shouting MILLER FOR POPE. He returned to became a professor at Manly, as well as  student “rector”- a very popular one. Some years later he left the priesthood and eventually married Meg. We finished teaching at Joeys about the same time and they moved to Bowral. Our friendship deepened as I would enjoy their hospitality and once I had them as my guests in the hermitage, or “Dadirri” at Mittagong.

The Requiem Mass at Bowral was so memorable. Four or five of Julian’s class mates helped the parish priest, Sean Cullen; among them  being Bishop Robinson and the author Ed Campion. The choir, an ecumenical group, with their own musical director, was such high quality.  And as the eulogist moved to the lectern, I heard a woman behind me give a gasp: “Meg is giving the eulogy…..what a woman”. Yes, it was so outstanding. Beautifully crafted she was able to capture Julian in his remarkable story and spirit. Those 300-400 attending were all drawn to this pair, a power in the town for goodness, inclusiveness and friendship. Yes, Julian was a prince of a man. We would have celebrated his 80^th this month. Those two bottles of Marist wine I gave somewhat prematurely will have to wait.

The day after Julian’s funeral came the news that Bother Kevin Herlihy had died at St. Greg’s Campbelltown. You could say it was a “happy release” as Kevin had spent most of the last year in bed, on oxygen and asleep. Visitors could stay only briefly but didn’t stop so many of his ex students coming to honour the old man who had been so significant in their lives. Kevin was a most colourful legend. Trained as an electrician he hit the Marist trail back in the late fifties. His style was unique. I recall, in those “bad old days” when Catholic schools got zilch from the government, one of the fund raising initiatives was BOTTLE DRIVE. Kevin was like a general, masterminding and directing the greatest bottle drive in history. For months the boys and their dads in Auburn-Lidcombe cluttered their backyards with masses of bottles. Then some 30 trucks ranged around the inner west dropping boxes. Next Saturday they returned to pick up the spoils. Working in the bottle yard from sunup to sundown, we sorted half a million bottles.

Outdoor education became Kevin’s forte. With near 20 years at Canberra 1000s of boys benefited with Duke of Edinburgh and Outward Bound courses. Kev led groups along the trails of explorers like Sturt, taking many days. He was tireless. A few years ago he was awarded with an OAM. Nobody would forget Kevin as he engaged so easily, with yarns and a lively patter. And if you went to his room you would gasp. The great white hunter had such displays of wild pig tusks….his contribution to eradication of pests. As a irrepressible character, he was a feature at certain occasions as he pranced around in his kilt to the skirl of his bagpipes. The funeral is scheduled this Thursday 13^th September in Canberra.  I expect it will be standing room only and those yarns will be flowing till dawn.

I’m reminded of that phrase ‘making a difference’. Pretty hackneyed and overused now, it still states a truth as well as energise many to commit themselves to a cause. Also, it strikes me that Bryce Courtney, now sadly fading, through his classic POWER OF ONE highlights what shines forth in the live of  these noble men. We’re poorer for their passing. Yet, like bright birds they flit in, alight on a branch to sing, trill or warble to stir the memories, bring a smile, a tear or a sigh. And we know and believe that love is surely stronger than death. They continue to add so much to our “river of life” as it flows to the embrace of the Great Sea.

“Do not cry because I have gone.,Smile because I have been.”

And the WEDDING ?

Well, Edwina is about to wed a Kiwi in the shaky isles. As a sharp lawyer with a commitment to social justice I would be certain that the IQ both sides of the “ditch” will rise.

Life flows on.

THANK GOD FOR ABC

THANK GOD FOR THE ABC.

OR   LET TIMBREL AND HARP PRAISE THE LORD.



Prodigal Mozart

 It was a gentle waking after a very satisfying sleep, splashed with snatches of pleasant dreams. My morning ritual swung into rhythm: a glance at the digital clock, a sigh of contentment that I’d clocked near nine hours, a languid reach over my head to turn on the companionable Sony for the first music offerings of the day.

