Hi, I’m Sam. We may have never met, but when you have finished reading my stories you will know me all too well. Sadly, in our time together you will not have been able to share anything about yourself and your stories. That’s not my fault! That’s books! – But you know, there is always a closeness of contact when thoughts are shared from the heart. I want to take you back – back to a time when purity was more about being real than being perfect – back to a time when fun had to be created not just experienced - back to a time when adventure meant action not only experiment – back to the time that I remember best as, Growing Up a Baskerville. Now growing up for me was pretty special. The roll call included, three other brothers, two sisters, Mum, Dad, and a host of extras to help flesh out the stories. Before we get started let me introduce you to the main players. Big brother David – he was my big brother. You probably gathered that the first time, but as you read on you will understand this description still fits him best. Happy Tom, a loveable rogue, more like the Labrador bred than the Alsatian variety. Young Pip - reserved, quiet, pensive, thoughtful – Pip. Mags was my big sister. She was already into the 60’s before it was ever fashionable to be there. Somehow I felt she was always so many levels up front. Helen was fun, but sensitive too, ‘I know!!!’ My Mum and Dad were, as you probably feel about yours as well, the best Mum and Dad in the world. Now just one of the other characters you must meet before we go on, is Bancroft. That’s his second name, but the ring of it just seems to fit him so well. He had his own unique view on everything. He was my best friend at a time when growing up mattered. The rest of the gang you will meet as I introduce them to you in the stories. Alright, I know you are not going to believe everything that you read here. Now that’s a good thing, our democratic way of life is still in safe hands. But give me some license – these stories really happened. Real characters – Real events! OK, they are told by a story teller, but they are the events that I lived and witnessed with my own eyes. It’s just that I see everything in full, slow motion digital, 3D, surround sound color. So now just settle back, relax and enjoy, and let me tell you the one about……

David was only ever interested in creating games that had at least a 95% chance of getting hurt. Otherwise why would you bother playing them? Well it must have been one Sunday afternoon because all things of any note at the Baskerville’s happen on that day. Sunday was after all the decreed day of rest – well so Mum & Dad thought as they retired to their room and all the kids headed off to theirs like rabbits down their warrens. It would only take about 20 minutes of looking blankly at the ceiling before rocks began bouncing off the bedroom window. It was David’s call sign for all those wanting to break boot camp, go AWOL and shimmy out the window and off to do some mischief. Well this particular day David had discovered Dad’s old dart board under the house and it was a little worse for wear. Still, you could make out the faint black & gold colourings that confirmed it had in some previous age been used as a revered game of skill. On closer inspection one could see that there was a hole in the place that once held top prize – the bulls eye! So here was the game with the greatest chance of getting hurt. David would throw the dart high into the air and us younger siblings would run around in a state of hysteria underneath the plummeting missile and try to land the dart on the board and secure the highest score. It was obvious to us younger brothers, even without being told, that it was not real smart to keep your thumbs on the top of the board. Why give him such pleasure without at least putting up some intellectual resistance? Well it had to happen. The dart had been thrown – my sweaty palms were in position safely under the board. My eyes were fixed keenly on the feathered demon – my feet were firmly planted – all that was left to do was to wait. Well, the last thing I recall hearing, as I ran up the back stairs with a dart firmly fixed in my right foot, was David’s trailing voice saying “Don’t tell Mum!”.

Fishing to David & Pip was always a serious endeavor, something that Tom and I could never quite grasp. We never could quite give it the reverence that they thought it well deserved. Still, us infidels got an invite one morning to join the pilgrimage to that Mecca of fishing shrines - Whale Rock. The first thing you discover is that the day starts early for these dedicated souls, and I know that because I was sure that the night hadn't yet finished for me. Brother, if you are going to be part of this journey then stumbling around in the dark half asleep and trying to get dressed while having something to eat, is just part of this sacred experience.- some experience!. Tom and I finally made it downstairs to where our brothers, yes brothers amen, were already going through the final stages of their leaving ritual. Something akin to hat, watch, wallet except that this was more like rod, reel, bait. Tom and I were both issued with our burden to bear (I think I got bait and Tom got tackle) and we headed off following those who must lead. As we stumbled our way to the rock, in that early light, we could certainly make out some recognizable words amongst those spoken between Pip & David, but most were not understood (popper, jewie, avery, gang hook, lure), so we just walked, head down in silence. Now the one part of this trek that they had failed to tell us about was how you get across to Whale Rock. Standing there I could quite clearly see the two choices. A rope cable stretched tight between the two land masses or a very quick swim across that shark infested channel. Pip wasted no time - he was up on the top of the rope and in no time, with a momentary jiggle of the pelvis, he was off, pulling himself along that rope with all the expertise of a circus hire wire act. Once safely across, the beautifully orchestrated system of gear transfer took place between him and David until all our tackle was on the other side. David was next on the high wire. As I watched his skilled crossing I was beginning to understand the particular 'rite of passage' that they had set for us. Tom's rather dazed sleepy look told me that he had not quite cottoned on to it as yet, so I nominated myself to the position of next to cross. The brothers amen, had left us to it. They were busy setting up their chattels of service. So I climbed atop my initiation and immediately not only understood the challenge but I felt it as well. David yelled some advice about getting the tackle to the other side (I thought we had already done that) but as I began to move I realized he was not talking about the fishing tackle. As I inched my way across I began to question whether a swim with the sharks could possibly be as bad as this or why certain cricketing equipment does not form part of the essential fisherman's gear. Still I finally completed my "rite of passage" through a combination of sheer determination and of course getting the tackle to the other side.

Most things at Straddy are set in stone,
Like the southerly blow with its whistle and moan,
Like the tree shady beaches all white with sand,
Like the spray from the headland always so grand,
But ever so rarely those waves ain't so rough,
They become calm as a millpond if you're lucky enough,
Angry waves that once crashed on those craggy brown rocks,
Will sometimes just lap their mossy green locks.
Here was our chance to discover and explore,
It was laid out before us like never before,
So down to find secrets in a foreboding place,
That has captured the life of a smiling face,
Came three grown men with little boy hearts,
They all stayed together never drifting apart,
With snorkel and goggle and body on raft,
They paddled the gorge - others thought they were daft,
But they knew the terror of what lay beneath,
They weren't into dying they wanted no wreath,
With mask in the water and mouth filled with pipe,
The talk among them just didn't seem right,
When look became "hook" and there became "hair",
With two becoming "hoo" now that's a bit rare,
Well Dave gave us a "hingray" for goodness sake,
But Tom's "hook hoo hingray" that so took the cake.

Fishing + Stradbroke. Aaaahhh - for Pip and David there can be no more heavenly match. There was beach fishing (for those "fishing challenged" folk), rock fishing (for those "life challenged" folk) and boat fishing (for those "God challenged" folk). It is true what David says that somehow you do feel closer to God when you are boat fishing - that's because death seem so b*%$#y near. Particularly for yours truly Mr."squelchy toes". David had decided that Tom and I should share some of the divine experience that is boat, water and sky. We left from the beach at 2nd Cylinder and made our way around to the point. We arrived at a place that Pip and David would often describe as "out where the big ones are". David stopped the boat and set up Tom and my lines with fish bait, the size of which I would have been happy to have caught. So, out went the lines and we settled back into the boat to enjoy the serenity and peace of the soothing ocean swells. Nothing happened for a while and I was beginning to come around to David's point of view - when BANG!! My line was racing. No doubt about it folks - whatever was on my line was not going to stop until it reached South America. David yells in a Captain Ahab type excitement "Let him have it Sam, give it to him". See, I was with the professionals now - so do as you are told Pete! I stood up bravely, braced myself and pulled back with a mighty heave. You know, it was clearly a sufficient yank to at least turn the head of whatever was on my line - because within a few second I was face down in the boat and the creature and my line was continuing its course for those warm waters off Chile. Tom by this time had reeled in his line and had jumped to the challenge. He picked up my rod and he was really into it. No mere ocean going creature was going to beat our Tom. I had decided to remain seated on the bottom of the boat while this titanic struggle took place over me - when THUMP, all of a sudden, there was Tom sitting right beside me in the bottom of the boat - rod pointing straight up - line as limp as a cotton thread - and us looking at each other in that rather bewildering exchange. I tell you, I'm not sure how many teeth I saw on the monster that had decided to attach itself to the back of our boat - and I didn't really care! But what happened next showed me that we were protected by a supreme being all along. Because something jumped over me and Tom, grabbed a knife, cut the line, started the motor, jumped over us again and had us zooming for the beach in such quick time that I never had time to get my prayer said, let alone have it answered. It just goes to show that sometimes when out fishing, a supreme being can come in the form of a big brother.

I always knew my older brother had many talents and rather (lets say) special skills. What shone out to "Sam the salesman" though, were his engineering feats (I will tell you about them later). David could always figure out the most "over the top" way of to do everything physical and sadly I was usually the last sucker in most experiments to get the joke. Well, it happened at Straddy one summer. David had discovered the physics of falling water Vs compacted sand. He concluded that lagoons left high and dry (so to speak) by the low tide, could be made to do an incredible thing. They could be broken and drained within minutes with just a few little channels of strategically directed water flow. Why he thought of that, and yet it has never crossed the mind of another living sole, is testament to his "specialness". (if you know what I mean!). Well we had had many lagoon busting successes together before (tell you about them later) and we were always on the lookout for new opportunities. Such an opportunity presented itself on Cylinder Beach one hot summer's afternoon. The families were relaxing. Kiddies splashed in the shallows. Parents enjoyed the clear crystal water that is legendary there. But there it was - calling our name. Lagoon high on the beach - tide at its lowest! This was the moment to strike. So we began our choreographed routine, where we would each take turns at taking a handful of sand from the trench as we made our way up and back to the waters edge. Amazingly, it starts off as an insignificant trickle which gradually builds & then eventually rushes headlong like a river down a canyon gorge. Look folks, I put it to you - How was I to know that buried deep beneath Cylinder Beach was is the most vile and most putrid black gunk I have ever seen. I stood there watching the ocean turn a sickly black, kids started screaming, parents rushed from the water fearing the attack of Pharaoh's curse. I was powerless to stop the evolving catastrophe unfolding there before me and was only jolted from my mesmerizing stance by the gruff growling gravelly voice of the islands most revered of citizens - NASHIE!!! - That professional fisherman with hands so big they could easily crush two boys my size right there and then. Well, that's if there were two boys there of course. As I took the scolding like a coward, I could not help but notice the lack of wind protection at my back. A quick glance to the headlands revealed another boy similar in looks to me, but a little bigger, just sitting there looking out to sea with not a care in the world.

We are all trapped by our genes. Traits are handed down the family line over which we have no control - from our forefathers to our father to us, and then on to our children as well. There is no escape! (Well, until they figure out a way in which we can choose our parents that is). One trait that stood out in my father, that was also alive and well in his, was a belief that, “No maths answer should ever be given without a preceding lesson on the complete A to B of the subject that had given rise to the question”. In other words they were both incapable of just giving you the answer to the question on your maths homework that had innocently asked for a number to be entered into a very small blank box. We all made the mistake at some point, of asking for that quick fix, and we all paid the price. David had made such a mistake with Gonga once, only to spend the entire evening discussing the first principles of astro-physics. I had already decided in my education that to guess the answer and do the time in detention was far less painful than asking for Dad’s or Gonga’s answer to a particular maths question. Still, I was lucky enough to be there in the lounge at The Gap on the night that Tom came face to face with the family gene. He was motoring through his maths homework until he hit that block. There on the page was an empty box just begging for an entry that would complete his homework and usher in a whole night of freedom and entertainment. He did what we all did at least once. Easy he thought, ask Dad for the answer. “Dad, what’s the answer to A+B” Tom asks with pen poised to write down the quick reply. Dad looks up from his work on the dinning room table in that I’m glad you asked me that Tom look. Well then it began, before us all lay an evening devoted to high end logic that is algebra. A subject not only understood by Dad but embraced with a passion. He presented his lecture in a way that I felt to understand algebra was to understand life itself. Tom just stood there listening and sifting through the words he was hearing for that one syllable that would allow him to complete the box in question. None came – only a question to his question. So now, ‘What do you think A+B is Tom“ Dad asks of his pupil - “AB?” Tom, “Nope” Dad - “2B” Tom, “Nope” Dad - “BA” Tom, “Nope” Dad – “2A” Tom, “Nope” Dad. Tom had run out of possible combinations and I could see that he was beginning to contemplate bringing C into the answer soon if he couldn’t find a combination of A’s & B’s that Dad would accept as correct. Dad could see that his pupil had been stretched to the point that he could finally reveal the answer that would bring in that great white light that is enlightens. Dad’s face lights up as he reveals “Tom the answer to A+B is A+B. Now do you see!”. Tom just stood there, eyes alert, mouth slightly open. For a moment I thought that he HAD seen the light, until he said “That’s stupid. Why would you ask for an answer to a question where the answer is the question”. Good one Tom - I thought. So now when my children ask me for an answer to a maths question – you guessed it – I just tell them straight so that I can quickly get back to watching my football on TV.

