THANK GOD FOR THE ABC.

OR   LET TIMBREL AND HARP PRAISE THE LORD.

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. Being Saturday it was “uncle” Bob Maynard, an incomparable announcer, leading his audience through those first bright hours. I caught the last of his introduction to the next song and felt happy I’d not missed the ‘Mystery Tenor’ segment. No, I didn’t know this particular tenor. He was Czeck with a strength and depth and warmth to his voice. Along with a boys’ choir he was singing a Czeck Christmas carol. Wonderful! Those boys, like the Vienna boys’ Choir, possess a quality that, even with our best choirs in Australia just don’t match.

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.

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!

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.

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!

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).

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.

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.”

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?

FATIMA FANTASY (1951)

It’s only recently that it’s struck me how bizarre the statue of Our Lady of Fatima looks. Just how does that minimal  crown stay there with that awful tilt? It seems to defy gravity. Or could it be Mary heading a goal in World Cup? But I have to admit that, fifty years ago, I got caught up in the great swirl of euphoria, hysteria of the early 1950s when this new devotion of Our Lady of Fatima  crashed into the Australian scene with this diminutive statue beginning a nationwide triumph.

It was a great story. The three children tending sheep in those barren hills in northern Portugal were suddenly stunned to see a beautiful lady hovering above a holm oak tree. This was the first of six apparitions of Mary, the mother of Jesus, to these simple illiterate children. She had a message for them to spread to the world!! It was an appeal for prayer and penance, with specific focus on saying the rosary. Incredible as it seems these children confronted the parish priest and were grilled by other authorities. On the 13th of those five months Mary appeared and the ragged few attracted soon grew into crowds. At one stage they were kidnapped! On the last occasion, in October, there was a huge crowd and apparently a spectacular miracle when the "sun stood still." Mary made a spectacular prediction that "Russia would be converted." Given that this was in 1917 when the Communist revolution was still reverberating and not a sure success, this was indeed bizarre.

This was but one of a string of apparitions in the 19th century in France, Belgium, Ireland and other European countries. Mostly, she appeared to children and with a common message about sin, penance, repentence. For a Marist Brother, like me, it was a rich vein of lessons. If you were directed to give one lesson a week on Mary, it was always a struggle to find material. Stories that you could spin out over the months was a godsend.

In context, we see now how Mariology ( Catholic theology on Mary) reached dizzying heights (or crazy depths) in that era. With the declaration of the dogma of Mary’s Assumption in 1954 astounding our “Separated Brethren.” But worse was to follow when we were on the brink of announcing the ultimate title, Mary, Mediatrix of All Graces and so giving Jesus a nudge from centre stage. (Thankfully, Vatican 2 did restore some  balance and sanity!)

But still there is no denying the strong tradition in the Catholic Church of popular devotion to Mary the mother of Jesus. It can take a wide ranges of expression. From small wayside shrines where folk will pause for a prayer to magnificent  processions and a certain accompanying hysteria that somehow offends more phlegmatic types. And while some might sniff at the 'superstition' and even shades of paganism I'm convinced there is often deep faith that sustains and enriches life, specially of poor people. And can you blame them. Over the centuries, some twisted theology, apparently ignorant of the GOOD News, had morphed Jesus, the Good Shepherd, the story teller of such 'shocking' parables as the Prodigal Son, the Good Samaritan, and had challenged the upholders of the Law with "Let him who is without sin cast the first stone", Yes this Jesus had become the stern, forbidding Judge.
(God deliver us from fundamentalists of any strip.) But you cant bottle the Spirit and "she" will find ways to God's mercy, even if it is a mother who can twist the arm of her implacable son!!!

In my early years of teaching, being very much of the culture when were all out to "get souls into heaven." I was sheep- dogging, young souls into heaven and offering an iron clad guarantee. It was all so easy.


Six Class 1958 Parramatta

 all you had to do was : attend Mass on 9 FIRST FRIDAYS( had to be consecutive)  and the 5 FIRST SATURDAYS. (a bargain price entry into eternity.) I still have slides showing sixty sixth class boys adding their stars to the impressive posters at the back of the classroom). And it was a few years before, that the Brothers at Parramatta felt the first hot breeze of high charged devotion, blowing into Sydney.