The timing is perfect as a “mystery tenor” floods the room with a certain enchantment.I immediately recognise this tragic legend from the 1930s-40s. What a treat ! Tirritomba with all the sunshine and sparkle of Naples followed by a clip of an obscure opera, “Marta”. This catapults me back some 70 years when, as a school boy at Eastwood Marist, with some 50 other boy sopranos, Br Peter primed us into acceptable Italian of the aria, “Mapari”. But the warm glow is poisoned by the devastating story of Josef Schmidt. Having emerged from a boy soprano in the local synagogue to gifted tenor who conquered Europe and then the US in the 1920s and 1930s. Then came the horror of the Nazi “Final Solution”.  Just one jump ahead of the hunters he made to a refugee camp in Switzerland where desperate conditions wracked him so that  his health collapsed and he died.

Then it struck me, with some force, just how blessed I was to share this passion for classical music. How blessed we are to be able to indulge 24/7 on ABC FM CLASSIC or a little way up the dial, MACQUARRIE MUSIC. It’s been a life time journey of discovery into realms I would not have thought possible In some way I’d like to write a “paean of  praise” for this gift from the gods, but realise I’m not really capable of coping with such a challenge. It will be a pot-pouri, or like opening some magic treasure box and trickling the jewels and diamonds, and even the odd bauble through my fingers with great delight and wonder.

Mark, DAD, Terry
Denis, Carmel, David

As a family of six we showed no musical talent. Unlike our cousin Patricia, who learnt the piano we shunned such aspiration. In fact I can recall mum threatening us.

“If I had enough money I would make sure one of your boys learnt to play the piano.”

Maybe we were blessed, because it was decades later that Pat told me she hated it. Apart from popular songs on the radio, or a movie musical like “Road to Morocco” where Bing Crosby sent hearts aquiver the musical landscape was pretty bleak.

Ah, but there was a dawn. The Brothers had us school boys learn songs for contests or concerts. Music became fun. I still wonder at the ambition of Br. Peter Carrick, our principal at Eastwood who would coax good performances from us with the likes of Tales from Vienna Woods, Liberstraum and Mapari  a haunting aria from Norma. No cheap stuff this. Strauss, Lizst, Bellini became our companions you might say. Why, I even used lull my cute baby sister Carmel off to dreamland with Braham’s lullaby!



Mum and Carmel at our school



A whole new world opened up at Mittagong in our Marist training. The highlight of the week was Saturday night, when some 120 of us “juniors” would cram into classrooms, with the glass partitions rolled back and enjoy community singing and some classical music. It was a rollicking good time. We ranged from folk songs from Ireland, England, France Germany, Italy, America, Australia and others. We enjoyed rounds and part singing as the Brother would lead and teach us. Gilbert and Sullivan were always popular. I kept my song book for many years and bequeathed to my younger brother, David, who still treasures it, supplemented by his own favourites.

For some thirty minutes we then listened to classical records. The gramophone, like some sacred altar on a stand, was unveiled to reveal a gleaming masterpiece- a gift from some benefactor I presume. Twelve inch records, His Master’s Voice or Decca were lovingly slid from their sheaths of brown paper and laid on the turn table. Brother then “cranked” up the machine with a few twirls and then the wonder of recorded orchestra would flood the room. Silence, of course. Some would listen intently, most would read or play draughts or doodle. Mostly, I read as most of the music bored me. “Shrieking sopranos”  or dirges like “Valse Triste” could be painful. Every now and then I would look up and some little flames would dance in my mind as some tune or snatch caught me. I can recall the very first real classical piece that set me singing and I knew I had crossed a threshold. It was Weber’s “Invitation to a Dance.”

The worst time of the week was Monday after school, and also Wednesday and also Friday, when we small group of boy sopranos, or “scola” were corralled into the side chapel and for near and hour would struggle, bumble our way through Gregorian antiphons or Masses. We were practically living a monastic life with such a regular prayer and liturgy program that it made a certain sense that the supreme church music from the Middle Ages should permeate our lives. But a heavy, dreary load fell on us boy sopranos in scola. I could barely lift the LIBER USUALIS, 1000 page “monster” with every church tune ever invented! Every Sunday, every feast of every saint, and a score of feasts for the Blessed Virgin, with near twenty commons of the Masses demanded our services. Our role was to intone, or lead with antiphons. And so, while the rest of the boys were enjoying a work period , we suffered the pain and ignominy of attempting to follow those black notes climbing descending, dancing, drudging between those four black lines. The minutes straggled by on leaden feet. Now, and again there were some pleasant tunes like Missa Angelis, but mostly I felt constrained and frustrated as we probed and wobbled around the notes.