We had so much to do in those early years at Straddie, and yet we had none of the appliances we all need today to make an evening full and entertaining. Although one year, Sawdies did install a light box pretending to be a TV in the house we had rented from them. You see this mainland rejected TV was on its last legs and could manage at best only 2 hours of view time per night. You would start the evening movie with a full 16” screen only to have great actors like Charlton Hesston and Audrey Hepburn reduced in height to 8” while still maintaining their same width. Strange viewing indeed! Still we slugged it out with squinting eyes to reach the great climax of every one of those movies. Needless to say but there was some downtime to be filled in. This was the time for cards. But we kids were getting bored playing the same old card games and so one night Helen asked Dad that fateful question. “Dad do you know any card games?” Dad indicated that he knew one and that he would be happy to teach us. This was excitement plus. A new game - evenings of fun coming up. Well Dad came over from reading his book and sat at the table with us kids. As he sorted the cards we all leaned forward, with elbows on table and knees on seat and ready to take in the instructions of our new card game. Now 500 is a great card game, but it should come with a warning on the pack “NOT SUITABLE FOR KIDS UNDER 12” which was most of us at that table that night. Unperturbed, Dad continued to explain the games instructions and how it was played. He taught us all about the trumps, the changed value of the Jacks, the dropping of certain cards, of hearts beats diamonds beats clubs beats spades and the process of taking turns of calling suits and numbers until you got the last call standing. Over half an hour had passed and Helen seemed to be taking it all in far better than any of us. I know that because she and was the first to break from the mesmerizing spell we were all under to say “OK, we all know how to play that now” and gathering up the cards said “Lets get started”. “NO, NO, NO” Dad said “I haven’t explained how to play the game at all yet – I have simply explained the process of selecting who starts”.

The trouble with being born in September was that my birthday would always fall at the same time as the Gideon Convention. These were events that Mum & Dad would attend, somewhere in Australia every year. So I got pretty accustomed to the birthday phone call as my birthday celebration each year. I didn’t bother me too much, as long as I got the card with the money with some gooie love thoughts from mum written on the inside. So as my 21st approached I thought nothing of the event, except for the customary card and $$$$. The boys, (John, Jaap & Bancroft), had been kind enough to invite me out for the day. They had me going to golf early, hamburgers at the local for lunch and an afternoon down at the park. No one mentioned my birthday and I didn’t expect them too, because I was having a great day anyway. Well John finally drops me off home after a very exhausting day. I walk through the door and Hip Hip Hooray! Helen had organized a big surprise birthday bash and had decked out the house to the max. Everyone was there and we all had a great night. It was a total surprise to me and even more so, that everyone had managed to keep it a secret from me for the past week. Thanks Helen!

Helen, Tom and me were on our way to the Milton Public School one day and we got to talking about memory. I was 10, Helen was 11 and Tom was 7. The discussion centered on memory this particular day and I claimed to possess enough brainpower to remember something for a long, long time. Yeah? Yeah! Helen said “alright, then lets remember the next number plates that we come across and lets see who in 20 years time can still remember it. OK”. “No worries” I said. A taxi went by and I said I will remember (T13-243), then Helen came across a parked grey Holden with the plates (NHL-522) and she said she would remember this and finally Tom saw the black car (NBO-547) and he said this would be the number he would remember. Well it been 39 years since that day and there you go, lots of other things have failed in that time but not the memory of the number plates that we saw that day. If only you could trade that skill for cash!

The Gap Water Hole Before the boat in the water hole met the sad disintegrating end, that David described in his story “ The Rowing Boat & The Flood“, it represented hours & hours of afternoon fun for all us boys and our friends. Yet, it was just one of the activities that were available in that wonderful place. David had also erected a swing off a branch overhanging the water. This eventually became a trapeze rope with gymnastic feats being performed almost daily. Everything worked out fine provided you let go and landed in the deep part of the pond. Some times you would let go a little too late and end up in the reeds lining the sides. Still it was all great fun! One time, a pumped up car tube became the target landing point in a one game we played. The object was to fly high off the end of the rope, spin in the air and land bum first in the tube. (A word of warning to ensure minimal pain – make sure the tube value is pointing down at all times) I vividly remember one day, as we were cooling off with just our necks sticking out of the water, watching a snake swim between us as it crossed the water hole. There was no time to panic but rather just the frozen stance of “David Attenbrough” type amazement. For some time, after some heavy rains, the water in the pond became very muddy. Untroubled, David simply invented a new game. He came up with an adaptation on that old school ground game called “Red Rover”. The object was to swim underwater across the length of the pond without being caught by the person defending in the middle. You could not see through the water so you had to rely on touch and looking for bubbles or any other evidence of underwater movement. Various schemes were created to avoid capture. One scheme involved heading off in one direction but changing course for the other. Another was not to swim off but to sit on the bottom until enough time to elapse for the captor to believe you had passed and gave up the search. David improved on this idea by swimming underwater and surfacing in the long reeds on the bank. He would wait there until the person in the middle gave up looking (assuming drowning), and then he would calmly proceed to the other end without any of the normal frenzied searching being performed. Still, by far the best scheme us young’uns had, for beating our older brother, was for one of us to go while the other watched for David’s movement. The brother left watching would hold two river bed rocks. If David went to the right then the instructions were to swim to the left (one hit), or, if left then (two hits) = swim to the right. We had him beaten on this scheme for quite a while until one time when I was underwater I got the instruction left (one hit). I headed off in that direction but then I got the instruction right (two hits) followed by another (one hit) left. In the confusion of swimming round in circles I ran out of breath. Unfortunately I surfaced right beside David who was standing there with a big grin on his face and also holding two rocks.

    A long, long time ago there was an event we called ‘cracker night’. About two weeks before the historic date, our local shop at the Gap would sell a great assortment of things that would either go bang in the night or would light up the dark sky in a rainbow of colours. Colourful things were never our appeal - where is the danger in blue, green and pink. No, our interest centered firmly on those items that could blow things up. There was the “tom thumb” which could blow a little hole in a bull ants nest, or the “half penny” which could easily blow up your sister’s afternoon rest. But, at the dangerous end of the arsenal were the “penny bunger” which could blow up everything at home that was not nailed down or the ultimate in weapons of mass destruction, the “double bunger” which could blow up the neighbor’s letterbox - every year! Of all the options on offer, most interest for us boys was directed at the “penny bunger”. This was the best bang-for-bucks value you could get. One penny, about one cent today, was the amount you had to pay for this little marvel. It was about 2 inches long with a 1-inch wick protruding from one end. The gunpowder was housed in a tightly bound bright red casing. It was an implement of war that was feared and respected by us all. Now Penny bunger fights involved two teams of brothers on either side of a high standing and dense scrub. The idea was to light your bunger and throw it over the scrub into the opposition camp. Each explosion that caused the hoped for squeals and yells from the other side gave an equal degree of delight to the brother delivering the pain. It was not long into one fight when I began to notice that we were getting a greater proportion of missiles from David’s side than was reasonable. Then it occurred to me that he was simply throwing back our bungers that we were lighting and getting rid as soon as possible. So the new team instruction was to hold all bungers until the wick had burnt right down to the gunpowder before throwing it. Now this new technique worked fine until one time - I was engrossed in watching the wick burn down, when suddenly BANG! – right above my head came an explosion from the opposition team. I was so busy jumping around and giving the required yells and squeals that I had forgotten about the live one I held in my hand. Now, as my numb fingers reacted to the nuclear blast I finally understood why the letterbox lid would open and shut so many times in response to that “double bunger” attack each year.

My earliest recollection of my big sister Mags, was her absolute heart love for animals. I still remember seeing her cuddled up and sobbing deeply in the back seat of our car, the night we took our dog Chippy to the Vet to be put down. I remember the many times she would come home from the Eagle Junction State School and bring with her any animal that she found on the way that was hurt or injured. One time it was a pigeon that could not fly and somehow she had caught it and brought it home peacefully snuggled up in her arms. Still, the one I remember most vividly was the time she came home and said to me that she wanted to show me an animal she had caught. I was puzzled because I could not see any animal, as there was nothing in her hands. As she began to unbutton her cardigan she revealed a frilly neck lizard just holding on to her shirt and showing no signs of wanting to escape. Now this was fortunate because I had already run out of the room in quite a hurry to get away from Mag's new pet. But that was her way with animals. They just trusted her and in a Dr. Doolittle type way - I really think she could talk to them!

One of the best things about living at Mr. Goff's place at Greenslopes, was the huge park that was just at the end of our block. It's vast area with no buildings and wires, making it an ideal place to fly kites. I think the park was the claimed home of some amateur kite flying association as well. When David saw this activity he decided he was not going to miss out on a new experience and so he went and bought himself a "Bird Kite". Now all I know about these kites is that they are viscous. They climb high and dart around at enormous speeds and I am sure could easily disrupt other kite flying members within a 25 meter radius. Well, I think David had managed to get a few Association members noses out of joint on his first day, because when he came home he said something about showing them. So, the next day he was up early and was busy building a wooden box with a specially engineered wind up handle. He also had along side him quite a few reels of fishing line. By the afternoon he had finished what he had set out to do and said he was off to fly his kite. Curiosity got the better of me and after a while I decided to go down to the park to see what he was up to. When I arrived I could see the usual Members making their air born objects sit there 10 meters in the air for hours with only the slightest of quivering as the wind passed beneath them - marvelous site that! I looked around to try and find David and his kite. There he was sitting right in the middle of the park with his special wooden box and wearing a pretty big smirk on his face. As I approached I said, "Aren't you flying your kite today" He said "Yes, its up there". Now I looked up, and up, and up and then I think I saw it. A speck in the sky that did look a little like his bird kite. He then muttered something about a couple of hundred meters of fishing line. I just shook my head and felt sorry for those members who had said something the previous day. All I could think about, as I trundled home, was what the Qantas pilots must have thought as they flew past David's kite that day. Now one of the down sides to showing up those members what for, was the time it takes to reel in "a couple of hundred meters of fishing line". So, tea time for David that night began about 8:00pm. But, still I think everyone learned a valuable lesson that day - for me it was never tell David to "go fly a kite".

One of the problems we had at The Gap home was mice. This particular time they were everywhere. Mum went on a mission and bought a dozen or so mouse traps from the supermarket and asked us boys to help her set them up. Now setting these traps is not for the faint hearted. One slip and WACK, the spring-loaded device would inflict pain on any finger silly enough to be standing in its way. David of course made a game of it called "Think Quick". This game involved setting the trap and throwing it at a brother with the warning "Think Quick". The trap was harmless against anything flat but was the sworn enemy of anything protruding. So the quick thinking involved placing that part of the body in the way of the trap that did not have any possible appendages. All I will say is - sometimes it worked - sometimes it didn't! Now at the same time of this 'City of London' plague extermination drive, Dad had set up a study/photo lab under the house. One day when I was helping him out with some photos he was developing, he asked me to get a container from the top draw of the filing cabinet. As I opened the draw I saw to my horror a group of mice nestled in the corner. As I stepped back in fright and pointed to the draw with a ready description of what I had just seen, Dad said "Its OK - they are field mice. The mother has been living in there for some time and has just had a little family. I have had to keep them there to protect them from your mother." So, now I understood where David inherited his "Don't tell Mum" line from.

