54. TREES.



Terry with his 1942 monarch of the hill

 I THINK THAT I SHALL NEVER SEE,

A POEM AS LOVELY AS A TREE.

This verse, by pet Kilmer became a lovely song  which made a deep impression on me as a kid. I think it was Sydney MacEwan who sang it with a kind of flawless beauty.

Much later, I was more moved and motivated by:

He is like a tree, planted near running water,

That yields its fruit in due season

And whose leaves never fade.  Ps.1

This is just one of dozens of inspired passages in Scripture to illustrate the power of tree as symbol. At another level, I was puzzled for a long while by Jesus’ stern judgment on the humble sycamore. Did it have anything to do with that lascivious story of Susannah when those two old perverts tripped up in their accounts of under what tree that the fair Susannah lost her virginity.  Was it a sycamore or a Holm oak? Bravo Daniel.

My mother was a passionate tree lover. Coming from the gentle countryside of Lancashire, with its lovely lakes district. Just over the hills, and around those teeming cities, the factories and numberless smoke stacks belched out their obscenity to blight the lives of the people.

It was mum, as a young mother, made a momentous decision to uproot the whole family and head out into a near wilderness. While dad probably never noticed it, Mary did. Bondi Beach where we lived, was a near-treeless landscape. Drabness, unbroken by green. Well, who needed it when you had the gorgeous beach embraced by our suburb? I recall the shock and awe when I saw my first big, really big tree. In an escapade, always initiated by Peter, our eldest brother, we ventured far up by Bondi Junction to Cooper Park. It had wonderful rolly polly hills to enjoy. As well, it had gigantic trees! I was awed. Something so big, unmoving and imposing just had to have some magical power. That was the only one experience  of majestic trees we had in those years..

Uprooted we were and in some borrowed truck with our meagre furniture we rattled across the city to the north west and parked at the top of the hill of Constitution Rd. There was a narrow path down to our new home, a small two bedroom cottage with some lavender vine trailed across the verandah. We were shell-shocked, disoriented. It was so quiet. And where was the constant rhythm of waves pounding on the beach? Instead, we looked down over some parkland to a very sluggish Parramatta river. But there were lots of trees. And mum was happy with the change. But then the sudden shock of a locomotive pounding north along the rail embankment only a few hundred yards away gave promise of some excitement.

In some ways, there was a different tang in the air and we boys shortly started to enjoy some of the changes: so much greenery with long stretches of playing fields, the varying scenes on the river, with tugs chugging up and down, barges nudging up the oil refineries, and a train line where we goggled at the “Flyer” belting up the Newcastle. But, at some level, we never did forgive mum. That sluggish, muddy river was a poor substitute for Bondi Beach.

Mittagong landscape where my passion raged




  But accommodate we did, making new friends with the other Catholic kids – Rosses, Dawsons, Beatsons, Dolans, as well as the Dwyers just down the road. We were a little leery of the Tauntons; they were Salvation Army! Even worse was Mr. Jones: he was a Commo! The Kellys were around the corner, living in a warren with numberless kids, all Catholics of course. We didn’t mix much and one of the boys used terrorise the lone boy down the park. He was a browny, string beany sort of kid, about fourteen and he used lope everywhere. You would see him appear and then try to disappear as he would always head for unwary boys. He was obviously brain-damaged as he could not speak and would yabber away as we backed away. Worse still, he wore this leather bib around his neck and constantly dribbled. It was ghastly. In retrospect I admire his parents who could have had him locked away in those dark times but kept him at home, cared for him … to let loose on us boys.

Instead of trudging to Marist Bondi Beach, we took the electric train to Eastwood Marists. Instead of Brothers Nilus, Vitalus, Fulgentius there were Firmus, Laetus, Salvius and Leopold. All so classical. The fifteen minute train ride provided some attraction, especially the gum tree forest around Denistone. At some stage I just had to walk through that to feel the power of tall trees again.

Mum planted a ‘kind of pine’ near the house and called it ‘Marky’s tree’. I went one better. From across the paddock I carefully lifted a small eucalypt. (Years later I identified it as black butt). I selected a spot up near the footpath, somewhat protected from the ‘depredations’ of us rambunctious boys and tenderly planted this seedling. I would water it regularly enough and it survived, despite the fact that the soil was thin and there was rock just below the surface. But, with that utter persistence and resilience that has seen such trees survive bushfires and drought ’my tree’ slowly developed. It still stands, not a splendid, attractive tree but a survivor. There it stands on the top of the hill with a slightly angled trunk with high branches and leaves that thrash in the high winds. Even now, seventy years later, if I take the train north, I always glance across and nod in admiration.

