An Unwanted Invitation

‘Mr Marsh, we have no record of you entering the country.’ That was not expected and it was most unwelcome. The last thing I wanted was a few nights as a guest of the Government of Papua New Guinea.

It was 1997 and the trip had started well. I got a free upgrade to Business Class for the flight from Sydney to Cairns. Now I can’t compare the Business Class service back then to what happens today, but the meal was served with a linen napkin, real plates and cutlery. There were few security concerns in those days.

Sopas Hospital

Sunday afternoon in Cairns was most enjoyable. I spent some hours walking around and one day I might find some of the photos I took. I had not realised till then that Catalinas had operated out of Cairns in WW 2. Dad’s cousin by marriage, Don Day, had been a Catalina pilot so may have spent time in Cairns.

Monday morning and I was scheduled to catch an Air New Guinea, or ‘Air Arse-Grass’ as I believe it is called - to Mount Hagen at eight in the morning. At Mount Hagen I was to meet a staff member of Sopas Adventist Hospital who would take me to my planned destination about 20 minutes out of Wabag, the capital of Enga Province.

Now everyone knows you have to be at the airport two hours before the departure of an international flight, so I turned up at six. An hour later signs of life began to emerge.

By 8 a.m. we were all seated, ready to depart, but there was a delay. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,  will you please leave your bags on the plane and return to the Departure Lounge’ came the message. ‘We have a technical problem’. So we did.

Some time later: ‘Ladies and gentlemen,  please return to the aircraft, collect your belongings, and return to the terminal. We have a fuel pump problem.’ Time passed.

Finally the announcement came. ‘Passengers for Mount Hagen on flight number whatever, your flight is now ready to leave. Will you please proceed to the aircraft.’ Then, as we were leaving the terminal we heard the announcement: ‘This is to advise passengers on Air New Guinea flight whatever, due to depart at 10 a.m., your flight has been delayed.’

Where I slept

So I arrived at Mount Hagen two or more hours late, only to face another delay. I had a special visa that was available to Church employees owing to the fact that we did a lot of travel to PNG. It was managed electronically. ‘We are sorry Mr. Marsh. We can only process your visa when we have a landline connection to Port Moresby. Because you are late you will have to wait for the next flight to arrive - in about 2 hours time.

So there was nothing to do but relax and enjoy the comforts of the Mount Hagen International Terminal. It was nothing more than a shed with a tin roof. No air conditioning, food, or other services one  normally expects at an airport. As for customs and immigration control? Anyone could walk through the terminal at anytime and talk to whoever they wanted to.

My hosts had already been waiting for some time pick me up. Now we had the opportunity to get to know each other a while longer before we started on the trip to Sopas. Eventually the next flight arrived, the connection was made, my visa processed, and we were on our way.

It was a trip to remember. The vehicle was a Toyota Land Cruiser, a multi-purpose vehicle that served as ambulance, goods carrier, or taxi. On the return trip I really felt for a couple of passengers lying on  stretchers in the back. I can't remember any mattresses, only the stretcher placed directly on the metal tray.

The road was little more than a pot-holed, corrugated gravel track. The truck rattled and every irregularity in the road was felt. I remember the only thing that attached the glove box lid to the vehicle was the latch at the top. The bottom was free to flap in the breeze.

Hospital

Then, of course, there was the unexpressed - and, I hope, well hidden - anxiety that armed rascals may have prepared a welcome around the next corner. It was a relief to finally arrive without incident. The hospital was forced to close a couple of years later because of the danger to staff and patients from rascals and tribal rivalries.

My first night I was thankful I had followed the advice of my hosts. I had spent six weeks in PNG with the RAAF in 1975, including an hour or so on the ground in Mount Hagen. It was hot and humid all the time. So when I was told to take a change of warm clothes my first reaction was ‘Why?’ No way, I thought, what a waste of space. It was only a last minute, spur of the moment decision to throw in a jumper. The couple of nights I slept at Sopas I needed blankets.