The house at The Gap was built about half way down the hill. Whenever the rains came, the sloping back yard would receive the full runoff of the up hill water as it made its way down to the creek at the bottom of the hill. On one of these occasions us kids were playing out in the rain and enjoying the rush of water as it flowed down the back yard. It was not long before us older kids discovered that you could ski for a short distance down the yard with the assistance of the water, the slippery grass and oozing mud. I think it may well have been Tom who was attempting the older kid's skiing tricks but slipped onto his back and ended up travelling further on his rain-coat-covered-back than any of us had achieved in the upright position. Well that was it! Everyone went back inside to put on their mackintoshes (raincoats for you Aussies) over their by now soaking cloths. Mum just could not figure it out. But then she saw us - running at full pelt down the side of the house and at the right moment lifting our legs up and landing on the small of our back on the sloping back yard. If everything went well you could glide on your Macintosh for about 10 meters with the water, mud and grass being dispersed either side as you went. Mattel eventually went on to patent this Baskerville game and now sell it in all good toy stores.

Most of us have experienced it at some point, so much so that it is now part of Baskerville folklore - 'The Mumma Wave'. In fact it is not hard, any one can do it - it just that not many of us want to. You see to do 'The Mumma Wave' effectively you must have no concern of what others may think of you. My first experience of 'The Mumma Wave' was coming home one afternoon from Brisbane Grammar on The Gap #17 bus with all the kids from other schools. I was sitting down the back with the gang when we came to a stop along Wentworth Road. The bus seemed to be delayed in leaving and so everyone's attention was drawn forward to see what was causing the holdup. My God - some crazy person had driven in front of the bus and parked in such a way that the bus could not leave the stop. At the car driver's side door stood a lady on her tip toes with her arms fully stretched waving in huge semi circles and giving out the obligatory call of YOOO HOOOO. Mum??? Oh no Mum!!!! Well I got my bag and headed for the door to the snickers of the other school kids and to the rather twisted smirk of the bus driver. The only relief for everyone on board that day was that at least the lady was not their mum. You see mum had seen me in the back of the bus and wanted to give me a lift to save me from the long walk home. Whilst this was a very kind gesture, she did not realize that she could not save me from the long walk I had to do tomorrow, down the isle of the bus. Now that I am older I only see with fondness the caring attitude behind that wave and now my kids will tell you of their embarrassment when they get 'The Mumma Wave' from me.

Now I know it may not be politically correct to talk about the good looking guy with the jet black curly hair and the square chiseled chin – but I just gotta! Bancroft was as much Helen’s boyfriend as he was another brother to me. Somehow he just thrived when he came into contact with the wackiness that is the Baskervilles. Coming from only a two child family he really warmed to and was keen to join the Baskerville gang. He introduced me to Aussie Rules shorts – out of those belted Sunday Bests. He taught me to play squash, or putting it another way, how to run around in circles and crash into walls and call it fun. He taught me how Brut-33 could improve your appeal to the opposite sex. He suggested that I should not just rely on my natural “new mown hay” aroma. He was so daring. David would invent the game with the greatest chance of dying – and Bancroft was the first to volunteer. He was either so brave or so stupid. I am still not sure which is correct. He was part of so many of the stories from The Gap but for now I only want to mention one. See, we had been swimming in the water hole and had finally come home to get dried and changed. We went into my end room to change out of our wet cloths. I had given Bancroft a par of my shorts that he could change into. He stood inside the closed door and after bending over he dropped his ‘dacks to his ankles – at that very moment Mum opened the door with the words “there is a phone call for you Peter” and finished the sentence looking at that naked rear contortion. Mum was in shock!! Peter on the other hand simply opened his legs and looking up at Mum said “Thank you - I will take it in the hall” – Typical #@$%# Bancroft!!

All us kids remember the night that Mum talks about in her “where can I wash my hands” story. There is no strain on the memory when someone asks “where were you when the sawmill at Wooloowin burnt down?” – ‘cause we were all there, right underneath it. My best recollection is that all us kids were preparing to sit down to the evening meal that Anty Phill had made with the help of our big sisters, when we noticed a strange orange glow coming through the stain glass windows at the back of the house. As one, we all went out the back door to investigate. There it was – a wall of flame reaching up to the sky with sparks being carried by the raising heat high into the air. For us kids it was – oh wow! For Anty Phil it was – oh no! She went straight for the phone to tell others about the great event that was happening right in our own back yard. After a series of calls she came back said that we all should get dressed into our dressing gowns and grab whatever valuables we could and be prepared to leave the house at any time. I followed Tom’s lead (or did he follow mine) – anyway, I grabbed my teddy bear and the large cardboard scripture verse that always hung at the end of my bed. I had in my possession everything of value that I thought needed to be saved. The big sisters tied to save all of Mum’s heirloom jewelry which they thought would be contained in her vinyl handbags. David had only one thought and that was of his birds in the aviary underneath the blazing sawmill wall. Both he and Anty Phill went out and caught all the birds while the fire raged and brought them back safely and released them in the bathroom. (Except for two that we found the next morning – miraculously, safe and well) By this time the crowds had begun to build up and they were starting to flow into our backyard and even up our back steps. That’s when one of the most memorable events happened for me that night. Uncle Howard. I always thought him to be a quiet and reserved, somewhat reverend uncle – but this night I saw something else. I watched him arrive through the back gate and within moments began driving the gorking voyeurists out of our family property with all the fury of a man driving the merchants from the temple so long ago. No one wanted to argue with a man so filled with righteous rage, and so they all left – without murmur. I felt safe - Uncle Howard had arrived. His advice was to leave the house and wait out the front. I wasn’t about to argue, so me and Tom left by the front steps with our precious possessions and were looked after by neighbors until Mum came through the madding crowd and collected us with one of her trademark hugs.
See also related story by [Mum][Tom]

I don’t know about other families, but dinner time for us was clearly a spiritual experience. Well, that’s what Dad always wanted anyway. No food was ever consumed without giving thanks and no meal could ever be completed without the necessary bible reading and prayers. No doubt about it, Dad was earnest in this pursuit, but he did not always get the required response from those that he had begat. (The bible’s description for us kids). Whilst Dad’s thoughts turned to thanksgiving to the creator of the universe at the start of each meal the begat often practiced the evolutionary doctrine of “survival of the fittest”. You see, there were usually only 7 complete and intact place settings for this extended family of eight. The eighth place setting usually consisted of a knife with no handle, a fork with forward and backward prongs and a spoon of the “Uri Gellar” vintage. The object was clear, that during the eyes closed and heads bowed grace period at the start of each meal, you needed to swap your bad cutlery for a better one held by your brother or sister. Any kid that followed completely in Dad’s footsteps soon found that he had a full set of unusable utensils with which to eat the evening meals. So, most of us soon learnt that at the announcement of grace to place our hands firmly on those utensils before us that we did not want swapped. Grace was a 'time window' of opportunity in which to set yourself for the meal ahead, so there was much hands across the table doing the Baskerville Swap. This went on at every meal until one night when Dad was giving thanks to the almighty; he picked up his spoon and proceeded to whack any hand that was reaching across the table. Knowing that the Lord may not understand this squinty eyed approach to grace, Dad continued his prayer with all the fervency that would normally be required at this sacred moment - and so ended the Baskerville Cutlery Swap.

Well the brothers had finally made it to the Whale Rock shrine to do some real grown up type fishing. Gathered there were the serious anglers and the angled series – us (me and Tom). The fishing bug had never really bitten us as it had David and Pip, but we tagged along just in case we missed out on something important. I think that David truly believed that this was the day for us heathens to finally be smitten with some fishing enlightenment. He set up our huge rods and heavy lines with a gang of hooks accompanied by the necessary dark blue pilchard with its rather frozen surprised look. We were not qualified to take any part of the rod setup system. You see, we were fishing for the illusive 5klo Jewfish. Our instructions were to simply cast out and wind in until we caught the fish that would transform “us” into “them”. So everyone took up their positions and went through the fishing routine. Give the pilchard as mush flying time as possible and land him in the water ‘out where the big ones are’. Slowly wind in with your finger placed on the line feeling for any fishy activity. Finally you needed to avoid catching the hooks on the rocks as you wound in, so that the procedure could be repeated and repeated and repeated………. This absorbing fun-filled activity was continued for over an hour without any result. (apparently quite normal and apparently quite good fun). Just as I was about to give up on this whole Jewie fishing thing - it happened! I felt it - a huge pull on the line. The fight was on and the shivers of excitement were pulsating through my body. My yelling and delight could be heard all over the fisherman's headland. The professionals (including David & Pip) turned to see the size of my conquest. (apparently size does matter in this realm). David could clearly see – this was definitely Sam’s moment of conversion. He wound in his line and joined me so that he could be part of my magical moment. Out of the deep blue water came the biggest Brim I have ever seen, let alone caught. I was so proud of my achievement as I stood there with this huge fish shimmering in the morning sunlight. David grabbed the end of my line and took my prized catch off – and threw it back in the sea. ?????? “We did not come here to catch Brim – we came to catch Jewies” David said, as he went back to his rod and routine. David was right; it was my moment of conversion – from fishing to playing silly buggers with Tom and the blow hole on the rock. But that’s another story!

The day I lost my best friend. All of my older siblings had clamed territorial ownership of at least one of the family pets. For Mags it was our black and white dog “Chippy”; for David it was our rainbow lorikeet “Joey” ; for Helen it was our sheep dog ”Muffy”. Now “Tuffy”, a bitsa mongrel, was the pet I claimed as mine. I think more as a default than by choice. He came into the family about the same time as I was studding for my senior matriculation. It would be fair to say that he was not the brightest of our family pets, which is why I guess he was so attracted to me. He had the silliest of grins. Yes folks, sometime he was so excited he would grin. He also had a fowl habit of rolling in anything smelly, which is why mum banned him from ever coming inside the house. Still, every night without fail, as I did my studies in the back ironing room, I was sidetracked by the scraping of paws on the outside fly screen. It was Tuffy’s signal for me to let him in. He knew he was not allowed in but he also knew that I did not have the heart leave him out in the cold. So, I would open the outside door and he would rush under my study table like a child hiding from the parent for doing something bad. There he would stay the whole evening at my feet, contented in the fact that he was inside and benefiting from the occasionally stroking by my toes. In that time we formed the closest of bonds. We gave each other the comfort of belonging and the happiness that comes with acceptance. The way he would look up at me with tail wagging furiously, ears pinned back in total submission and moth open and panting with excitement, told me of his total devotion. We went everywhere together, but only if I called and let him come. If I said to stay – then he would stay at home. But oh the joy when I would say “come on Tuffy” and pat my thighs in welcoming anticipation. If you wanted an example of happiness personified in any living thing, then it was there - right at that moment. So it was with these fateful words, I called to Tuffy on the day that he drowned. I could so easily have said to stay – but I didn’t. I was off on an adventure and I knew that he wanted to be there with me also. Tom has described too well the moments that lead to his death. You know, he had already swum down about 2 meters in search of an opening in the submerged logs. He drowned in the gap between the two last logs. Had he swum just 30cm more he would have come safely through to the other side. I know this because that is how I got his body out through those submerged logs. Holding something so precious in your arms, in the torrents of that swollen creek, made me totally oblivious to the dangers that I too was facing. All I could think of was the fact that there would be no more times of shared joys. I carried Tuffy's limp boby through the rapids to a dry stony clearing. I placed him down and then just ran off with tears streaming down my cheeks. I did not stop running until I got home some 10 minutes later and told Mum of Tuffys plight. What happened after that is pretty much a blur. The only thing clear and piercing to me even now is that, on this day, I lost my best friend.
See also related story by [Tom] [Pip]