Around September 1951 Melbourne Catholic Church, under their Irish chieftain. Daniel Mannix scored a coup over its Sydney rivals. With great éclat they welcomed the tilting statue of Fatima, followed by a triumphal, ecstatic procession around the state, something like the Olympic Torch.  There were reverberations in Sydney as the good Catholics had high hopes of a similar triumph. But, our Cardinal Gilroy of the smiling teeth, and deadly rival of Dan, made it be known that we would not be drawn into second place. Little did he know that his own Fifth Column of monsignorial rank was plotting sabotage.

Mary entered by the back door. Through Parramatta. In fact the western approaches were very porous to such an incursion. And we Brothers were thrust into some brief glare. Roused from our beds in near darkness, we stumbled up the road to the mighty bastion of the Parra Mercies to find “She” had arrived and was being escorted to an outdoor shrine. I was press ganged into being a bearer of this bier, decorated with flowers with Mary waving aloft.  Not that I minded at all. What an honour and surely it would mean a photo in the Catholic Weekly. Actually, a press clampdown denied me that little blaze of glory. Br Ethelred with his cultured voice was leading the rosary from a high balcony while we circled the front drive of Our Lady of Mercy College, and onto the makeshift shrine. Crowds had appeared from nowhere and soon we were battling to stand our ground. After a mere thirty minutes, there was some commotion. The next gang of devotees from a neighbouring parish had already arrived and were ready for the swap. A  certain hysteria broke out as the statue moved down the drive. I was shocked at the women who were souveniring some of the drapes! As we handed over the precious statue, I noted a very irascible Monsignor McGovern, obviously one of the conspirators, who had orchestrated this snatch. Little did I know he would be a terror as our parish priest of Parramatta when I returned seven years later.



Parra boys at Canberra War Memorial Canberra

 Strange forces were at work. It seemed there was no stifling of the Spirit. Even our potentate, Cardinal Gilroy was undermined and losing much ground. Graciously, but tardily he announced there would be a special service and procession around St. Mary’s Cathedral in the evening. He knew there would be mayhem if an open invitation was offered. Very cleverly he invited only clergy and religious to the cathedral and subsequent procession around the grounds. The madding mobs could get no closer than Hyde Park. Through a crazy mishap I almost joined the Cardinal as his aide- de- camp that night.

Of course, all the Parra Brothers answered the call. Transport was a real problem as we owned no car. The good Mrs.Goodsell, whose husband ran the local garbage collection….and maybe nightsoil as well…was a fan of Br. Ethelred and so her Humber Super Snipe was at our disposal. That was for the senior Brothers. For us ‘ young guns’ there was a battered ute. I recall six of us crammed in the back, a very tight fit as we were in soutanes and cloaks. We were in high spirits as it was a rare night out as we hurtled down Parramatta road.  I recall parking down a back street and bustling along to the front steps with Cardinal Moran glaring imperiously at those pesky Marists from his high pedestal. After all, with imperial might he had expelled us from St Mary’s after some twenty years and installed his own Irish Christian brothers!



St. Mary's Cathedal in Festival of Lights 2010

 Almost at the door I realised I had left my cloak behind. I needed it as an obligatory wedding garment. I scooted back to fetch it. It must have been further away than I realised. By the time I returned and had raced up that long flight of steps and entered the front door much had happened. Shocked at the near empty cathedral I saw the last section of the royal retinue, with the cardinal way aft, disappearing through the eastern door. Panic grabbed me as I flew down the aisle and without genuflecting dashed out the door. The Cardinal was some twenty paces away. Where were the Brothers?  I pelted down the lawn fringe and stopped almost opposite the top officials to get my bearings. The Cardinal was most gracious. He must have been “moved” by this near distressed young Brother, obviously lost and abandoned. With one of his most dazzling smiles he invited me :”Brother come and join me!”  All I could think of in a split second was “What would the monks say when they saw me in the royal entourage?” In total disarray and utter lack of appreciation I raced on. Past all the surpliced priests, all the De La Salle Brother, Christian Brothers….can’t recall any nuns. Eventually I was among familiar faces and dress. I plunged in, hoping that no one asked questions later. I often chastise myself for being so “boorish” but at that stage I had not developed people skills that would have beguiled even Cardinals.