Fortunately,  I escaped without any rascal experience.  Despite the fact I was there to work it was a relaxing experience. At 1,830 M or 6000 feet above sea level the climate was comfortable. There were no mosquitoes, which are a concern in much of the country. Without television and an early enforced lights out owing to the fact that the facility relied on generators for its power supply, relaxation was virtually mandated.

The trip also gave me a real appreciation of how fortunate I am to live in Australia. I cannot imagine how we would feel in Australia if the Sopas ambulance arrived at our door in response to our emergency call. Well equipped is not the word to describe it. Even spartan appears a little too luxurious.

Conditions at the hospital were little better. It was clean, but medical equipment and supplies were quite basic. A well stocked first aid room in an Australian factory would probably be better off.  But it provided a much needed service in the Wabag Province.

After leaving Sopas I flew from Mount Hagen to Port Moresby as I had a few days scheduled at Pacific Adventist University, located just out of Moresby. Another delightful Air Arse Grass flight in a seat with a backrest that would not stay upright.

Then it was time to return to Sydney. I duly presented my passport to immigration. Then, “Mr Marsh, we have no record of you entering the country.” Instantly I had visions of rats, fleas, a concrete floor and a bucket in the corner for a toilet. Perhaps my vision of the type of accommodation I imagined could be offered to me by by new hosts was a little unkind, but I think not.

Some fast talking, explaining that I had entered at Mount Hagen, and I was on my way home. Perhaps the Immigration Official had had previous experience with the landline from Mount Hagen, or maybe he was a very nice man who believed my story and gave me the benefit of the doubt.

Life of Service

Some years back we were returning from a week long Church camp at Stuarts Point when I pulled into a service station to refuel. As I returned to the car after paying this sleek, black Ferrari convertible pulled into the next bay. Out jumped the driver without opening the door,  black hair all nicely greased back, which set the tone for my first impression of the young man - sleazy young ...

My daughter piped up ‘That’s a nice car Dad’.

Yeah, I thought, looking at my old bomb, a 1994 Holden Berlina with over 300,000 kilometers on the clock. Talk about a looser. How do I make myself look good in this situation?

‘I’ll have you know’, I blurted out, ‘I spent the first 20 years of my working life in the air force.' ‘The air force was not about making money; it was about service to the nation. I have spent the rest of my life working for the Church. The Church is not about making money, it is about service. I feel good that my life has been one of service rather than serving the corporate interest.’

Receiving Defence Force Service Medal for 15 years service

And as soon as I said it I felt good about myself. ‘How did I come out with that?’ I thought. Not that I have anything against companies and other organisations that exist to make money, so long as it is done ethically. These can also provide much needed goods and services to the community.

The best thing about this little encounter came a few months later when my daughter said to me: ‘Dad, when I finish school I want to do something that serves others’.  At the end of last year she graduated with a Primary Teaching degree and is now looking for work. When we work for organisations, whether they are profit making or not-for-profit, to the extent that they provide valuable goods and services to the community we all serve. Yet in my mind, there remains something different, something good, about those organisations that exist primarily to serve, not to profit. And there are those who work for them - teachers, nurses, firefighters, police, to name a few. Not to mention, of course, the many volunteers who give freely of their time delivering meals on wheels, working for the SES, raising money for worthy causes and more.

As Australians we hear these words each ANZAC day - words that are written on many memorials across the country.

‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ (John 15:13)

On ANZAC day we commemorate service and sacrifice on behalf of others. That same spirit shown by the ANZACs is shared by those who volunteer their time for others, and by those who accept less than they might otherwise earn to work in service-related fields.

Sometimes I wonder what difference it would make to our country and the world if we all lived with an attitude of service.

Underpants, or Lack Thereof

Palmers Channel Public School was divided into two rooms that could be opened to form one if required. All instruction was carried out in the one room. The other was used rarely, although it did house the stage from which the students presented the annual school concert.