LEGAL DISCLAIMER - Hopefully all of our kids have grown up with enough smarts so that they never attempt to do the following activity that their fathers stupidly did as kids. This story is sadly based on actual characters and real events. There is a story to be written before this one. Someone has got to tell me how we discovered the drains at Greenslopes in the first place. I hear it had something to do with David and Pip being chased by a gang of thugs. See, I went into the drains with David after they had already been explored. Many stories will come out of this place but right now I just want to tell you about one. At Greenslopes we had a dog appropriately called “Duffy”. Now this dog was big but he was intellectually challenged as well - which is the nicest way of saying he was stupid. Now John, my cousin, was intellectually challenged as well but at the other end of the scale. This straight A’s student was too smart. John could handle himself with distinction in any department – well above ground level that is. His problem was that his mad cousins did not always live above ground, ‘cause sometimes they would descend into lower earth – the Greenslopes drains. The other thing of note about John was his frame – 6 foot something – and the something almost reached the big 7. This was not a frame built for going up a 3.5 foot round drain – but to his credit he sheepishly wanted to give it a try. On hearing this, the brothers looked at each other in that mischievous smirky way and were then easily able to convince John to go last in this ‘down the drain’ adventure. He was easily persuaded that all the dangers on this trip lay up front – but then again he was new to this stuff. Before we went into the drain we had commanded that our “pick me! pick me! pick me!” excitable dog had to stay at the mouth of the drain and was not to follow. So then, off we went in single file up the drain and into the darkness of lower earth. The best technique for advancement was to crouch low with bent knees and to bend forward so that your head was horizontal with your bum, place your feet either side of the smelly ooze and rock side to side in a forward moving motion. These instructions of course were written for height challenged folk. Those say, less than 4.5 feet. What a 7 foot person should do – is his problem, but one thing was clear, there was no empty space around such a frame in that small drain. About 50 meters in, the drain takes a sharp turn to the right. At this point darkness descends. Voices and noises become amplified by a factor of 10 as all around you becomes pitched black. Another 10 meters further along doing the ‘drain stagger rock’ and we had reached our point of fun. “Come on Duffy!!!” - was the brothers unifying call, and then hush…... The amplified splash of galloping feet told us all that he was on his way. Soon he would reach the bend – soon he would be heading head long into the darkness – soon he would be with us again. Trouble was, he had no idea of where we were. John’s mathematical brain had quickly worked out the formula and he was beginning to make those panting grunting noises of a man facing an unwanted reality. Big dumb dog + excitable speed + pitched black + no room + me last = pain and suffering. This is precisely what happened, as Duffy barreled John like a strike of bowling pins. Sometimes dumb can be fun too.

I was sitting in the grade 5 class at Greenslopes State School listening to the teacher, when a nurse came into the room and interrupted the lesson. After speaking to the teacher briefly, I was the only one singled out to go with her to a lower class room. Now this was a bit scary – nurse, sick, problem – me? I followed her down the stairs and she said something about Tom. Now I was getting worried. What had happened to my little brother that required such special attention? As I came through the downstairs door I saw Tom. He was just sitting there, looking around with legs crossed at the ankles which were swinging back and forth between the chair legs. He seemed to me to be happier about missing out on school than being concerned about having any major sickness. I was ushered into the temporary medical clinic and was told the tragic news that Tom was color blind. BLIND – OH NO!!!! What can’t he see? No just colors. What he sees in black and white? No just some colors. They then began to show me a series of sixties type psychedelic pages and asked me to tell them the number that I could see. To be honest, at first I could not see any numbers. You see, everything that had been shown to me at school up until that point had been very clear. No one had ever tried to hide the number or letter they were trying to teach me behind a page full of multi colored dots. What was this – some form of adult trickery? The number was there but you had to squint pretty hard to make it out. Still, I must have given all the correct answers because they just sent me back to the class after explaining to me that Tom had problems distinguishing between green and brown. He saw a lot of brown shades as green which is why we always got a good laugh out of him pointing at brown topped EJ Holdens and saying “there goes our car” (which actually had a green roof). But you know, as I get older I somehow think it would be advantage in seeing browns as green. What a growing, lush, fresh, clean, bright world Tom must see everyday compared to the brown, burnt, rusty, dirty reality that I see. When Louie Armstrong sings “it’s a wonderful world” I recon he is seeing lots of greens, not browns – just like our Tom.

David’s story of the Gap Colorado certainly brings back the nightmares for me. I remember the day so well and David’s vivid description only serves to make it more real and terrifying. What excitement we all shared as we jumped into those raging rapids as a team – and then suddenly you were one. The seething boiling flood waters were rushing at various speeds of danger. There was die-really-quickly speed all the way down to drown-really-slowly speed. Enough to say, that the variant speeds soon ensured that we all lost sight of each other within seconds of entering the water. It was truly – every frightened boy for himself. A few things stood out for me that day. One was to always keep your bum level with the underside of the tube as you came in contact with the gannet boulders that were strewn along the creek bed. You only had to hit one of them at full speed once to learn that lesson. The second experience I remember from that day was as David describes – the strange straight water line. At this point in the creek the water finally slowed to a speed that you could at least think and reason a little. I actually remember having enough time to look at this strange water formation and ask myself questions of what it could be. I think I did work it out as my tire and I went tipping over a 3 meter high waterfall. Finally, the Bancroft thing was a real worry. David had stopped on the bank and began calling everyone in as we raced past him. All were accounted for except Bancroft. His float went past – but he didn’t! Well that was it - everyone rushed back along the creek bed trying to call out his name louder than the noise of the crayoning crashing water. What a relief when we saw him alive in the middle of the sea of brown furious waves. He was sitting like a monkey – halfway up on a bent over stapling barely strong enough to hold his weight. Still, as flimsy as this life preserver was, it was obvious he was not about to let it go in a hurry. As David went upstream to execute a plan of rescue I yelled out to him about what he was up to. In typical Bancroft fashion he yelled back “just waiting for the tide to go out”.
See also related story by [Dave]

I am convinced that the hardest shot in golf is the one you have to record on your score card. See, seasoned golfers have learnt never to play when the God of the skies is sending down his lightning rods on all those people who cheat. No golfer would be left alive if they did not quit playing when the revenge lightning sticks started happening. The air swing that turns into just a practice shot – cheat, the kick of the ball from the rough while pretending to look earnestly for your lost ball – cheat, the count back of all your shots at the pin and ending up with just 7 - cheat. Well that pretty much describes me and the boy’s (John, Bancroft and Dessie Lyons) first day out at golf. It looks so easy and also like so much fun on the TV, but in reality it is just so dammed hard. We were told by the pro at the club house to let others pass through if we were slowed looking for our lost balls. Well people played through us all day faster than a three day curry from the local take away. We walked twice as far as the hole distance board indicated as we crisscrossed each other down the fairway to the hole. We only ever met at the tee off and the putting green. What happened in between could be used as footage in any Benny Hill skit you could name. It was a day of embarrassment. Playing two fairways away from the one you were supposed to be playing on - Proper golfers at the tee watching in awe as each ball went in every direction identified on a compass and always into something very bad - or as Bancroft used to say “in where the elephants go to die” - Hitting a ball at the tee and having the divot of grass travel further than the golf ball – so much embarrassment!!. We did however, initiate a rule just for us that day. If you could walk over to get your teed off ball and get back before the next person played then the stroke was not recorded – now this happened more times than you could imagine and it certainly saved a few double centuries that day. As the day wore on, Dessie decided to just use a 7 iron for every shot and with a fair degree of success I might say. No fancy club selection for him. In fact 7 seemed to be his lucky number because as we would record our scores at the green it was amazing how many times he seemed to score just seven. The rest of us tried to master the wide range of clubs given to us at the start. I had my most trouble with the #2 wood. Just about every stroke resulted in hitting the ground as well as the ball for a very poor result. My primitive golf understanding told me that if I put the ball on top of a very high placed tee then it may reduce the chance of this problem reoccurring. So, that’s what I did. Place the ball high on the tee and whack it with the #2 wood as hard as I could. The shot seemed to go off beautifully with only a little dirt taken. All of us peered forward to try to see that majestic golf ball in full driven flight. Strain as we did, no one could see where the ball had sailed to. Suddenly right above us came the sounds of something hard crashing thorough the tree branches overhead. The ball landed only a few meters from where it was first hit so under our rules I got to have another embarrassing go in front of the now sniggering crowd.

I know you are all wondering what ‘my first big break’ was – well steady on, take a Bex, relax, and I will tell you. DAVID – now there is a name that can strike fear and excitement in equal measure, for this little 7 year old brother. As per usual there was a game. As per usual it had a high probability of getting hurt. As per usual the high probability rested with me – nothing new to see here folks (yawn!!). The object of this particular life threatening thrill, was that I had to do whatever David did – can’t see a problem with that - lead off, was the call of the ill informed. So off he went, in, over and through every imaginable obstacle that existed upstairs in our highest, timber poled Lissen Grove house. Over the couch, under the bed, over the table, under the chairs, through the twin doors, up on the kitchen bench – hey folks I was keeping up, well kind of! David could see that he needed to ‘lift the bar’ – this kid’s good! So he came up with a few time slowing maneuvers that put a bit of a gap in my pursuit. He knew that this was his moment to strike the killer blow. He got to the front window at the highest point of the house - Margaret’s room. There he proceeded to lower his body down the outside of the house, until his toes attached to the metal ant cap which protruded from the top of the timber pole. He then let himself down again, holding on to the ant cap until he could safely let himself go and jump to the ground and land ---- at the precise moment that I stick my head out the window to address my next challenge. Boy – it does look high, but I guess if he did it then so can I. Now the jump and free fall from the window sill was tooooo easy – the problem was the landing. WOW!!! Followed by OW!!! – My First Big Break.

Religious Disclaimer. Folks this is a true story, but for the religiously challenged you may want to skip this one. Bancroft had joined the Baskervilles – big time! That meant that he had to flow in to and become part of our particular brand of Christianity. Whilst it did not quite match the sacred reverence of his Prespeterian background, still, things at our church were taken seriously, even if it were not quite mainstream. One of the hardest things was declaring that allegiance, to a world that would respond with, what’s that “Angles from God?”, sorry? “Assemblies of GOLD?”, NO “Assemblies of God” you know - Jesus saves. No, sorry mate, never heard of it. So I was really surprised when Bancroft rolled up and said he was going to put a “Jesus Saves” sticker on his car. Wow, I thought – that’s hanging it out there. For a new AOG convert, that takes a lot of courage to declare yourself so openly, in such a hostile religious world. So I stood there watching at the back of his car as he proceeded to carefully place his declaration to the world on the bumper bar. As he stood back with head tilted and arms folded, admiring his work it became clearer that a picture of a man in robes placing a coin in a piggy bank with the caption “Jesus Saves” was not quite the declaration I had in mind. Well, we both lived out the day without any lightning strikes from the heavens – I guess HE must have a sense of humor too!