PS.  Only a few years later, while teaching at Innisfail in North Queensland, a similar event hit the sugar town. The Marian revolution was roaring on. In the USA, a remarkable Fr Peyton was energising Catholic with his Rosary campaign and the catchy motto of THE FAMILY THAT PRAYS TOGETHER STAYS TOGETHER. Australia succumbed willingly to this crusade. Maybe, it was the Catholic riposte to Billy Graham’s world crusade which electrified the big cities like Sydney and had thousands moving down the aisles of the huge crowds and MAKING A DECISION FOR CHRIST.

It was a whistle stop tour for the dynamic Fr Peyton. A large catholic crown assembled outside the convent school on the hill as the church would not cope. We sang hymns, joined Fr. Peyton in the rosary and sang more hymns. Then the preacher made his powerful appeal to us. Very emotional, there were tears in his eyes and in his voice. Certainly, we were moved. I’ll bet the families around Goondi, Daradgee, Mundoo, South Johnson, Mourilyan all dug out their beads and made the family rosary a priority. Luckily, TV hadn’t hit the country at that stage and so there was little competition.

I recall meeting this remarkable priest after the event on the hill. In fact the Sisters and Brothers were privileged. It was most unusual and quite moving. He took me by the hands, looked so profoundly with tears in his eyes and encouraged me to carry the message forward. And of course I did, with conviction.

Some 50-60 years later I certainly have a new perspective. Of the many reported apparitions I have serious doubts. There's little doubt that for so many good and devotional people they provided a rich strain of their spirituality. I have serious concerns about the messages passed. There seems so little that is connected with the Good News and Jesus message of hope and resurrection. But one experience stands out. I spent two- three days in Lourdes when Mary appeared to Bernadette. Again, an extraordinary, incredible story. And sure there is always the give about commercialisation of "pious objects" of all kinds being hawked in the town and outside the "sacred prescincts". But what completely bowled me over was the transparent faith of thousands of pilgrims, and the untold love and care for the suffering. Yes, God was here. Yes, Mary as mother moved among the crowds in giving solace and hope!

Over that time too, there has been a revolution in study of Mary and her role in the Church. With the deep study of scripture we can now meet a more authentic Mary. Her life including living under oppression, fleeing as a refugee to Egypt, a mother who witnessed the death of her son as a criminal, all this has made her a symbol for women who struggle around the world.  In countries in Latin America she has become a rallying centre for oppressed women, who have lost sons in the struggle  for social justice, as in El Salvador, Guatamala, Argentina.  It's that strangest of Madonnas, Our Lady of Guadalupe that draws so many. The story of that poor native Mexican peasant, JuanDiego, wy back in 1531, who met a beautiful lady with a message for the bishop is so incredible as to be believable to those open to mystery, has fired generations of people yearning for justice.

 And best of all, it's women theologians who can dispense with so much male-centred and patriarchal overtones and reveal such a marvellous woman with a  mission as mother of Jesus. Why, we are now striving to bring about a Marian Church , whick is less judgmental, legalistic, authoritative, punitive and more compassionate, inclusive, forgiving, welcoming with motherly overtones. Why. even Pope John Paul 2 insisted we needed a more Marian church for today. The journey has barely begun and who  knows how long before there is any kind of  balance in a Church where women still have so little power and who have suffered centuries of being voiceless.

KEEP RIGHT OUT OF TOWN (1994)

 



 In 1954 I turned 21. It was a memorable year in many ways. It was to be a great mix of drama, challenge, achievement, daring and nose-to-the-grindstone. Strangely enough there wasn't any wild celebraton that I had reached my voting age or 'warrior status" - as a volunteer to fight for "king and country". In fact it was such a modest celebration that I can't recall any detail.  But there is a haunting memory and  a sour taste has lingered over the years, having been declared a near outlaw in the little sugar town of Innisfail.

I had ridden out my stormy first year as teacher of the all-important Scholarship, with commendable results. Folk in NSW would not understand how pivotal this public exam was for the boys of eighth grade in the Sunshine state. Getting a scholarship meant that your secondary education was free. It was a real bonanza for our struggling school. A pot of gold, 20 pounds in all went to the school and not the parents. In our case this was double the paltry fees we were charging and which many people ignored. I could attribute my success to my old Master, Br Ronald who had advised me to find the best teacher in town and learn from him. So, it was I became friends of Hughie McCarthy, an old pro, principal to the East Innisfail State school and whose class topped the town each year. An old CBC Nudgie boy he was so gracious and helpful. I have to admit, however, that I was not going to use his unrelenting cramming. I wanted to enjoy teaching by making it interesting and expanding the students’ activities and horizons. And so we did indulge in music, art,  leatherwork and revelled in poetry.