One particular day it had a different use. We had a visit from a medical person who had come to check out the students. All the boys were lined up on the stage stripped to the waist waiting our turn. The girls were in the other room undergoing instruction.If the girls had turned around they could see what was happening on the stage as the divider was windowed.

‘Are you wearing underpants?’ the doctor asked the first boy. ‘No,’ he answered. So the boy kept his shorts on for the examination. Next boy, same question. Again, the answer was “No’. And so it continued until it was my turn. I approached the doctor nervously, waiting for the question, but this time it didn't come.

I found out later the kid in front of me, when his turn came, answered ‘no’ when asked, although he was wearing underpants. So by the time the doctor got to me he probably figured that asking was pointless. This was good for me, as I was not looking forward to answering honestly and it had not occurred to me to do anything else.

There is another part to this story. Recently I recounted the experience at a family picnic in Mum’s presence. She recalled the time she was seated next to a friend, Mary, at a school function. The kids, or at least the boys, were seated facing the parents. Mary's son had a little more on display than she cared to see but she noticed I was covered. ‘What's Kenneth wearing?’ Mary asked Mum. ‘Underpants’, replied Mum. ‘Oh’, said Mary.  ‘Where do you buy those?’

Kings and Causleys

William King was born in Baltimore, USA around 1816. His parents may have been Vince and Phebe, but this has not been verified.

Most likely he arrived in Australia in the late 1830s. His marriage to Catherine Kiely (Reilly) in St Peter and Paul’s Church in Goulburn (Presbyterian) on 5 December 1840 is the first hard evidence of his presence in Australia. Catherine’s family owned a brick making business in Goulburn and, as William was a brick layer, they may have met through the business.

As a child I was told that Grandfather King built the Goulburn gaol, but it seems more likely that he was one of the bricklayers employed in the endeavour. Some years back I dropped into the Goulburn Historical Society and was told there have been three gaols in the city. Likely, the building involved was the one proclaimed in 1847.

Catherine (in the records there are different spellings of her surname) was born in Kilkenny, Ireland, in 1824 to John and Bridget. She appears to be the youngest of three children, the others being John and Bridget. They are thought to have arrived in Australia around 1838 and immediately settled in the Goulburn district.

After their marriage William and Catherine remained in and around the Goulburn area. They had 10 children over a 20 year period. The eldest, John L. King was probably born in 1841, but there is little information about him. Austin, the second child became the major branch of the family tree.

They moved to Tuena, an hour West of Goulburn, in the early 1860s and it was here that Catherine died at the age of 39. She is buried in the Goulburn General Cemetery.

William did not marry after Catherine’s death, which was unusual for the time. His elder children returned home to help care for their younger siblings. William died in 1902 at the age of 86.

Their seventh child, Ema, was born on 3 December 1853. In 1879, at the age of 26, she married James Casey, with whom she had two children, one of whom died young. James died in January 1883.

 

Ema King

The following year she married Thomas Causley. Following their marriage, according to my source, they moved to Monaro where Thomas was engaged in sheep farming. After selling up they moved to Cooma where they bought a store, and from there to Sydney.

Now there is more to the story than that. My Grandmother, Eva Skinner, nee Causley, lived for a while in the original Adaminaby which is now covered by Lake Eucumbene. Nana and her sister, Aunty Maud, used to recall how it got so cold there in winter the milk would freeze in the jug on the table overnight. They also lived in Kiama on the NSW South Coast.

According to the oral family history, Thomas Causley bought and sold hotels. According to the ‘Monaro, Mercury, and Cooma and Bombala Advertiser’ of Saturday 26 June 1886, the Cooma Licensing Court renewed the license of the Kiandra Hotel in the name of Thomas Causley. Then, on 24 December 1909, as recorded in the ‘Adelong and Tumut Express and Tumbarumba Post’ the Special Licensing Court granted Thomas Causley was granted a licence for the Yarrangobilly Hotel. While one of both of these may not be my Great-Great Grandfather they fit with the family history.