I was never as big on pets as say David was. I remember his budgies at Wooloowin, the lorikeets at Rockhampton and then the mixed birds and fish (sounds like a good menu item) at The Gap. I mean, if a dog attached itself to me, then OK – he was my pet. But I don’t remember ever making it an passion. I guess it had something to do with my first attempt to make special contact with the animal world. We were in Rockhampton at out second house – you know the one with the prickles all the way down the back yard. Well one day, I was down at the end of the street playing in the newly excavated area and throwing rocks into the dam caused by the earthworks and heavy rain. There were big rocks, flat rocks, round rocks, small rocks and even some rocks with legs. What!!! Mum! Dad! come quick, that rock moved. And so it was - I had my first pet, a real live turtle. What fun I had planed for my new petmate. What great new adventures we would embark on. I spent hours and hours setting up a pen in the old chook yard. Complete with pond and state of the art tea chest for his own cool pad. I was set for my own special thrill of being a pet owner. Now Autumn was drawing to a close and the trees were starting to lose their leaves, but my pet was OK – he was in his home. Every day, I would rush home from school, grab some lettuce leaves and head for some quality time with my pet. After about two weeks of just standing at the gate looking into the tea chest for even the slightest sign of life, I thought, um , I had better ask Dad about this. Now I still can’t spell the word I heard that day – but it didn’t sound good for my thoughts of an active pet life. I mean – what’s the use of a pet if all it does is just sit there and not move for 6 months. If only the penny had dropped for me then, rather than for some other pet turtle owner in the 80’s – Pet Rock

Growing up with four brothers was truly a special treat. In the 10 years of those inter brother wars, we managed to split pretty much along party lines. That is – The big guy David had to stick up for the little shrimp Pip, which left the two welterweights, Tom and me, as the defaulting pair. So when the team events were on – this is the way it divided up. I guess that’s why David and Pip took up fishing and me and Tom played silly buggers! See Pip took after David and Tom, sadly, took after me. So being team leaders from fiercely opposing teams seemed to called for just a little ‘I’m cool’ and ‘arms length’ behavior. But, I got to tell ya, there was this one time when I got really close to my big brother David. So close in fact that we were as they said back then, ‘as one’. – Pull up a chair and let me tell you about it. See, David had found two huge steel wheelbarrow wheels, out in the back yard at Albert Street Rockhampton and, turn as his brain does, he decided to designed and build a Billy Cart. I just watched in awe as he turned these wheels and bits of timber and a couple of small wheels off Mum’s wash cart (she’ll never know) into a supercharged, V8, hotrod, flying machine. No sense in just looking at it – let’s try it out! So we pushed this monster out onto the road and up round the corner to the top of the street. Lets give it a try, David says as he jumps in to the high sided box that he had specially constructed. He then beckons me to join him on the narrow axel leading to the front wheels. We sat there doing the mission control check – reigns, check – brake, check – wheels, check it out – as I looked back and saw those huge wheels up over David’s head. Well, the jobs were allocated – he got reigns (nothing new here), I got brake. Well you folks might call it a stick but David said it was a brake and that was good enough for me. Moments after - we were moving – off on the maiden voyage of another great adventure. The big metal wheels on the raised rocky ground gave that rolling, rumbling grinding sound as we picked up a little bit of speed we did – we picked up a little bit of speed we did - we picked up a little toooo much speed we did – we were in a lot of trouble we did – BRAKE SAM BRAAKKKEEE! – and break I did – with the top half of the brake firmly in my grasp and the bottom half embedded deep into bitumen at Albert Street to this day. Now I have never been as close to David since, as I was that day. I don’t know how it was going to save me but I was pushing back as hard into David‘s box as I could get. Somehow we missed all the cars at those intersections - Somehow David managed to keep it all upright – Somehow I managed a discomfited smile when David said – Again?

Its funny the things you remember and sad that there are some things you forget. What a lesson for parents – sometimes the most ordinary thing, becomes a lifetime memory. Wooloowin! Crazy day of fun and madness! You know the usual activities of a fun loving family - Rolling, chasing, hitting, jumping and running into a bird aviary!!! You guessed it. I ran full tilt into the fibro wall of David’s bird aviary. Put a hole in the wall – put a hole in my lip. So my afternoon fun was over as mum tried to be nurse, chef, traffic cop and councilor all at the same time. Well she patched me up good; I had my bath and got all dressed up in my pj’s and gown to wait for Dad’s return. I must have waited by the front door for a while but I didn’t care – I was looking to show him my brand new injury and get some welcomed ‘head pat’ attention in return. Now bank telling must have been hard work in those days ‘cause this night Dad came home uptight and stressed. In through the door he came – hat, coat, kiss, bad cut, right – let’s go! Within moments him and me were off – I don’t think we were going anywhere in particular – we were just off. This had never happened to me before. I could not have been happier. Late at night, 7 years old, walking the streets, out with my dad. Finally, I got him by myself to ask him some real pressing questions about science and life. How come we both take the same number of steps but you end up so far in front. Deep! It seemed to work because he was caring me soon after that. We must have walked for quite a while – more for his benefit than for mine - but it was such a treat. We didn’t talk much – we didn’t have to – we were out, just us. Well we must have finally got to the intended destination ‘cause we were stopped. Before us were the bright lights of the local take away. Dad was getting some food and he bought for me a special treat ice cream as well. Curiosity got the better of the shop keeper and as we were leaving he leaned over to have a look at the little tike. “Holy Hell” – he said as he saw my cut lip. Well we headed back home but at a much slower pace now. Whatever was fueling Dad’s fire before was just smoldering embers now. So now walking alongside was not so hard and keeping on the pace was pretty easy. I finished my special treat ice cream and as I licked the remnants from my cuffs and hands – I just had to ask him – Dad, how can hell be holy? The things you remember, hey!

I remember the time that Dad decided to repaint the house at Wooloowin. I think it was previously covered in a mid winters grey, but still, it was necessary to remove it in order to reseal and repaint. Now the technique Dad decided to use was the application of a kero burning flame together with a metal tool and in that way scraping the old paint off. What this caused was a constant stream of fire balls, falling like meteors to the ground. Well it was nothing special really, until he had worked himself around to the open laundry area. There Tom and me were able to watch from a spectacular viewing theater under the darkened house, the fireballs fall – the fireball lights. What a special sight it was, those flaming droplets of burning paint. Well it did not take long for a game to be created – and in the tradition of all things Baskerville – with a high level of physical risk. So this was it – why don’t we try and judge when the next fire ball will drop and run under its path just moments before. What exhilaration to hear that fire ball drop inches behind you as it tore the air in its fiery flight. Now Tom! He was just not up to it. He was running round like an excited puppy – no idea of the danger – no idea of the pain. He just ran and giggled and then ran some more. Finally it had to happen – splat, right on Tom’s neck – a burning ball of grey paint lighting up his neck and his ear. The whooping, yelling squeals soon brought Dad down from the high scaffolding to attend to the unfolding drama. Dad was eventually able to deal with it all so well, as I just stood there and watched. Who me? Finally as Dad was able to calm Tom’s cry to a whimper – He delivered a firm whack on the bum and a good scolding about being just a little bit stupid. Well Tom’s red bum marks soon healed up and disappeared, but the permanent scar on Tom’s neck reminds us all of the fun we had - as Baskerville Kids!

I must have been all of 8 years old, when David convinced me to go with him down to the bottom of the street at Lissen Grove, to climb that big old fig tree. It was a grand tree, with huge trunks that stretched like mighty arms to the other side of the road. It was such a wonderful tree to climb - with nooks and crannies here and there, to place your foot or secure your hand. Well we climbed together as far as we could into the deep green foliage and eventually right out over the road. But then I thought - was that it? No, it seemed to lack something – It was not enough to have achieved our own personal Everest. Getting out to the furtherest branch and as high up into that deep green foliage was such an anti climax. There had to be something else – David was there – there had to be something else. Guess what! Not long after that thought crossed my mind - There was! So, here was the thought that David explained to me. Sam, why don’t we get fully camouflaged into the foliage, pick the hard berries of the tree and see if we can drop them on every car that goes past. I tell you - what fun, watching those break lights glow red as the car received it allotted shower of falling berries. What fun to see those drivers get out – look at the roof - look up – look back at the roof again – and then drive off. You know what - we were so invisible! They could not see us – we had these grown ups totally beat. Our confidence in not being detected grew in proportion to the amount of berries we would drop on each new car. Finally when a white Holden got 2 full bucket loads of berries, the driver figured our all by himself, that this was no coincidence. Break light on! Tires screech! Red faced angry man gets out of car and comes under the tree. Red faced angry man begins to climb the tree. Red faced angry man gives a loud lecture to the deep green foliage about the stupidity of what the tree ghosts were doing. Now as I sat in rather pensive mood he drove away, I could not help but think that the only way this big grown man could have understood so well what had happened, was that he too in a previous life had done as we did that day. Yes, he could so easily have been – me today!

Church Offering Disappears – Henry Praised! I will never forget one real miracle that I experienced one Sunday night. No, it was not turning water into wine or the parting of the sea, not even the feeding of the 5,000. No this was a miracle where God made the church offering disappear. Now I know what you are all thinking – this is not a miracle it’s a crime. Still, there is enough evidence of Church Ministers still truly believing it’s a miracle as they are shown the door by the congregation. Look this is one church story where the money disappears and it is not a crime – IT’S A MIRICLE! Well church had finished for the night and I was sitting in the car waiting to take that long ride home from Coopers Plains to The Gap – 50 minutes with Dad or 35 with Bancroft – your choice. Dad, the church treasurer, was taking forever to finish his chats with all the good folk from the congregation. He finally got to the car and opens the door with the banker’s bag and offering in his hand, when Aunty Syble calls out, “Henry! I have something for you”. Henry stops! Another chat, but this time something about a bag of tomatoes. I was not really into tomatoes, so I just dozed off. Finally, after all the ‘God Bless Yousss” were done – we were off. The 50 minute drive home went without incident. We chatted a bit but I was happy just to doze. When I got home and got out of the car, I looked back to see Dad going through that anxious ‘hat – watch - coat’, routine. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “The church offering is not here.” - was the reply - “I think I left it on the roof of the car when I was talking to Syble.” I could see Dad’s anxiety. He did not want to join that other group who made money disappear – this was a real crisis. For some reason I said “I heard a bang way back at the top of the hill at State High”. Now why I remembered that when there were so many noises on that 50 minute trip I will never know. Anyway, we got back in the car and retraced our steps. Dad drove slowly and I gazed out into the street looking for Dad’s flat brown bag and offering. I know we had to try but I ask you - What’s the chances of seeing it on the long drive back at night? What’s the chances of it the money still being there anyway? Undeterred we continued the slow 30 minute scanning drive back to State High and Look! There it is! There’s Dad’s bag! – and right about where I had heard that banging sound. Dad stopped the car and I ran over to the bag lying in the gutter. It was all broken open and the money had disappeared. The only other thing I could see was Aunty Sibyl’s squashed gooey tomatoes. It look allot like …yuck….well you know. As I was packing up Dad’s bag and about to turn back to tell him the bad news, I happened to noticed a calico top sticking out from under this gruesome red and yellow pile. Glory be! It was the offering! Everyone else that had walked past had thought it was what I thought it was too. So the headline that normally appeared on the sleazy pages of the news actually makes it on to the front page instead – CHURCH OFFERING DISAPPEARS! Minister praised.

Rockhamption was a parrot’s paradise. You see, Rockhamption is home to a particular tree that holds the sweetest nectar in its bright red and yellow flower. The nectar is totally addictive to the Blue Mountain Lorikeet and the all green parrot we only knew as ‘the greenie’. These birds infested the trees - all screeching, parting and squabbling over that intoxicating juice. Now Rockhamption being so hot and all, and the nectar being so highly sugared meant, you guessed it, fermentation. It was not uncommon in those days to see these birds staggering around on the ground like ‘Viet Vets’ outside an old pub on any Anzac Day. This tree was truly their ‘local watering hole’. One day as David and I were walking past this drunken rabble, David noticed that one of the birds on the ground had a damaged wing and could not fly. So, David picked up the bird and took it home to see what he could do to nurse it back to good health. This took a few weeks of daily care and so we had to take it with us when we went on our holidays to the beach at Yeppoon. The bird had been kept in a cage throughout the rehabilitation period and it was becoming apparent that the agitated flapping of the wings signaled to all, that it was time for the bird to be released back into the wild. David decided to take the bird to the beach and asked me to come along. Now our house was separated from the beach by a road which we carefully crossed with the bird tightly wrapped in a towel. We then had to climb down a steep 2 meter sandy bank which opened onto the long stretch of hard, flat sand leading right down to the water line. Once there David turned around and faced the house. This was that moment that all nature loving environmentalists will hold as dear – the release back into the wild of a creature made well by the compassionate intervention of mankind. After a moment or two, reflecting on this special occasion, David released the bird high into the air and set it free. The instincts took over. The programmed flapping of the wings was an instant response to being airborne once more. Now I have never been a bird, but as I watched I came to the conclusion that it was not sufficient to just maintain a height I meter above the hard sand. Surly lift was important to! I could see that David had figured the same, because he started running following the direction of the bird’s flight back towards the house. Now I know that, as a caring member of the human species, I should not have laughed - but the sight of that bird with its head buried deep into the 2 meter sand bank with wings still flapping furiously, will stay with me forever.