GRADE 8 - Mike - 3 from L back row

 The following year began disastrously. Asian flu clobbered our little town and I was one of the casualties. In fact it was almost epidemic proportions, as reported by the Sydney Sun with blaring headlines ASIAN FLU WIPES OUT NORTH QUEENSLAND TOWN. The first I knew of it was waking in the night and feeling violently ill. I was soon perched over a wash basin and hoicking up the previous day’s and week’s meals, to the stage where the green bile had exhausted, to be followed by dry retching. Br. Colgan must have contacted Doc Cotter, a local legend and I was whisked away to hospital just the other side of the hill and with a glorious view along the Johnson river.

It was there that I learnt a great truth. It was not the police chief, the magistrate, the bank manager, the parish priest or minister that was the most feared, infallible and most powerful person in the town. It was, without a shadow of a doubt, MATRON BROWN. She really was the arbiter of death and life. Luckily for me she was a Catholic and I was this pathetic, young, struggling Brother. Hence I found myself in a sort of lordly splendour in the corner room with views all round and with aura in the air. It seemed to me that nurses, whose fear of the matron was absolute, would enter on tip toe and barely raise their voice as they assisted. All was hushed. And of course, I was so proper and distant. No glimmerings of romance here.



Mike king of crocs 40+ years later.



I don’t recall what awful cocktails of medicines they plied me with. I certainly was so crook and could have died. Mostly,  from shame and embarrassment. A Brother was not supposed get sick and scarper off and leave his depleted staff battling along with extra classes. Of course, it was decades before replacement teachers appeared. And the general rule was that the “boss” or principal taught a full load anyway. All those pesky jobs, like school accounts for instance, were done in spare time, over the weekend. The fact that we boasted only 130  students  in our school didn’t make it any easier for the primary teachers, who already were saddled with double classes. This weighed mightily on my mind.

I schemed to escape. Blessedly, the worst of the nausea and sickness had ameliorated but I knew I was still sick and should not try to hasten the process of recovery. There was a struggle going on: wisdom versus duty. I decided to act…stupidly, as it turned out. On the matrons daily sweeps I would brighten and explain how much better I was feeling and appreciated the wonderful treatment in her hospital. I knew she wasn’t convinced. But I wore her down. After some 3-4 days she relented. Yes, I could go home.

But how to get back home when all were in school? I suddenly thought of our friendly chemist, another legend, Gordon Rothnie, whose boys attended our school. Soon enough, Gordon is pulling into the driveway in his big Chev and I’m making a bold display of striding down to meet him, aware that the hawk eyes of the matron were peering down. And so I returned home. Joy all around. Next day, I was stalking the poop deck of the classroom. It didn’t last long. By mid morning I had collapsed and had to stagger down the hill to our bungalow. It was a week before I was strong enough to take on a full days teaching. I just hoped matron never found out.

FNQ Brothers mid 1950s

In 1954 there had been a seismic shift in the composition of our community of four Brothers. The oldest, in his early forties at least had gone south at the end of 1953. We’d lost Urby,  a remarkable monk, top tennis player, fine gymnast, uncanny card player, a whiz at cryptic crosswords and a committed and persistent teacher who made sure the kids learnt. In fact, his feat of churning through 100 chapters of Jones’ French Grammar (the driest, most soulless book ever printed) in just one year, still must stand as a record in dour teaching. He never lost his cool, a placid man, and with a twinkle he would share the latest jokes he’d culled from the latest Readers’ Digest. We would miss his quiet presence. Astoundingly we waved him farewell from atop Mount Fox, outside Ingham as we watched that wondrous snake of lights glide through the darkening day as the Sunlander “sped” south. At that stage we were belting back north to beat the wet season after adventures at Valley of Lagoons.