By comparison, my young brother David, was much more canny. A year after me, he transplanted a seedling from the same paddock. But he planted his almost in the middle of the yard, just across from the small orange tree. He was also more trusting of the trampling of his brothers, but he did give some protection with a stake. This tree thrived and grew into a grand noble and most attractive monolith. I was jealous. Mine might have been higher for a while but it did not draw admiring glances. Ah, but David’s is on more. When we finally sold our home of sixty years it just had to go- it took up so much of that extra ground in our triangular block. Sad really. Must have paid good money to the council to remove that monumental tree!  Now, the new two storied mini-mansion, with a superb view down to the river has little green around it. But, my feisty, ‘little’ fighter still stands as a sentinel over this sacred site.

This gianT must be at least 400 yrs old- DINKUM.




  It was many years later before I was able to indulge my passion again. I moved to Parra Marist in 1958. The Brother’s residence had attractive lawns, tended by Eugene and a thriving veggie garden which was Martin’s pride and joy. The school, as most Catholic schools at the time, was squashed in a mean little space, hard up against St. Patrick’s church- all tarred playground. In a  new development, a fine two storied primary wing has been added. In front of that there was a straggly, neglected scrap of lawn. That gave me scope to lavish some creativity and transform into something that welcomed the boys in the morning. Soon enough, I’d top dressed the lawn, added some garden beds and then planted some trees and shrubs.

In those days, the real wealth and wisdom of planting natives had not struck. It was nearly all exotic. But first I needed some research. What would grow best in this area. And so I commandeered the community car and one of only two drivers, Br Claudius. (My dodgy Queensland licence gotten by false pretences was not valid). On Saturday afternoons we ventured and foraged around the district in search of best prospects. North Parra and Dundas had some attractive enclaves where the wealthy dwelt. I would sidle up to some unsuspecting gardener and engage him with certain flattery and then pry him with questions. It generally worked well and the information was carefully filed away. One large corner block with its steep pitched roof in an English style really caught my fancy. Apart from the bright flowers and beautiful shrubs , all beautifully set out in best practice of the time and probably earning at least an honourable mention in the Sydney Morning Herald Garden Competition, there was a crowning masterpiece. It was a pine or a cedar or….well I wasn’t sure. It was near six metres high, had graceful, symmetrical branches arching gently out and down and was a wonderful blue-green colour. It looked like it had been plucked from a Scandinavian snow slope.

After some conversation with the eager, sweating gardener about the flowers, I asked “What is the name of that beautiful tree in the lawn over there?”

“That’s a blue spruce, my pride and joy. It’s near 20 years old now and often stops people in their tracks. In fact, a few weeks ago, some keen young feller offered me 400 pounds!!” In those pre-decimal days that was a king’s ransom. He expanded on the generous offer.

“In fact, he was prepared to take the risk in its transplanting. No mate, I said, I’ll never part with that one.”

Armed with all this I launched the beautification program. I couldn’t afford a blue spruce but a very comely cedar was planted in the middle of the lawn. Some golden tipped retinospera graced the front of the school, plus a “pendula glauco” to add a rare effect. By the time the astras were romping along in the garden beds there was appeal and some compliments from passers by. But I did give up the forays to the gentler suburbs when my cover was blown. One particularly perceptive woman busy about her garden but willing to help an aspirant, smiled at me and said “I can pick you, you’re just married aren’t you and the wife has got you cracking”!!!



My sacred gum at the Arboretum

 The grounds around the monastery offered more scope. All carefully planned it featured a range of shrubs and trees to soften the façade of an otherwise grim building. The glory of it all, and the only survivor some fifty years later, is the “Cedrus Deodara” which looks across Villers St to a fine Alfred Park.

Thanks to Br. Peter Codd, a questing botanist, I saw the light and moved across to embrace my Meadowbank roots again. Pete was a great promoter of native plants. And so it was that we planted one blue gum and one lemon centred gum at the end of a sweep of lawn. And there was Geraldton wax and eriostemum in the mix as well. It opened up great vistas.

I went into hibernation for a few years when buried in the cramped buildings and concrete at Auburn. The small space was offered no appeal or possibility. But, the spirits slept on, ready to burst with a good shower and more sunshine.

And then I entered the Promised Land. From Auburn I leapt across the Parramatta River to Dundas. The Brother had a spread of some fifty acres of fine land. Over the years they had run a dairy there and hoped the property would prove profitable as an investment. For many years the dairy herd provided milk forover five hundred boarders at Joeys for their Kellogg’s cornflakes for breakfast. Then the beautiful Dundas valley turned into a scene of depredation and destruction as the bulldozers and other monsters moved in and ripped and gouged and dozed and graded. They ripped out most of the bushland to set up a new, raw suburb and move the  inner city folk into new and strange surroundings. In the fifties in the Marist Education Revolution we built an enormous red brick teacher training establishment, Champagnat College. Soon it was thriving with scores of young Brothers plouging through uni courses, plundering a swag of prizes or following teacher training.