Thomas and Emma had five daughters; Ada, Emily, Essie, Eva and Maud; and one son whose name I do not have and may have died young. The three eldest were born deaf, dumb and blind, or at least with some combination of these three disabilities. I remember my Grandmother, Eva, and her sister Maud often communicating with each other using their fingers in the way they would have communicated with their sisters.

As a young woman Eva moved to Harwood Island to work for her Uncle Samuel Causley and his wife. It was while working here that she met my Grandfather, Henry Skinner. They were married in 1916.

Following the death of Thomas, Emma and Aunty Maud – who remained single – came to visit Nana and Pa Skinner. They never left. Mum tells the following story.

One day Henry asked Eva ‘Did you invite your Mother and Maud to stay?’

‘No’ answered Eva. ‘I thought you did.’

So much for family communication.  

The Water Supply

This water bottle sits in the back of the cupboard, never used, wasting space. But I will not throw it away as, strangely enough, I value it.

I have no idea how old it is. For as far back as I can remember this sat in the kitchen of Nana and Pa Marsh. On a hot day it was always full of cold water. It is one of the few possessions of theirs that I have.

On the farm we got our water from corrugated rainwater tanks. We had two, one fed from the roof of the house and the other, just outside the garden fence, fed from the roof of a shed. If the one next to the house got low Dad pumped water from the reserve tank.

Nana and Pa also had two tanks. One however was an underground concrete tank and this kept the water beautifully cold in summer.

Today most of us get water from the town or city water supply. It has additives we never heard of as kids - fluoride and chloride - to protect our health if we believe the authorities. It is only of recent years that in places like Sydney citizens have been permitted to install rainwater tanks. However it is recommended we don't use the water from these for drinking of cooking. This may be detrimental to our health.

I wonder.

If it didn't rain for a few weeks - or more - the birds still sat on the roof and did as birds do. Who knows what creepy crawlies collected in the guttering that fed that tanks and sometimes died there. All this only added to the nutritional mix.

At times a pong would emanate from one of the tanks. 'Neville', Mum would call. 'I think there's a dead frog in the tank.' And, sure enough, there usually was, not that I understand how they got in  as there was a cover that should have kept them out. Now sometimes we could afford to drain one of the tanks and clean it out. But at other times this was not so which meant lift out the frog and continue as normal.

We survived, without any ill effects. Sometimes I wonder if that added nutrients only strengthened our immune system and if we have not got too cautious with the passing of the years.

Farewell Friend

Elmo, friend is hardly the word. You have become so much a part of our lives these past 11 years. Your enthusiasm, mischievousness and plain naughtiness have brought us so much happiness. You have been totally infectious.

I remember when we first met. As a family we had discussed the option of buying a dog. I admit to being reluctant. As a kid on the farm dogs were outside animals – Mum would not let them in the garden, let alone the house – and I had always held to that idea, but I caved to pressure. Then I said no to any long-haired breed. You had to be low maintenance. But there you were in the window of the pet shop, hardly much bigger than my clenched fist with light brown hair to the floor. You were so absolutely adorable, one might say it was love at first sight.

Emily, of course, wanted to take you home straight away, but Marilyn was working and I felt we had to talk it over with her first. And we did. But there was one problem. It was Friday evening and Saturday is not a day we go shopping, it is our day of worship. Emily of course was upset, but I said that if God wanted us to have you, you would be there on Sunday – which just happened to be Mothers’ Day. Now it’s a good thing Mum was so understanding, for there we were early Mothers’ Day morning outside the pet shop waiting for it to open. Of course you were there, and as we were finishing the paperwork we heard another lady say to her partner ‘That’s the one I want’, pointing at you. So you see Elmo, you were meant for our family. Most of Mothers’ day was taken up with you, buying what you needed and getting you settled. And much of Mother’s time for the next 11 years, as she always fussed over you and was concerned that we looked out for your welfare.