After near three years, my voice

“Terry, I think your voice has broke and it would be best if you left scola.”

I wept….with joy.



A rare family visit day at Mittagong Novitiate



But I was not out of the woods yet. In the novitiate Gregorian become deadly serious for all of us. By comparison the Juniorate was tiddly winks. Just up the hill, behind a barricade of pines, we were “incarcerated” for eighteen months and ‘licked into shape’. The focus was on formation as Brothers, to be able to live and cope with the challenges of a community life, living out our call as vowed men of poverty, celibacy, obedience. No small task. So, the prayer schedule was more rigorous. Playing a key role in this was Gregorian chant, ratcheted up so fully, that we would have outsung the Benedictine monks of Solemnes. By now, I was a little more at ease and with a certain skill but it was still demanding. The high point of the year was Holy Week in which we sang Tenebrae in the evening. It lasted for hours, with a triangle of some fifteen candles, each to be extinguished after a psalm. And each demanded an ANTIPHON. And there were prophecies to sing as well. The climax was in a darkened chapel when the doleful CHRISTUS FACTUS EST sent ghosts flitting around

There was a certain comedy about it with the inclusion of our Irish chaplain, Fr Galligan who never discovered a note in his life. Alongside him was Dom David, s shaven monk from Solemnes, Belgium where the purest Gregorian was sung. He never winced once during Gallley’s fiasco. But he was less pleased with my performance.  For the first time in history we were to SING the Passion on Good Friday. In Latin of course. A hand picked group of three were to assist Dom. While Brother Gerard, with his sonorous bass voice was a most impressive Christus,

(taking the words of Christ) I failed. I was the crowd or the villains of the tragedy. As such I had to sing in a shrill, edgy voice.

In the practice I barely coped. Come the big occasion I had a “fall back position” in case of problems. Sure enough, after the first shrill I realised I would have to improvise. I dropped just one octave. It was enough to take out the drama of the story. I could see that Dom was most displeased.  I make a quick getaway and so escaped his wrath.

The glorious sun of the risen Jesus flooded hearts as we exalted on Holy Saturday night. Triumph surely as we soared into Haec Dies!



When boys became Brothers
With dad and mum 1950



But I did not escape a certain trial and load during the novitiate. While there was no scola there were four cantors who shouldered so much of the leading. As head cantor, or lead singer, along with Tom and Brian and Lenny, we had to sweat those evening practices and soak up the glare. I remember wildly seeking some pine apple juice to ease the throat on the big nights, as I was told that helped. No dice. But I did find some honey and I reckon that eased the pain a little as our cantors led the novices through the labyrinth of the music which told the story in such a soulful way. All that ended with the profession of vows on July 2^nd 1951, when we were in glorious voice with TE DEUM and TAKE BACK RECEIVE O LORD.

Sadly, there was no community singing or enjoying gramophone delights during that time. There would be time later.

My next enchantment came in the strangest circumstances. For six turbulent months I taught at Marist Parramatta. In fact I can claim a record that I believe is unequalled. We four young Brothers arrived for lunch on July 3^rd 1951. Around the lunch table, feeling very uneasy and like new chums to the savvy “monks” gathered, the genial “boss” Br. Ethelred suddenly asked:

“By the way do any of you know Latin?”

I raised a feeble hand.

“Right”, he said briskly, “you’ll be taking 2A at 1.30.”

And so I was introduced to a wild bunch, barely three years younger than me, with the helpful comment from smiling Br. Dermot:

“And give Brother a fair go boys.”

It was a baptism of blood and fire.

And so I began teaching high school, briefly.

Strangely, the easiest group were a 3B class of some thirty, 15 year old boys, on a veranda upstairs. I taught Geography, very poorly. But they were compliant, easy-going, and even a little interested. I do think the shadow of Br. Lawrence and his supervision from an adjoining room added some pressure here.

One morning I was startled as some glorious music wafting across the road, from Our Lady of Mercy College. An elite school surely, with a small boarding section and with a fine staff of the best Mercies around.  They had a string orchestra and I would be lucky enough on certain days when they were practising as a group. In fact, if I timed it just right, I could assign some work and drift down the back of the class, stand in the sunshine and drink in this divine nectar! It was probably my first encounter with Hayden. Since then, no matter where I am, I stop and let t the loveliness of Hayden’s serenade wash over me. (Of course, among the music literati it seems that it really was composed by Hofstedder).