It does not take long for those brothers and sisters, which were told by mum to look after you in your early school days, to get distracted and follow their own individual pleasures and pursuits. Well, so it was for me walking home from Eagle Junction State School in grade 2. I was left to do it for myself, most of the time. No worries, was my attitude. Now the walk home would take up to 30 minutes, especially as it was only being powered by those trainer wheel type legs. I would often walk with my friend David and every so often we would get caught in a monsoonal downpour. There was no shelter – no where to hide – no way to stop from being drenched to the core. No worries, was my attitude. Now, our house at Lissen Grove had an intersecting street leading straight up a very steep hill to where David’s rich family lived in a mansion. His place included tennis courts, maids, gardens and bicycles. So obviously David’s bike made him my very best and special friend. I would stay there after school and play on all his rich type toys. One day, as I left his house I was hit by one of those Brisbane afternoon downpours. In three seconds, I was soaked. No worries was my attitude, as I trudged off home and down the hill. As I got to the steepest part of the decent, I noticed that the exposed drain was cascading like water cannoning from an overflowing dam wall. Now I don’t recommend this for all 7 year olds but I soon discovered that if you sat in this pressurized water and held on to the bottom of your school shorts tightly and with you bag on your back, that the force would propel you all the way home to the bottom of the hill – which it did. I finally drag my soaking cloths and school bag combo up the back stairs at home, only to be greeted at the door by “Oh, Sambo!”. Mum had me out of those cloths before I could tell her of my new pressurized water transport delivery system. I was ushered off towards the sound of that hot running bath, but as I passed the kitchen I saw my mum do an amazing thing – she put my waterlogged shoes in the oven under the evening roast. So there you go, no one to this day has been able to identify that special ‘Jamie Oliver’ aroma bound up in those wonderful roasts – Well, until now that is!

Now, I just have to tell you of the first real sad story that I heard while growing up. It was recorded in the school reader around grade 4. (it may still be there). The teacher was standing out front reading the lines as I ran my finger intently along the page, following each word as it was spoken. Well, the story goes something like this. There once lived this rich family in England where the mother had recently given birth to a new born baby. The baby was dearly loved by the father, as all babies are. The father was of the landed gentry, and so he would often conduct fox hunts, to try and rid this predator from his property. His most trusted, faithful and family loved hunt dog was called, Gerhard. Now for many years Gerhard, was always the enthusiastic, ferocious leader in the hunt for those vicious, stock killing foxes. This particular day the father called out for Gerhard to join the hunt, but he was no where to be seen, so the hunt had to begin without him. On his return, the father went into the house and saw a great disturbance in the room of his new born child. The father was aghast – the room was a wreak – there was blood on the walls, and there was no sign of his precious child. Out from the mangled mess emerged Gerhard, blood dripping from his mouth, but instinct drew him naturally to his master’s side. The father understood immediately what had happened and without hesitating, he did what any father would do. Folks! I have to tell you, the teachers’ words that day, spoken some 40 years ago, pierced my heart and etched a vision that will last my whole life: “and to the hilt his vengeful sword he thrust in Gerhard’s side”. As the dog lay dying – panting – gasping - bleeding to death, the father heard a faint cry. He tore back the covering furniture and fabrics, but what he saw caused him to break down in anguish and weep – the baby was alive and untouched, but lying beside it was the ripped, bloodied, but slain body of a fox.- I wept too!

In the follow up to the Bancroft “Jesus Saves” sticker story, I have to tell you what happened next. Well, Bancroft finally realized that he just could not go to our church in his car with that ‘humorous but sacrilegious’ sticker on the bumper. The elders and minister soon saw to that. So, we went together to the small book shop situated in the foyer of the church on Sunday, to try and find a more appropriate sticker that he could use. After looking through the pile of possibilities, he finally decided on the classy looking one containing the outline symbol of a fish surrounding some Greek letters written within. Being a long term student of the religion I recognized the symbol immediately as that used by Christians in the early days of the Roman Empire, to declare their belief secretly to one another, when to do so openly meant certain persecution - even death. I also recognized from my studies that the Greek letters contained within, spelt out the name “Jesus”. I knew that this was a solemn spiritual bumper sticker that would definitely meet with the approval of our church board. As we walked away, I turned to Bancroft and asked “So, what do you think is the deep significance of that sticker you have just purchased”. Bancroft turned to me in that rather lay back laconic way and replied “Jesus was a fish?”

Folks, I am sorry, but I know, this one you are going to have trouble believing. But, I tell you straight – It happened! Now David –just those few word will tell you anything is possible from here - Now David, wanted to take me over to an exciting new place that he had discovered recently with his school mate. Being all of 9 years old, and with a body to match, I was able to sit on his bicycle handlebars as he took me on that long trek to Kalanga Park. Now Kalanga Park was nothing special. A couple of playing fields, a public toilet block and – OH yes! – a train bridge over a creek. This was the attraction that David had wanted to show me. We all climbed the steep rocky bank, past all those warning signs written for other folk about the dangers lying ahead, to get up to the top of the bridge and onto the train tracks. Now by carefully stepping on the wooden sleepers, we were able to progress out to the middle of the high structured bridge to get to those concrete support columns. From there we lowered ourselves through the train tracks and onto the concrete beams – and then we waited…….. It did not take long for our target to appear. The 3.42 express train from the city. I still remember to this day the image of that rather bored train driver leaning out the window doing what he had done so often without incidence – when, WHAT!!!! There we were, three happy smiling boys in the middle of his train track waving at him as the train approached at 90kmh. Now the sleepers on the bridge were much narrower than those of the rest of the track, so it was important for you to turn your head to the side in order to get it down before the train took it all the way to the next station, which was Nundah. Boy, what an experience! What an absolute exhilarating experience! But, you know, as I write this story, I am mindful of the fact that there is a retired man of many years living in Brisbane somewhere, also telling his great grandchildren of the day his train ran over three little boys.

I remember Dad being busy doing accounting work most every evening at The Gap. He would sit at the dining room table and complete the books of account fulfilling his role as - the Cooper's church treasurer, the Glad Tidings Tabernacle (the TAB) auditor or the Teen Challenge financial controller. So I knew when I rang him up one evening to come and collect me from town that it was going to be a tough ask. But, I was stranded. I was in town, 25km from home, late at night, and with only 40c to my name. That 40c could have bought lots of things in those days, but I gambled on a 20c cry for help. "Dad, it's Sam. Could you come and pick me up". Dad: "Where are you": Sam: "In town". Dad: "That's a bit far, could ring me from somewhere closer". Now as I hung up I was rather perplexed. How was I going to ring him from somewhere closer? Walk towards home I guess!!. So I began the long trudging walk up Waterworks Road from the Normandy. Head down, one step following the next - on towards the break in the hills far in the distance, known as 'The Gap'. I must have walked for about an hour because I finally made it to the landmark known as the Ashgrove terminus. This must surly be the 'somewhere closer' that Dad had wanted me to ring from. "Dad, it's Sam again". Dad: "Where are you now". Sam:"At Ashgrove". Dad: "Good, I will pick you up soon, but keep walking". Now Waltons Bridge is only about 9 minutes from home and it was pretty dark there, and so I was quite startled when a VW screeched to a halt in the gravel right beside the footpath. Dad leaned over from inside David's VW and opened the passenger door and in an animated voice said "Wow, that was lucky, I nearly missed you". My tongue in cheek reply just had to be: "I really missed you too Dad"

I reckon, that education is a real disruption to the fun you could be having at school. I found it so hard to get involved in that stuff that they did in the class between the play breaks (little lunch, big lunch and afternoon recess). Now I know, that it’s this sort of attitude that will guarantee you results near the bottom of the class every time, or as they say in the politically correct world of today, in the lowest percentile of results achieved. Let’s make no bones about it folks – I was bottom of the class, no matter which era you said it in. This status was something that my mother reluctantly accepted. “Well as long as you did your best”, she would say in a way that both gave encouragement but with a touch of cheapie rev up, all at the same time. Well, when I was in Grade 4, Mum enrolled me in a school a Rockhamption called “Leichardt Ward”. I was sure at the time that it was just a normal school, but on reflection, that name would certainly suggest otherwise. Anyway, the day would always start with a full school parade. My new teacher was an army sergeant in his previous life, so he would lead our class off the parade ground to the sounds of “Step! Step! Step!..... I was so keen to impress - new school, new teacher, new city, new day – and apparently, impress I did. So when I got home on my first day, I knew Mum was expecting the worst. “How was your day, Sambo” she asked. Well, you can imagine Mum’s surprise when I reply: “Mum I love my new school - I am top of the class”. “Oh Sambo, that is fantastic” says Mum. “What in, spelling, English, maths, science…….”. “No, Mum!! Marching!!. Mr. "Step" says that I am the best marcher in the class"

“Coopers” was the name affectionately given to the church that I attended in my youth. In the status of congregation numbers it only ranked middle order in the denomination - but in the status of fellowship and fun it ranked #1. So, as you can imagine, the annual denomination sports day was a day GOD made especially for us. Now this day was full of stories by I only have time to tell you this one at the moment. Folks, what we lacked in numbers and stature we made up for in sheer enthusiasm and, oh yes, just a little bit of guile. Our two biggest rivals for ‘bodies on the park’ were the TAB and Mt. Gravatt. The TAB were the gentle giants and would happily give up their position as competitor to be cheer squad. To do so they needed another challenger to be found to take on the giant that was Mt. Gravatt. Now, as that wonderful old Biblical story goes, a “David” did arise this particular day at Kalanger Park to take up this giant challenge. Only difference was - this David was my big brother. He would not have missed this day for anything and joined Bancroft, Tom, Pip as team leader for the day. You know, for a loving and peaceful denomination, it was just amazing how agro and macho the day’s play soon became. Maybe it had just a little to do with the winning tactics of a small band of boys from that low ranked place called ‘Coopers’. Well, play to your strengths was the immediate thought that entered the Mt. Gravatt leaders head. So, the first event scheduled was a tug-of-war contest. I tell you true, we were out numbered and out muscled. David summed it up very quickly and so began the first round as the back anchor but positioned in close proximately to the woodlands. On the PULL signal, David tied his rope end to the tree and so effortlessly delivered the first victory for the band of ‘Coopers’ lightweights. Now folks, they may be religious but they were not dumb. David was disqualified from taking any more part in this event but sportingly our team remained in the competition. Round two - we were up against the mighty Mt. Gravatt. This time we were without David’s body weight, but luckily, not without his guile. He ran to his car and rummaged through the boot and soon returned with a long object stuck up his shirt. He whispered the instructions as he set me up in his favored anchor position. He tied the rope securely around my waist and then stood by as coach waiting for the signal to pull. Everything looked set – both teams took the strain – you could just see that the huge Mt Gravatt pack was ready to flick us back over their heads like flyweight lures on a trout fisherman’s line. PULL!! I spun around as planned and faced the opposite direction. I grabbed the longest screwdriver I have ever seen from under David’s shirt and planted it deep into that Kalanga Park – and there it stayed. Soon after, my hips and legs were airborne but, my hands held on securely to that territorial stake. WE HELD THEM!! Their disbelief at not achieving a quick and comprehensive victory soon ushered in doubts which caused some concern which weakened their resolve which lost them the match. WE WON! David had beaten a giant – and the screwdriver disappeared from view just like the rock in the giants head of old.