Just down the road at Rydalmere a different drama was playing out. Accepting the challenge to an expanding Catholic population the Cardinal had approached the Benedictines to set up and staff a school at Subiaco, where they had been a presence since the very first Archbishop Polding. All started well. At Parra I remember noticing these boys and grey with a black and white tie on their way to the swimming centre. Then the roof fell in. The school abruptly was closed down. Apparently, a large company, Rheems, had offered a huge price for the land and the boys were sold down the creek!! Well, that seems to be the story. The homeless students were farmed out to Eastwood, Ryde and Parra Marist took up most of the slack with Br. Mark heading up the salvage effort.

In the early 60s, the Cardinal leaned on us Brothers and behold a new school and monastery arose along

Kirby Street in Dudas. I arrived when the first class had proceeded to sixth grade. As a demonstration school it did have other demands. But this new, revolutionary style school strung out along the street and with a puzzling, slightly penitentiary style monastery attached was surrounded by acres and acres of ‘virgin’ landscape was just begging for the skill and sweat of a demented Des.

Again, it needed some careful planning and landscaping to capitalise on the setting. I must have drawn up dozens of plans which included trees, both native and exotic, shrubs, garden beds and lawn….as grass had barely poked through the clay platform. For the next two years, on Saturdays, I was saddled up early and rode rough through the whole day. After school, during holidays I was an unstoppable force in transforming the land. I was lucky in meeting Ced Abood who ran a transport company was a godsend. For months I roared around on this rather basic front end loader, shifting so much soil and detritus. I used to dismount in the near dark and my right leg was so sore I could barely work, with all that clutching.

Even years later I would stroll around the grounds and greet my “babies”. Most special among them is a row of swamp eucalypts. What survivors they are. There was need for some shade in the playground. On the eastside there was a cutting down to clay and shale. I decided boldly. A truck with a huge augur turned up on the Saturday and took some hours to drill a 4 foot wide hole down to near 6 feet. That called for a lot of soil to fill them. Then the small trees were planted with lots of hope and a little prayer. Well, they defied my wildest hopes. They burgeoned and in a few years they became sturdy and very thick foliaged trees. They will last as long as those that Governor Macquarie had planted in the Botanical Gardens in the 1830s!



A family enterprize- Carmel., Brigid, Kassie.

 Such a relentless drive  of energy eventually slowed down after four years and apart from a short burst when I remodelled Lidcombe playground with brush box and rock garden Then it practically lay dormant for near 13 years while I was in the islands. But when it reignited it even surprised me with the passion released.

Oh, I almost forgot. In my attempt to add some greenery to the front of the Brother’s residence I did plant a lemon-scented gum, far too close to the house. Subsequent generations of Marists never let me forget it. It became a great nuisance and the colossal fee to remove it nearly sent them broke!

During my many visits to Mittagong post 1988 I was delighted with the unfolding story and development or our land as well as extraordinary impact and influence it exerted with the constant round of retreats and the most creative Easter Celebrations at the Farmhouse. When Br. Chris Wilsl led the team it moved into a new era. It was his vision that saw the first trial vine growing. Which is now an ‘industry’. He made a deal with the Water Catchment people and soon the willows were removed along the creeks as they were fenced it. A costly dam/spillway was added. Then in a great team effort with the young folk who formed community they planted out thousands of native trees. It would transform the landscape. The future took on another hue.

While I was snooping around the ‘backyard’ one day I happened in the glass house. I got a shock. There were hundreds of tubes, seemingly abandoned and drying out. I learnt that they would probably be thrown out as the big planting out was finished. Lights went on. “How about if I take over and make sure they are planted?”

Go for it, Des.”

That started an amazing chapter where I became a switched-on, no-holds-barred GREENIE. Over that year, any day I could slip away from wherever I was I would scoot down to Mittagong and continue the planting. There were various places that had missed the planting and I lavished care there, using my new small digger to insert and then water the stressed out trees. (some of them had become root bound). I even dreamt of carpeting the whole property in carbon credit forest of native trees. Thankfully, I was disabused of this crazy idea.

Once I’d planted those ailing and regenerated trees I became really creative. Why not collect my own seeds and propagate them I must have gathered near 1000 tubes that had been left in the paddocks along the rows of young trees. The began a phase that last a few years where I got to know some 20-30 types of eucalypts and other natives and would gather seeds and plant in my new nursery back at Dundas. Why,I even haunted the Botanical Gardens where there were swamp guns that were planted in Macquarie’s time, in the 1830s. It had become an obsession as I put every spare moment in tending some hundreds of seedlings. When they had reached some thirty cm I would motor down to Mittagong and plant them out.