50 years before I stepped into this "classroom" at MBP



I can’t recall that the community owned a radio. Even if it did, there was no community room where all might gather. After all this 1880 house was built for four Brothers and now, in a certain squalor, some thirteen crammed in, with three to a room and just one toilet and shower! Can you imagine the pressure after breakfast when it was action stations as we all scampered to be ready to face the horde of 700 students by 9.00 am?

The next year, 1952, I was delivered and saved from certain “perdition” in leaving the Brothers. I was one of the few who received teacher training. Music played an important role in all this. We were blessed in having Br. Ronald Fogarty, our Master, a rare mix of supreme scholar, a brilliant companion, and a musician. Yes, he played the piano as well as the violin. Besides he had a quality tenor voice and loved to perform. So, for a short time each evening we gathered around the piano, with Br. Tom Pollard on the piano, Ronnie on the fiddle and us ragged bunch belting out popular but classic songs. We even enjoyed Maurice Chevalier’s LA MER. Precious memories.

But it was at the State Demonstration School at Haberfield that I was launched into another orbit. Each week our long “hearse” car, a 1926 Hudson Super Six, would chug from

13 Drummoyne Ave

, with seven aboard  over to Haberfield Demonstration School. It was one of the diamonds in the crown of State Education. Here, with a superb staff of creative teachers we young trainee teachers would be agog as we were “entertained” by so many memorable lessons. No doubt, we would promise to model their teaching on this inspiration. I still remember some of the names of the teachers and noted years late, that some had achieved high status. It was here for instance, that I was touched with a certain fire to make poetry a rich and lively part of my teaching. I became aware that in most of my years, the teachers had managed to dumb it down so much, with an appalling choice of “Pommy” poems that had so little appeal for Aussi kids. Maths came alive as well, along with Social Studies. But a new experience for me was to revel in Music Appreciation. You could see and feel the students relive the story of that remarkable hero and crack shot, William Tell. Rossini’s overture had us storming down the mountain passes to liberate those enslaved Swiss. I would surely enrich my teaching with this. Acquiring records and a player would provide challenges in our threadbare classrooms where “chalk and talk” was the norm.

It was around this time that I had to admire our young brother, Denis. While Peter, the eldest of us five boys had lead us into realms of comedy with Peter Sellers and a few new musicals, Denis, still in his teens, had discovered and embraced the masters, specially Beethoven. He had even embellished his room with a bust of this genius. He was a few light years ahead of me.



A super class of 1955



FNQ – Far North Queensland was not a cultural heartland in the fifties. Remarkably I was able to acquire a radio for my classroom. While spending many hours preparing work in the classroom over the weekend I would cast a wide net for music of some value. Most of the country stations scattered up and down the coast and inland were totally involved with pop of various types. Hit tunes did have a certain attraction and I enjoyed humming or singing “Mocking Bird Hill” and the like. ABC was often turgid and somewhat masochistic! But then, one late Sunday afternoon, I discovered a gem. 4AY from Ayr had a thirty minute program of classical favourites. The signature tune, the intermezzo from Caviliera Rusticana by Mascagni still weakens my knees and brings on a swoon!  That half hour was the oasis during the week. Never to be missed.

There was one rare occasion with Queensland Symphony Orchestra entertained a packed Shire Hall with hundreds of restless country kids. The conductor was masterful in his crowd control and one jump ahead of mischievous types. As we were perusing the program he called our attention.

“Now, I want you to all stand. Now put your program on the seat behind you. NOW SIT ON IT!”

I still feel a glow when I hear and ancient record being played and hear: ”The conductor is Henry Krips.”

Returning to Sydney I grabbed the opportunity of introducing my sixth grade students to real, live classical music in Sydney Town Hall. It wasn’t easy organising those sixty twelve year olds, ensuring money, marching to Parra station, keeping together in the carriage, out at Town Hall and then seating with hundreds of other school children. But it was worth it. Through the ABC the Sydney Symphony would organise four programs during the year, each progressively demanding. There was lots of participation with kids involved in tympani for instance. I even met a giant in the music world, the conductor, SIR Bernard Heinz.