You were so tiny. I remember standing at the sink and taking a small step backwards, only to hear ‘whelp, whelp, whelp.’ I had no idea you were there, but I don’t think you really ever learned that lesson.

The more we got to know you, the more we loved you. How you loved the back yard – if one of us was there with you. As a puppy you would run around and around in circles, almost endlessly, to our amusement and that of our neighbour. At first you were so tentative going down the back steps, but it didn’t take long before you were leaping down two at a time.

It took a while for you to get the hang of those walks we enjoyed. Remember the first time I got you to the corner of Pennant Hills Road. All that traffic noise just freaked you out. However you soon got used to it and we would walk for a long time, although I had to carry you at times when you were young.

You were such a great watch dog. I don’t think anyone could walk down the road without you knowing they were there. You would run endlessly around the house, up to the window, around the house again and up to the window, then out the back door to the gate continuously barking. Okay, I admit, at times it was a little exasperating and the door would be shut behind you as you exited. But we always let you back in.

Then you had this habit of sleeping in the middle of the doorway and I would have to step over you going from the kitchen to the dining room and remind you what a pest you were. Then there were the times – far too many – when you would upend the waste paper basket, even sometimes when we thought we had it out of your reach.

You knew when we were about to put you outside and you had your hiding places – under the sideboard, or the desk, but we knew where they were.

You were there when we came home, and the enthusiasm of the welcome will always be memorable, although again there were many times we felt it could have been a little less so. But we will miss that now and wish you were still here waiting for us.

It was Emily that named you, and then got annoyed when I continually confused Elmo and Emily. But it was all her fault, and you understood that. You know those silly things Emily and I did Elmo, each trying to outdo the other for your attention and pretending that whoever you responded to first indicated who you loved the most. Then I used to love saying to her that a dog was ‘man’s’ best friend. But you enriched our relationship with all that silly nonsense stuff.

We know how much you used to miss her while she was away boarding at College, at camps or on those mission trips, study tours and the like. But how you loved to see her again when she came home.

And Emily always remembered your birthday and bought you a present, as she also did at Christmas. We laughed so hard as we watched you unwrap your gifts. Another of those memorable moments we will always cherish.

When Em had surgery last year, you were such good company for her. And when I was recovering from my surgery and just wanted to lay on my bed, you would be there on the floor beside me, keeping me company. You seemed to know when we were down and needed you around to cheer us up.

You loved your walks, and it was so often Marilyn that would take you. You would trot along beside her so happily. You must have been sick for some time, but you never showed it, even when you were on some of those long walks.

It was only Sunday or Monday that you first vomited on the carpet. But we thought little of it. After all, you had done it a few times over the years, but it was always a one of. But this time it persisted, and you seemed to be a little out of sorts. So last evening we took you to the vet. He was concerned at the large lump in your intestine and it didn’t sound good. You were dehydrated and he recommended you stay overnight so he could put you on a drip to rehydrate you, and do some blood tests. And he asked us if he could operate in the morning to find the cause of you problem.

Emily had left to return to Avondale College just after we left to take you to the Vet as she had her final exam this morning. We could not contact her so she could come back and see you again, just in case. That was probably for the best. We rang her later and told her that you were staying overnight for tests and rehydration, but did not let on the seeming seriousness of your condition. We did not want her to be upset for her exam.

The vet was good. He agreed to delay surgery as long as he could to allow Emily a chance to see you again after her exam – just in case. When we went to see you just after lunch you were a little sedated, but the rehydration had done wonders. Again, you were enthusiastic to see us, and Emily when she turned up a little after us. It was almost like the Elmo we knew and loved. It was so good to see you like that, to hold you, stroke you and to say good bye – just in case.

The call came about an hour later. You were riddled with cancer. To keep you alive would only prolong your suffering. We agreed with the vet that it would not be fair to you.

And so, our loveable, adorable, mischievous little Maltese-Shitzu, with a Dachshund grandfather, you are gone. The tears have flowed, and will continue to do so.  You are missed, there is a big void in all of our hearts. Gone, but you will live on in our memories. Thank you Elmo, for being so much a part of us, for being a loved family member. RIP. 