Chrissie checking the little scribbly gum

 I had dragooned some Brothers to help during one of our conferences there. And more inclusively, the whole family came down to help. So, we had Carmel and her Chrissie and Brigid with her eight year old Kassie, all part of this great project, romping around as well as working hard to plant out those iron barks and blue gums above the dams. A great picnic day it was.

But then a dark cloud covered the sky and black menace threatened the land.

Quite by accident the whole dreadful conspiracy fell into my lap. I was chatting with Br. Frank at the Centre when he happened to mention quite casually that they had received a good offer to sell some sixty acres of “pretty useless land up in that top corner” to a neighbour who needed to expand in able to build another house.

“And guess what, he’s offered double the market price. We should cream over $300,000 for it.”  Luckily, he didn’t see the disbelief, horror and slight panic in my eyes. I was dumbfounded This surely couldn’t happen! This was our land, our birthright, bristling with sacred sites. I needed time to fully comprehend the full extent of this ‘crime’.

I vowed to stop it. I must be clever, calculating, win allies. And so I launched a campaign. Included in my arsenal were separate letters to the different members of our Provincial Council, putting my case, photos and maps showing them the extent of the diminishment to our four hundred acre property. I “lobbied”, chatting to each key person to put the case and enlist support.

I was even moved to write poetry, recalling a remarkable incident when a bunch of us novices in 1950 saw for the first time, a sugar glider, almost an endangered species. One of my most skilful and secretive allies was Fred, who vetted all my correspondence to give it more force and incision! If I couldn’t stop the deal I was aiming for a fall back position which might ignite more support.

I was insisting that “OK, if you really need the money, please make sure the Brothers feel they are being consulted and it’s not just a done deal, like the previous sale of Webb’s property”. That gained some traction as they saw I was at least being amenable. The provincial, Br Michael gave me generous time to discuss. He’s probably forgotten it but I pointed to the thousand acres we owned at Campbelltown, then locked up in zonal restrictions.

“Now, Mick, how long do you think we’ll need to wait before that’s been rezoned to cater for our burgeoning population?” What a prophet I was! As I write some six hundred acres of this precious land is being developed. The flow of money should see us cope with our needs in the future.

At last, I won a reprieve. They were prepared to broach the matter at a conference of community leaders at Mittagong. That played right into my hands. With Br.Chris Wills on side and leader at the Farmhouse, he used the opportunity to show them the disputed terrain and urge delay at least. The first I heard that the plan had been scuttled came through the backdoor. It appears that at the next Council meeting, one aggrieved member, harried by letters and questions, said abruptly



The A team -  Terry, Kassie, Brigid, Chrissie, Carmel.

 “Why don’t we just drop this and more on?”

The majority assented, though I did hear at least one was not well pleased. It could be just gossip of course.

So, the “Man of the Trees” continued. I planted a little grove of Silky Oak, as requested by Br. Quentin. Down closer to the water of the bottom dam I planted some Casuarina, or She Oak which look so graceful by the rivers and creeks. The image was so appealing to me. Often enough I was spend hours taking water to the scattered plantations.

Disastrously, the drought started to bite and the paddocks yielded scarce feed. So, against the agreement with Catchment Authority  Frank opened the gates and let the hungry cattle in along the creeks where I’d planted so much. I’d actually, put some tree guards of chicken wire around the silky oak and Casuarina. What a joke!  There was a general rampage of cattle as they ravaged all. Trees were chomped, trampled, destroyed. After some time I came back to see the destruction. I was a little upset, but that’s life in the country!! Many other just didn’t make it through the dry. But, thankfully there are hundreds that did and embellish our priceless acres at Mittagong.



St. Marcellin planted this oak 1825

 I think my blazing reaction to the threat was bred into the genes over the centuries, the millennia even. I reckon it’s got to be part of my Irish background and the savage story of dispossession and oppression that climaxed in the famine. Is it any wonder that, back in 1969 and the group dynamics we enjoyed as part of the course in Manila I chose a mighty symbol. When asked to design a badge with a distinctive symbol as central, what did I chose, but a tree? And when they do lay me to rest among the forest red gums, and grey gums and box up in our little cemetery, among my Brothers, as the magpies morning warble, and the butcher birds break into their mirthful cackle and song, they will make sure there is a sprig of gum on my casket.

They are like trees that grow beside a stream,

that bear fruit at the right time,

and whose leaves never dry up,

They succeed in everything they do.

Psalm 1:3.