Generally, I would have to say, the level of musical appreciation among Brothers I have lived with, is mediocre at best. Sounds superior? Well, I can think of communities I’ve lived in and those who would enjoy classical music are pretty rare. That just makes me more grateful that I have been blessed, while professing feeling no superiority! But at Parra I was blessed by two, three Brothers who were outstanding. Buying a player or gramophone was verboten but Marty Smith got around that: he made his own.

Lucky for me, he updated and bequeathed his outmoded model to me. So there it stood, a large, unvarnished “cabinet” style in the front corner of the classroom.  From there I attempted to lead twelve year olds into the enchanting world of “good” music. Yes, Rossini got a Guernsey as well as Bizet, Handel.

One remarkable response to the question”

“What image comes to your mind as you listen to this?”

It was Grieg’s “Morning” in Peer Gynt suite.

“I can imagine a deer stepping down through the snow to nuzzle a drink from a pond”

I wonder if Christ Trew, now a teacher in his fifties, remembers that inspired response.

It was in 1975 that I faced a dismal situation where I would likely “die” from starvation or at least serious malnutrition from music deprivation. With a gun at my head, I had agreed to go to Solomon Islands on a new venture. I was well aware of the danger and so planned to cope. While, on my way, I stopped over with the Marists at Port Moresby. There, Fr. Pat Casserly, a pleasant Irish priest, who as a professional radio producer was able to advise me on a radio purchase. In Rabaul, I was able to pick up an impressive three band NATIONAL. So short wave would help me reach out around the Pacific, and Australia of course, to satisfy my musical needs. Pat also advised me in erection of aerials. And do I was quite optimistic when I was setting up at the Tenaru community. I was able to use some local talent to shin up a tall tree and string up our T aerial. But the results were only mediocre. While I could always get clear reception from wonderful Radio Australia with a wide variety of programs with a large following around Asia and the Pacifiic there was no classic music. Tragically, while there was clear “line of sight” from other islands, Guadacanal lofted an eight thousand foot range to block music from Oz. That was a blow.

We did have a player and a modest pile of records which did give me lots of pleasure. And around at Nazareth Apostolic Centre, Fr. Michael Cruikshank, a true musical aficionado had set up a quality playing station and had collected a range of records over the years. And so I was able to survive.

On my first leave back in Sydney I was determined to record enough music to see me through the years. In the meantime a musical revolution had occurred, FM STEREO had arrived. Over the weeks I was able to “download” on scores of cassettes, the best that the ABC had to offer. Over the years I continued to add to that. Why, in New York I discovered PBC, equivalent of our ABC. I never needed to hunger again.

When I finally returned home after thirteen years away I was able to embrace some wonderful experiences, especially over the summer time. SYMPHONY UNDER THE STARS and OPERA IN THE PARK were not to be missed. Being free gave an extra tang to it. Then there was Mozart’s 200 years since his birth. Sydney celebrated that “con brio”, with such gusto and style. Good planning and staking out our “posey” from 9 am we were assured of best situation. There we were, chomping on chicken and enjoying a chardonnay, or more likely, a Cabernet-Savignon when up popped just a few rows in front, a television crew. Carmel gawped.

“That’s my hero Clive James. I must get a photo with him.”

It was obvious that the director, a stern faced woman, had selected the most colourful groups for this special. The particular group wore black trousers, no shirt, and black tie- at least the blokes did. We pounced. Carmel quickly manoeuvred near Clive and I shot off two photos. By then Madame” Defarges” was onto us and we hustled off. Great.

My years at Joeys provided some priceless opportunities. Out of the nine hundred students, more than four hundred were learning musical instruments. The BR LOUIS MUSICAL CENTRE was always throbbing, bounding with music. I became good friends with the director of the music department. That had some great spin-offs. One was free ticket to four concerts at the Sydney Opera House each year. The program was called MEET THE MUSIC. This included accompanying a group of students to the concerts. As an introduction at the early time of 6 pm an Australian composer with a work that would feature that evening met us and walked us through his work.

 It was very enlightening and added a richer dimension to the music. It was a thrill to be part of a young, enthusiastic audience. There was no half-hearted and polite hand clapping. There was a storm of applause and I noted that the conductor and orchestra members were surprised and delighted at the response. They were swept up in a certain euphoria, which carried us along.