So, the inter-denomination sports day and competition continued, but this time on the volleyball court. Our enthusiasm and daring athletic ability, not to mention Bancroft’s particular understanding and skill in relation to how the game should actually be played, saw us easily progress through the elimination rounds. But as you would expect, we eventually met the giants of Mt. Gravatt, again. The lightweight ‘Coopers’ team came face to face with them in the finals. Talking about face – they carried that rather angry contorted face of champions robbed, while we carried the smirks and smiles of a cheeky winning team led by the champion of guile, David!! It was a tight game with a lot of skill being displayed from both sides. Still, if they won the point – we made sure that we won the sledging. In the final points of the game it soon became apparent to David that winning the sledging was not going to necessarily win us the match. Now remember folks, this was a friendly social church event supported all by the Pastors having a cup of tea and a bun on the hill. Future leaders of the church were lined up against us. Names like Sumner and Hershal stood as strong pillars at the front net of the Mt. Gravatt volleyball team. ‘Turning the other cheek’ was a teaching of the church which we would often have to reiterate whenever the feelings on the other side approached boiling point at our particular annoying antics. The final point was on us. Bancroft had the serve and was the only member of our team with the ability to serve over arm as opposed to all our weak ‘lollypop’ underarm serves. David knew that this was the moment to strike. He whispered in my ear the team instructions that he believed would ensure the winning point for ‘Coopers’ once more. No doubt about it, this was the heavyweight point, with the leading players deliberately taking up their positions opposite each other - David and me Vs Sumner and Hershal. As Bancroft’s serve whistled past me, I could see the Mt. Gravatt pillar's eyes were totally focused on the ball, the jump and the intercept – David’s plan was activated. Now the sight of those mighty men hopping around with their shorts down around their knees was enough of a distraction to the opposition to ensure we won the point, game, set and match. As David and I ran off in the direction and safe haven of the Pastors tea party, I heard David yell over his shoulder; “come on guys – we always said you should turn the other cheek”

Well, the potato sack race was the final event of the inter-denomination church sports day. Looking at that start line, it seamed seamed again that the ‘Coopers’ lightweights were to be out classed by those champions from Mt. Gravatt. Once again, whilst everyone else was focused on the finish line goal, David was working on the goal of finishing the line that was so focuses. See, while they were all lined up at the start and concentrating on getting to that finishing line as quick as, David’s mind was busy figuring out how to finish them off right there at the starting line. He called the team together and explained his strategic plan. So simple in its execution – yet, so complex in its intent. Bancroft, Pip and Tom were told to position themselves in the middle of the competing line and not to look back for any reason. The solid bookends, David and I, took up our strategic positions on either side of them. Like loaded coiled springs, the potato sack line crouched in anticipation of the starter’s gun. BANG – like kangaroos bolting from the Pal pet hunting team, our three designated contenders jumped straight out of the blocks and headed for that finish line with faces set like flint. David and I also jumped with all the intensity and vigor of our fellow teammates – the only difference was that our jump was at right angles to the start line. Now as I lay on top of the Mr. Gravatt pillar that started so intently and fervently beside me, I watched in amazement as the two sides of the potato sack line fell like choreographed Japanese dominos. Coopers won the trifecter. Coopers won the day. The trophy we carried home that day was inscribed “Won by Coopers Plains” it should really have read - “Won by Cooper’s incredibles”

Bancroft and I were pretty much drifting off to sleep in our PJ’s, when we were woken by my big brother David. This was night one of a 10 day Church Youth camp that we were attending at the Gold Coast, along with my sister Helen. The girls were housed in the little cottages scattered around the campus but most of the boys were grouped appropriately in a huge circus marquee. Well, David had a plan. See, a group of Mediterranean looking guys had come up by train from Melbourne and were housed separately in the disused cafeteria building. They were certainly not considered to be part of the ‘big top boys’. David plan was to give them a special water bomb welcome. David was convinced that they were here to steal our thunder and he felt they needed to be taught a lesson on who was boss of this campus. Now, I was just a little concerned at our target – they were certainly broad built enough to ensure a direct hit, but they also appeared to be nasty enough to not take this welcome without at least some right of reply. Most of them looked to be at least 5 foot across – some with a height to match. Well the desire to belong and be involved overcame these very rational fears and so a group of us were soon heading for the front serving bench of that darkened cafeteria - water bombs were primed. Now the language I heard that night, after the delivery of our message, sounded more like loud angry curses that ‘Theatrical Classical Greek’. We did not understand the language but there was no mistaking the tone - it was obviously time to bolt, and bolt we did - Each frightened boy was allocated one point of the compass in which to run. I ran with mind a whirl wondering where I could find a safe haven from this angry vigilante mob. I was running out of breath as I passed through the girl’s dorms and quickly decided that under the bed of sister Helen could provide such a safe haven – and that’s where I stayed as we heard the mob pass, being followed in hot pursuit by camp leaders desperate to quite things down. Some hours passed and the group members started believing it to be safe to return to the “Big Top” sleeping quarters. I was the first one of our group back but I was soon followed by David, who explained that he had lain in the long grass under the trampoline mats and had managed to remain there undetected. A fair while after that Bancroft returned with PJ soaking wet and clinging to his shivering body. “What happened?” I asked. “Did they get you back?” “No, don’t be silly” was his reply. “I have been standing in the dark up to my neck way out in Talibudgera Creek, waiting for the lynch mob that chassed me there to finally give up” - Typical #$@%& Bancroft!

David’s pack of mates were on to it from day one. They knew that the quickest way to meet the 1,000 young people attending the church youth camp on the Gold Coast was to volunteer for kitchen duties. This involved serving the 1,000 campers their evening meal. David showed me how that the worst job on campus, was in fact, the best job on campus. So, David, Dessie Lyons, Bancroft, Howard Tatters, David Christianson and me all lined at the servery ready to dish out the evening meal. We were each given a big pot and a scoop with strict instruction on the specific serve per person. All those cool young guys with their good looking girls were lined up in a huge snake-like line, stretching out the canteen and up along the approaching path. They all stood there waiting anxiously, with their dinner plate in one hand and the sweets plate in the other. Those guys that were too cool to volunteer for kitchen duties, were waiting to be served by these ‘no life’ workers – us. Now this was our ‘house rule’ – chat up the girls and put down these ‘too cool’ guys! Now you would not think that common old kitchen staff armed with only scoops and aprons would have any chance of putting those so cool guys in their place – would you? But then again we were not common old kitchen staff – were we. We knew we were a hunting handsome smorgasbord of talent, complete with stalking good looks but presenting as simple innocent volunteers. Well, the fact that the line was always under pressure – with constant pushing from behind – and little forgiveness for delay, played neatly into our hands for the routines that lay ahead. Now, the first ‘too cool’ guy to arrive would receive the “Side Plate” routine. That is, no matter which way he turned his plate we all put his food on the same side of his plate. It was just so much fun watching him turn his plate like a circus contortionist – but all to no avail. “Come on - move along!” - was the ushering call, as he stopped to express his objection. A variation on this put-down was to place everything around the outer rim of his plate and leave the middle completely empty. Usually the ‘too cool’ target declared himself all too well, but if not, we just took the lead from those guiros of the put-down, “David and Dessie”. The next cool guy target usually got the “Hot Mash Thumb” routine. This involved our guy on the hot mash potato pot putting the hottest scoop right on the thumb of the guy that was holding the plate. The cool guy’s plate was already full and so he had no ability to put it down quickly to relieve the hot pain burning his thumb. “OK, move it – move it – stop holding up the line!” was our reply, and echoed in chorus by those behind who saw only the delay, but not the cause. The next cool guy to come along got the “Ice Cream Steak” routine. See, you had to hold your dinner plate out in that ‘Oliver Twist style’ the whole time the hot meal components were being served. The change to the sweets’ plate usually occurred after pees. So our first man on sweets would pressure - “Ice cream?” while the cool guy was distracted and had his dinner plate out to get the final serve of pees. If the reply was “Sure, yes or OK” then the ice cream scoop was placed neatly on top of the steak on the plate that was being presented for hot food service. “Come on, move on – move on!” You just had to smile, as they walked away with those back glancing daggers and realizing that they had just got a very good serve, rather than the good service they were expecting.

Things finally began to settle down as the vigilante posse was herded back into their sleeping quarters by the now rather anxious camp leaders. David however, was not so settled – he was just getting started. His mind was busy thinking… thinking… got it!! - the next water welcome target should be the female camp leaders sleeping quarters. Now why didn’t I think of that? Probably because it was after midnight and I was thinking more about the safety and serenity of sleep – but what choice did me, the sax player and Bancroft have? - being David’s key lieutenants and all. Well the female camp leaders were housed on the well-lit second floor of the dormitory style building located just off the main canteen. To get there undetected we had to climb onto the metal roof of the canteen and approach the opened windows in the dark from that level. Having used all our water balloons on our best mates from Melbourne, David decided that we should use buckets of water as our next welcoming call. Now I swear, unlike our Mediterranean mates, some women camp leaders have a sixth sense about this sort of activity and remain vigilant and awake all camp long in anticipation of just such an event. This time was no exception. We got sprung by a sleepless, torch-carrying matron of the night “All right. I can see you boys. The game is up”. Her husky, ecstatic and rather amplified voice soon ensured the gathering of the full camp leadership like moths to the bright lights that were under the exit point of the building. We had apparently disturbed their prayer meeting being held in the room below us. Friends, there was no where to run this time – boys, this is the end of the line – come on, there is no where to hide here – guys, it’s time to face the music – these were the thoughts I believed we all shared. So, one by one each of us emptied our buckets of water into the gutter and lowered ourselves into the arms of the waiting and ‘we are not amused’ camp authority. Out of the darkness of the roof we came - first Bancroft, then the sax player, then me, then ……… nothing? - only the police type demands of one rather uptight camp leader. “Alright, I can see you. You up there on the roof. Come down this minute”. Well, nothing prepared us for what happened next. First came an unexpected evening rain shower followed soon after by the muffled Quasimodo sounds of “YAAHOOO”. We then witnessed the spread-eagled leap over our heads by a man wearing Ned Kelly’s metal bucket headgear. His legs were already making time well before they hit the ground and he disappeared into the night faster than a gazelle leaves a pride of lions scouting for a picnic lunch. The scolding we received certainly destroyed our angelic innocence, took away our want for more adventure and dampened our enthusiasm for more water welcomes – but, nothing could stop the giggles that the captured shared that night, as we recalled the exploits (but not the identity) of the man who never was.

Mum is the only person I know who can be cooking a meal for 8 and with the unexpected arrival of another family still ensure we all get up from the table at the end with stomachs full. I think it had a lot to do with the combination of a jug of cordial water, the two slices of buttered bread on every dinner plate, the piled up potato chips and some magical ingredient she put in the gravy to give the body and bite to any meal – still, its was amazing to watch. She so wanted to teach us Aussie kids the fine art of dining – English ‘little finger in the air’ style. It started with the mandatory glass of water to accompany the gentile conversations at every meal. Only problem was that the knocked over glasses of water soon created water patches on the fine linen tablecloth, as the Baskerville rabble reached and fought over every delicacy of food on offer. On or about (legal description) the third glass of water to topple onto the table on or about (affidavit type stuff) the 13 December 1968, Dad decided enough was enough. He stood up - made some pronouncement about the lack of respect shown to the glasses of water, and then promptly poured his glass over the tablecloth as a lesson to us all – some lesson? Still, Mum was not about to give up on her passion to teach us the finer points of English etiquette. The next lesson dealt with the uncouth Aussie way of asking for the salt and pepper in such a direct fashion. How totally selfish! –– how incredibly rude! - how absolutely not on! The courteous way was to place your hand gently on the arm of your dining companion and ask “Would you care for the salt” to which the ever so polite response was “No, but perhaps you would” to which you are able to answer in a most humble way “Well thank you for asking. Yes, I would be most grateful if you would do that for me”. Fair call I thought – If I’m going to be an educated man, then I had better start learning the rules of genteel dining etiquette. “Tom, would you care for the salt” I asked with all the finesse and humility of an English landed gent. “Na” said Tom. “Well I will get the bl*&%y thing myself then” was my reflex Aussie reply - and – sadly folks, that’s how it has been ever since. Aussie efficiency beats English elegance, but you know the drill - don’t tell mum!

Bathtime at Kaboora on Stradbroke Island in the 60’s, was a time of great dilemma and trauma. See - there were two choices. There was the tub or the shower. No drama here surly, says the comfortable 21st century person - a dilemma, a trauma? Well, let me explain. See if privacy was your concern then the shower behind the plastic curtain on the back patio was the better choice, because the tub had to be located on public display by the stove in the family kitchen/lounge/dining room cum bedroom area. Then again if heat and warmth was more your style then the tub was a must, because the pump action shower was so cold you would have to pry your fingers off the wooden lever when your time was done. Still if you had no longing to embrace those cool coastal breezes coming thru the back patio wooded slats as you dried yourself, then it was back inside to the protection of the house with its four solid fibro walls. However, not everyone thought that sitting in 3 inches of water and pouring cupfuls of warm water over your body was proper Aussie bathing. So the shower was the prime choice for those souls intent on a full body wash. This choice was most times accompanied by those “wha! wha! wha! wha-ing” sounds that usually come from a tortured, frozen and jiggling body. This experience was traumatic enough to drive a person back to the tub option the following night. Sadly, there was still trauma to be had there as well. Now sitting on course sandpaper is not the usual thing associated with bathing in a tub except when the bathing takes place after a day at a Stradbroke beach. I also have no problems with the concept of recycling but when it is applied to serial communal bathing – it can have its drawbacks - as the third, forth and fifth in line would soon discover. There was also the difficulty of mum adding the fresh batch of boiling water from the top of the wood fired stove. See every pour would create little tidal waves of hot steaming underwater flows which would engender the usual yelps and stand up reaction as it met the delicate parts of one’s anatomy – not a good look – not a good sound either! There you have it. What to do? For me the choice was easy. Neither! Well until the sand built up in my pants so I walked more like a man who had just spent 20 hours in the saddle, or until the salt built up on my skin like scales on a fish, or until my brother David could no longer stand my earthy aroma and he would make the obvious choice for me – the shower treatment of Alcatraz.