The contrast in his replacement could not have been more dramatic. Gil Larkin, my classmate, was a tearaway, a firebrand who would set our sedate community on its head. Gil had a great appetite for life and he was in a hurry to embrace it. Now, that was not easy for a Brother in those days of our “fortress Church”. (Personally I preferred the alternative title “Ghetto Church”) Of course this was a decade before the great revolution of Vatican 2, threw open the windows and gates and the Catholic Church welcomed the world. In those days of regimented routine we lived in a MONASTERY…even though we were but another bungalow in Owen St.  A tough daily program that saw us leaping from our sweaty beds at 5.30am and pushing through a punishing days teaching, followed by prayers at 5.00pm and after dinner, two solid hours of study with the fans whirring to give some relief. Night prayer followed at 9.30pm and bed followed in silence.

 Weekends saw some let up. Saturday afternoon was the great escape. Sunday still included two Masses, study and the evening topped with 7.30 Rosary and Benediction.  Around 8.30pm we’d cluster around the radio and enjoy some wonderful BBC stuff. I often wonder ‘how did we ever do it?’

Gil certainly chafed against the bit. Many evenings he was asleep at his desk and gentle snores battling with the whirr of the fans. But he strove mightily, for a while. Thankfully he replaced me in the Brothers’ Cricket Competition- after my lacklustre year. With his uncanny eye he certainly could clout a ball and as a medium pace bowler he could inflict some damage.

The boss- Colgan and home

But he needed more outlets for his restless energy. After a month or two he “blew”. After school he would disappear and engage in harmless activities, visiting families (which was verboten according to the sacred RULE) playing with the kids, fishing up at Dinner Creek. Weekends became full of fun for him. The Boss didn’t know where he was or what he was up to and fretted. A top priority for him was to learn to drive. Luckily, Colin Wieland was in his class and so very soon the local Ford dealers were friends of Gil. In no time he had his licence and also the “licence” to range far and wide. He became well known in town and was a hero to the boys.

Meanwhile, I, as a sober-sided, unimaginative, unadventurous type enjoyed his escapades from a distance but toed that hard line pretty closely. Mid year his “empire” nearly came crashing down. As the sports master and coach he followed the local football very closely. This extremely wet day he went to Babinda with the team. Apparently, there was not a complement and Gil donned the Innisfail colours. Again, verboten.  Now, he was a fair footballer, but he boasted a royal lineage. His sister had married the Australian Rugby League test halfback, Clem Kennedy. In fact Gil used to wear the hero’s cast off NO 7 of the Green and Gold. Kids were sure he had played for Australia!

That night as we were munching on the stew that I had cooked, I looked across at my mate Gil and noted a certain purple welt around the eye. In a harmless question, I scored:

“Gee it must have been pretty rough up there at Babinda today Gil”.

He gave me a murderous look and kept eating. The boss didn’t seem to notice it!

Elwyn and Des on Innisfail golf course

Gil was kind to me and catapulted me into a great challenge. In fact, without him I would not have even considered the notion of getting a licence to drive. But I needed one for the coming event. My mother was flying to Innisfail as a 21^st birthday present, quite some time after the modest celebration we had. In fact, I’m not sure that we even had a birthday cake with 21 candles. Again, as part of that “monastic” culture when we shunned that wicked world, such celebrations were considered trivial by some.  But mum was coming and I was going to need a licence. Thanks to my big-hearted eldest brother, Peter, she was committed to fly those 1500 miles, a feat, that for her would rival The Southern Cross’ trans Pacific epic. In fact I still can’t believe that she would succumb to Peter’s promises, blandishments, threats to board that DC3 – or Biscuit Bomber as it was called in WW2.  A family anecdote reveals that she near perished as she crossed a low bridge at Parsley Bay in Sydney in her courting days. Dad obligingly carried her in a swoon to safety.

But there was another source of pressure- a wonderful bunch of friends, from around the Daradgee area: the Davis, Treston and Ryan families. She had met them at Mittagong when her son David and their sons had become Marist Brothers on July 2^nd. They had persuaded this lady with the paranoiac fear of heights, to respond to their invitation and fly to Innisfail.

Johnny Dowling a champ.

To prepare for the coming event, Gil took me in hand to teach me to drive. Of course, the Brothers did not own a car. One good bicycle was our sole mode of transport. But Gil was equal to the challenge. Borrowing cards seems never to have worried him. Nobody would believe me when I tell them that we rocked up to the priests’ residence and conned that gentle Irish PP to lend us his Plymouth one Saturday afternoon. We enjoyed a romp around the cane farms, popping in to his friends for tea and scones and pushing on. We did have a slight accident that needed some remedial work on those flash chrome strips on the side, but Fr. Hogan was not unduly worried. I had a second lesson, borrowing a car from our neighbour, Tom Dowling just up the street in the house which had served as our residence before we moved to slightly better accommodation.