But now, I can carry a whole symphony orchestra with a repertoire of hundreds of compositions of glorious quality, enough to keep me ravished for days….in my pocket. Ah, technology has reached undreamed of heights even ten to twenty years ago. The advent of the IPOD burst through barriers that the wonderful WALKMAN imposed. Now, if anyone asked me:

“What is the most wonderful present, the one that has given you more pleasure than any other in your whole life, what would you say?”

I would have no hesitation.

“It’s the I pod that Marist Youth Care presented to me as a farewell present at the end of 2007”

It has been a constant, dazzling companion for three years and has accompanied me around the world and given me unending delight while walking, in planes, trains, buses and boat. And it has an almost infinite range. Some years ago I had amassed over a hundred CDs, a most impressive company or battalion in phalanxes along my desk. All of that and more has magically been spirited into this slim, silver magical machine.

 As well, some forty photo albums have likewise been miniaturised to share stories with scores of family and friends. And yet, this miracle has room for so much more. Surely, it boggles the mind and you do wonder how can anything improve on this, but it surely will happen. In the meantime, for a decade and more, my little Apple I Pod will continue to bedazzle and delight me.

A golden thread through all this marvellous journey has been Australia’s priceless gift, the ABC. For decades, either as background music or an experience in deeper listening has been ABC FM Classic, found at 92.9 on the Sydney spectrum. As a backup the Macquarie Broadcasting at 102.5 which can boast wonderful programs as well, and paralleled my lifeline in New York, PBS – both of what depend on public subscription.

The creativity in radio continues to bubble forth to cater for changing times and tastes. More recently there has been a surge in interactive programs and reaching out to children with competitions. So, over the last few years there have been programs to invite listeners to have their say. Programs to discover MOST POPULAR OPERA ARIA EVER, THE MOST POPULAR CONCERTO,  or SYMPHONY, or even, THE COMPOSITION I WOULD DIE FOR  or COULDN’T LIVE WITHOUT, all these built up great interest, excitement and momentum over the months. The grand finale in Opera House or Concert Hall in the capital cities were gala events. I was lucky enough to attend one in Sydney. The feeling in the Opera House was a “combustible” mix of expectation, excitement, fun, and wonder. Of course, it was the great masters who mostly took centre stage like Bach, Beethoven, Handel, Vivaldi, Schubert, Bizet, Dvorak, and Shostakovich. All of whom I love madly. But there is one who shines highest in that pantheon. You could say my admiration verges on worship and idolatry- but then he does shines forth with such power in reflecting the wonder and beauty and mystery of God. Ever since he “stole” that twelve piece classic, Allegri’s Miserere from the locked-down, Sistine Chapel and under the threat of excommunication I knew he was God’s gift to us. I still recall the ultimate accolade that Carl Haas, that legendary presenter who charmed, entertained and inspired us for forty years, paid Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

“There have been some, who, down the years, have attempted to downplay his brilliance and install him as just another composer. But, in mind,” (And at this stage his voiced hushed)

“ He was the greatest genius who has ever lived.”



Benedictine abbey at Subiaco where Benedict started
the great monastic movement.



I feel I’ve set out in a canoe to paddle around all the enchanting islands in the Pacific to give some idea of how grateful I am to share the gift of music. I’ve barely begun. And I’ve not even touched on sacred music except in passing. One has only to view the faces of singers in HYMNS OF PRAISE on Sunday TV to see how music can elevate us into a new dimension. Not to mention Taize chants with mantras that move us into mystic realms. And how could one celebrate Christmas without Handel’s Messiah?

 We have such a depth of tradition going back a millennium with Plain Chant. But surely it goes much, much further back that that. The Bible has inspired so much music. And in the book of Psalms there’s such abundance with practically a symphony orchestra involved, with harps, lutes, stringed instruments, timbrels and tympani. But then King David had his own poetic and musical genius. Now, I have to “deplore” the deprivation of Mary and Joseph and Jesus that their little home in Nazareth was not sparkling, glowing, bouncing with the delights of ABC FM Classic, but surely Mary was humming as she swept or washed or gathered water from the well, And surely Joseph whistled as he sawed and shaped timber. Jesus being a quick lad and learner was probably even making up his own ditties. And who knows? There might be echoes of those even now?