Thursday 11 June 2015

Learning to Drive

After Church. I probably drove home that day.

A couple of years ago I taught my daughter to drive. I sat patiently beside her for most of the compulsory 120 hours of supervised driving. Long will I remember her first evening drive to her weekly piano lesson. As we approached a car parked facing us on our side of the road, lights blazing, she made no effort to slow. ‘Stop’, I said. No response. ‘Stop’ I repeated, this time more firmly for the same result. ‘Stop!’, I screamed, this time getting the required response. ‘Didn’t you see that car?’ I asked. ‘What car?’ Needless to say I drove home that night, and if I were still a drinking man I would have stopped at the first pub I could find for something to settle the nerves.

How times have changed. I remember the story of how my grandfather got his licence. Uncle Roy, Pa’s Marsh’s brother-in-law, was the local Morris dealer and a WW1 veteran so Pa purchased a new Morris. However, he didn’t have a licence so down to Maclean police station to rectify that little anomaly they went. Pa’s request for a licence was met with a ‘Can you drive?’ ‘Of course I can’ answered Pa. ‘Can anyone vouch for that? returned the officer. ‘I can’ said Uncle Roy and so the license was duly issued.

Now Pa had never driven a car, so when the officer asked ‘I’m going out your way, any chance of a lift?’, Pa had to think quickly. ‘Have you ever driven a new Morris?’ he asked. ‘Never’ came the reply. ‘Would you  like to?’ The officer jumped at the chance.

I learnt to drive on the farm. My earliest memory is of Dad taking delivery of a new grey Ferguson tractor around the time my brother was born - the tractor is a much stronger memory than the arrival of a baby brother. A raised road ran through Pa Marsh’s farm and I remember the truck backed up to this as the tractor was driven off the tray. As I grew older I would sit between Dad’s legs holding the steering wheel and it probably wasn’t long after I was tall enough to sit on the seat and reach all the controls that I began to drive. Before I left home I was hauling sugar cane along the road to the derrick where it would be loaded onto punts to be transported to the Harwood sugar mill. Can you imagine that these days - a 15 year old kid driving an unregistered tractor towing an unregistered trailer on a public road?

The Palmers Channel public hall had been built in the late 19th century for the benefit of Protestant Christians and was used by four denominations, each with their allocated Sunday in the month. We were Church of England and would faithfully attend on our rostered day. Pa bought an XL Falcon, released in 1962,  and I remember driving this home from Church often, a distance of just over a mile, or 1.6 km. I can’t remember how old I was when I started doing this, but I must have been 13 or 14.

I obtained my license while on leave from Wagga at the end of 1967. I drove the policeman around the back streets of Maclean in Dad’s automatic XK Falcon while Mum sat in the back seat. It was a happy young man who went home that evening with his ‘P’s.

The XK was the first model Falcon released and Dad had bought this - a station wagon, as was Pa’s - second hand. I remember a later experience in this car - perhaps when I was on leave from Williamtown. On the Maclean bypass I decided to see how fast it would go. As the speed increased the car started to wallow, the speedo fluctuated wildly, and there was absolutely no sense of feel through the steering wheel. It felt as if I could have turned the wheel from lock to lock without it making any difference. Those that raced these things around Bathurst in the early 60s have my greatest admiration for I still recall this as one frightening experience.

Twelve months later, again while I was home on leave, Mum and Dad surprised me with my first car, an Austin Lancer Series II. This was probably a 1962 model. In the twelve months between obtaining my licence and taking delivery of the car I don’t think I had any driving experience - except, possibly, driving Don Bank’s Mk II Zephyr at Wagga. So I had very little experience as ‘P’ plate driver, as we were only on them for 12 months in those days - and, if I remember correctly, without speed restriction.

At the end of my leave period I drove my new car back to Wagga - but that is a different story.

First written circa 2010