The Dowlings were a great family. Tom himself, always impeccably dressed, was one of those old stylish proprietors of Menswear store in the main street where he would “perform” in his genial way to invite, entice customers into his shop. His wife Josey, was a wonderful mum, so kind and a beacon of  good sense and generosity. The Brothers enjoyed her scrumptious cakes. Their family boasted a Marist Brother, Tom, my vintage, who was teaching in Sydney at the time. Johnny was in our school and had three lovely sisters. Dad’s snappy little Ford Consul was more manageable than the Father Hogan’s Plymouth and I made better progress. I knew I needed more lessons to feel competent and comfortable.

That timetable was blown away when Gil stormed in one afternoon around 4 and yelled:

“Des, get ready, we’re going to get you a test drive.”

“Fair go Gil, I’m not ready yet.”

“No, you’ve got to come NOW, you won’t get another chance like this. That bugger, Sergeant Smith (a terror to both the crim and ordinary god- fearing folk) has gone to Cairns and we must grab our chance.”

I was most uncomfortable but he was unstoppable. Within ten minutes I’m in my clerical regalia and Gil is driving me to the Police Station. I felt anything but confident but climbed the stairs in this large, weather board building. I entered the reception with its counter and lots of activity from both sides. I stopped dead in my tracks; the “horror” was there.

“Yeah, what do you want?” He spoke raspingly, obviously anti-catholic and riled even more at some whippet like me dressed up in that absurd dog-collar.

“Sergeant” I said with some forced reverence and confidence, “I’d like to take a test drive for a licence.”

He glared at me.

“Right” he spat. “Constable Walsh, you over there. Give this man a thorough test. No cutting corners. Try him in all situations and make sure he passes our standard”.

Without showing it, my heart sank. I knew it was impossible but I had to go through with it. As we crossed the road to the Consul I tried to engage him in friendly fashion. No go. I felt doomed. Now, Gil had slipped into the back seat as a sort of co- pilot. Walsh didn’t object.

“OK, take it away down the street and turn left into the river parade.”

There was just the slightest jolt as we moved off. Slipped it into second and took the corner carefully enough. The engine seemed to roar and Gil kicked me in the back, surreptitiously of course. Into third and we proceed for a few hundred yards.

“Now, turn up left, up the hill and stop. I want to try you in hill starts.” I quailed. I’m not even sure we practised this in my two lessons. So, I stopped and applied the handbrake and let it idle with my foot on the clutch.

“Now, take it easy and slowly move off”.

Now, I would prefer to forget what happened over the next several minutes. In fact nightmares are made of such stuff. I certainly came to understand the term “kangarooing”. I recall Gil jumping up and down in the rear vision window and gesticulating wildly. Certainly, there was much jerking and stopping. The copper was so polite…and understanding.

“How about trying it again?”

Ernie, Ivo and Errol with Des in 2006

Eventually, we jolted up that hill. Sweat was pouring from me and my nerves were shot.

“Turn left and when we get to the shopping centre I want you to reverse park.’

This manoeuvre consists of turning into the middle of the road and then backing up. By God’s good grace there was a lull in the normal traffic and so I turned smoothly enough, but much too far. As I paused before engaging the reverse, one of our prized students, oblivious of his danger was gliding by at our rear. With a jerk I’m reversing, much too fast. With alarm, John Rothnie pedalled furiously and barely escaped demolition. We hit the kerb harder that normal. I now knew that the whole venture was wrecked.

I continued on around the corner and pulled up in front of “cop shop” again. We stepped out. Even Gil looked defeated. Then some inspiration hit me.

“Well, I didn’t do very well did I?’

“No, you didn’t Brother”. That surprised me. He must be an ex students, probably of the Christian Brothers who ran a great system of schools all over the state. I decided to plead.

“You know, my mum is coming up from Sydney and I really need that licence.”

Walshie considered for a moment, looked across to see that the Horror was not in view.

“Well, I tell you what, I’ll give you the licence but I’ve got some serious advice.

HAVE PLENTY OF PRACTICE AND KEEP RIGHT OUT OF TOWN.