Shellshear was my best mate in my last year at Brisbane Grammar School. He was repeating the senior year, having done rather poorly in the previous year’s exams. This repeating student and I seemed to share such kinship (apart from our academic failures that is). We were both small in stature, cheeky beyond reason and we both sought out the laugh in every situation. Now the Grammar hymn book was issued to every student in form 2, some 5 years earlier, and it soon became the focal icon of the headmaster’s assembly each Monday morning. We were each expected to still have this, by now, ragged blue book and its posession was often the subject of inspection by the masters prior to the start of this ritualistic event. The 6th form students sat right at the front of the assembly directly under the headmaster’s elevated stage. We were meant to be the shining examples, to the rest of the student body seated behind, of the fine young men that the school could produce. Now the fact that only half the 6th form students still had there hymn book was easily dealt with at inspection time by a system of “unders” and “overs.” That is, as the master walked passed and checked off each student in the row behind, the cleared 6th former would pass his hymn books under the chair to the waiting hand of the student in front, who would in turn pass the same book over to the student in front of them and ……….... until all 200 6th form students were cleared as OK, by simply producing 100 original books. Shellshear soon devised a way to overcome this constant and hassling problem. He ended up cutting up a school book with similar blue colors and placing blank white sheets in between the covers which made it easier for him, me, Heffernan and Miller to pass the inspection each week without incident. Trouble was, that when the ancient hymn was chosen, it became obvious to the masters lined up before us that our lack of singing may mean the lack of words on our obvious blank pages. Shellshear went back to the drawing board. This time he managed to get a brand new hymn book, from some unsuspecting 2nd former, and proceeded to find a solution to our problem. At the next assembly, when the hymn was chosen, Shellshear gently opened his brand new hymn book and handed me the first page and said in a whisper – “pass it on”. Now the sight of that hymn book opening out into one long concertinaed sheet stretching along the row of boys was as much a shook for me as it must have been for the headmaster looking down from his elevated lectern. By this time, I am convinced that the headmaster was simply crossing the remaining days off his calendar until we all would leave his school. See, it’s the only explanation I could come up with as to why nothing was made of this action, in spite of the sniggering, giggling, shoulder gyrating actions of that row of Grammar 6th from boys, at assembly that day.

Now there were several ways to spend a regular school teaching period in the library at Grammar. One way was to be instructed to go there by any subject master who considered your disruptive behavior in the class to warrant such a directive. Shellshear and I always found it most convenient to sit by the door with our bags packed at the start of every German lesson. The German master would enter the room with the words: “Goot mornings boyz” followed immediately by “Shelshear and Baskerville libuaryz pleaze”. As you can imagine the librarian, fittingly named Wilber, became a sort of defaulting custodian and guardian to us library regulars. Unfortunately, his lack of street smarts and direct authority made him an easy target for the wit and cunning mindset of my little school brother. Well this particular day we had decided to sit in the open plan of the library right beside a double bank of glass windows. On those hot Brisbane days it was necessary to have all library windows open to ensure good cooling flow through ventilation. At the table where Shellshear sat, only the bottom window was open, when Wilber approached in another attempt to win at least one round in their battle of the will. “Shellshear open the window” Shellshear didn’t hear the instruction (if you know what I mean), causing me to tilt my head as far forward into my chest as it could go to try and hide my contoured smile. “SHELLSHEAR OPEN THE WINDOW” was the follow up reaction. Shellshear heard it this time as did the rest of the boys who were studiously attending to their reading that day in the library. Shellshear’s head lifted, he looked up at Wilber’s serious face, then looked down and to the side at the OPEN window and calmly went back to reading his Guinness Book of Records with an ever so slight shake of the head. “SHELLSHEAR OPEN THE WINDOW” - This time the boys playing outside stopped their ball game and became fascinated spectators to the evolving standoff. In my peripheral vision I could see Wilber’s brown pants tied up tight and high over his hips by a black belt with its long end just hanging down limp at the front. His fists were clenched as they drove like tightened clamps into his side. His nicely pressed white short sleeve cotton shirt was becoming increasingly wrinkled with his now grinding rage. Finally, Shellshear responded – he lifted his head, he looked up at Wilber’s serious face, he looked down to the side at the OPEN window and promptly CLOSED the window - then he calmly went back to his book with an ever so slight shrug of the shoulders. I could not hear what Wilber muttered under his breath, as he stormed away in defeat, because of the spontaneous laughter that resounded from those ring side seats, as Shellshear took out the title - 10 nil.

Luckily, I only shared 2 of my senior subjects with Shellshear. German, which we spent together mostly in the library with Wilber and also Economics. Now the Economics master was a rather generously proportioned fellow who overflowed the small issue wooden school chair but was still determined to hold that seated position for much of the lesson. He was much more focused on his lecture than on the behavior of the students, which explains why Shellshear and I managed to remain to the end in all of his classes. Now economics was a subject in which I was most interested, particularly the role of the entrepreneur the society. I was so fascinated by this role that I eventually became one – but then again, with no help from Shellshear. See one of Shellshear’s many off-beat talents was his ability to draw amazing caricatures. He would sit at the front of the Economics class and his pen would work faster on the note paper than any of the straight “A” students gathered around him. I usually sat behind him, more out of interest in the subject than because of my close mateship with him. But then it happened - the teacher would finally haul himself up from his small wooden throne to write something very important on the blackboard. As he would turn to write, Shellshear would hold up over his head his detailed notes of the lecture to that moment. There it was, his work displayed in full black texta – the gross caricature of the Economics lecturer looking more like a plump rotund bulldog waiting for his bone, than a master with those fine university degrees. For me the rest of the lecture was lost as I looked at the master and then looked back at Shellshear’s head and shoulders shaking uncontrollably in front of me.

The Gap house held such wonderful memories for us kids. It was home to so much of our growing up experiences. Sadly, the house itself took a heavy battering at our hands. Mum had initially selected some beautiful paint colors and contracts to attractively present her new special home. The only problem was that the fibro walls tend to cave in rather easily to the occasional obligatory head butt from one of the boys. It did not take long, for our resourceful mum, to completely cover the entire house with wallpaper in an attempt to conceal any of those little dimple blemishes caused by one of her over vigorous sons. I remember so well the times, when all of us, with our faces against the glass, watched as mum and dad left for their monthly trip to the Gideons meeting at Lismore. No sooner had that EJ Holden disappeared around the corner on the far hill, than it was on. Every kid for themselves. Most games created on these nights, centered around being hurt in some way or other, and usually at the hand of big brother David. One particular game I recall, involved mum’s fine needle collection and some light white cotton thread. Now the study of aerodynamics was a new science to me in those days but boy could you get some distance and flight time from this airborne missile as it headed for the unsuspecting posterior of the targeted sibling. Oh the whoopings and wailing that would follow a direct hit just made it all the more special. Well this game went on for quite a while. I remember seeing Tom rush past at one stage with a shinny metal object and a surrounding white cotton coil sticking out of the top of his head. David was close behind in hot pursuit, more intent on retrieving his weapon for a follow-up throw than with any concern for Tom. Now mum and dad had chosen a house design from Jennings that included a long hallway running the full length of the house. This was invariably used as the race track that provided the opportunity to pick up a little bit of speed – especially if you were running away from “bulls-eye” Dave. Well, on this one occasion, Tom was running away from “deadly aim” Dave from one end of the house whilst I thought that I was also running away from literal, “pain-in-the-bum” Dave from the other end of the house. Now I don’t know why mum put that floor to ceiling heavy curtain in the middle of the hall, but it is there that Tom and I both come together like a pair of crash test dummies. Being the smaller brother, it again vindicated a theory of physics that if two objects collide then the smaller object will be recoiled back through the air and into the thin fibro wall. Game over! Well we all knew the drill from here. I went straight to dishers, Tom and Pip to clean the house and David to wallpaper patch and glue. It was then straight to bed with lights out before “those who can inflict much pain” came home. With eyes shut tight and blanket pulled up to the nose and ears on radar alert for the sounds of the approaching doom - it was just impossible to sleep. We knew the routine - we knew the words - “Oh what a lovely clean house and kitchen chumly” mum would say as she would turn on the lights and reveal David’s perfect, but unfortunately - still damp, patch of wallpaper. “Oh, chumly – look they have gone through the wall again”. Don’t move! Don’t even think of moving! Just make it through one more sleep and tomorrow all will be forgotten, as the wallpaper dries and conceals the damage caused by another night of fun and mayhem - at the Baskervilles

Gary Lay was a lovable character with a good honest heart and a jovial carefree disposition. As fate would have it, all these blessings were offset by a curse. See, Gary had suffered an attack of polio in childhood, which had left him with one rather gamy left arm and leg. Still, his total acceptance of his own disability made it easy for his friends to treat him like any of the other knuckleheads in our church youth group - and we did! It was Gary who walked up to a group of us, deep in discussion about a childhood Dutch friend of mine called Yaap. Well Yaap did this - and Yaap did that - and often Yaap would do something else. In the quiet break of conversation, Gary stopped licking his ice cream for just one moment to innocently ask, "What's a Yaap?" It was also Gary who when asked to take 6 inches off the height of a 4-legged table, did so by cutting the required 6 inches off each of 5 legs. Such was the enthusiastic approach he displayed for most activities presented to him. Now, like most lads his age, he sought to promote his growing manhood by the size of his toys. In his case it was the purchase of a huge V8 Rambler. The throaty rumbling sounds of his new car coming up the street foretold the arrival of one of the proudest yet cheekiest smiles in the church youth group. Now to watch Gary arrive in that car was one thing - to travel with him as the driver, was something else. Why Gary would buy a manual car with an on-the-column gear changer, considering his gamy left arm, is something I never bothered to asked him - I simply accepted it and made a point of never travelling with him to find out. Unfortunately on this particular day I had no choice. It was my time to experience the tip of horrors that was often the recount of so many others that had previously undertaken the journey. There was the story by Phil Peterson, that as Gary had planted his foot in an attempt to turn quickly through and around the gap in a traffic island, he got his gamy arm caught in the steering wheel and they found themselves back at where they started. They had completed the full circle back over the concrete center island. Well my trip this day began ok, except for the unnerving way in which Gary would want to look at you to see your reaction to the issues he was raising in conversation. I don't know why he bothered, because my reaction to whatever issue he was raising was the same. My face reflected a look of fear as I stared transfixed on the dangers that lay before us on the road ahead. Another of the downsides of owning a V8 was the issue that it could pass everything on the road except for a petrol station. Well Gary's gas guzzling car was no exception. He knew on this particular day that his gas was low, but in typical Gary style, he attempted to get as far as he could without having to add any petrol. So the tense journey continued right up until the moment that he decided to overtake a taxi - his car's engine spluttered and coughed like a V8 that had just run out of fuel. So, there we were on the wrong side of the road being undertaken by a rather perplexed taxi driver on the inside due to our reducing momentum and cursing there silently in some unreal twilight zone. "There - a petrol station" says Gary as we swerve behind the now very confused taxi driver and arrive at some speed in the driveway. Gary's mind was a whirl, whilst the fear in my mind was very sharp and focused - hang on tight, don't move a muscle, the nightmare will end soon. CRASH!! The Gary special arm and the leg all played their part in ensuring that the V8 ended up running into the bouser with a deafening crunch. I still was not moving - I was convinced that rigor-mortise had definitely set in. As Gary took his foot of the brake the car rolled back from the now 45 degree bent over petrol bouser. My peripheral vision again saw Gary's anxious face turn to me and ask, "Do you think they will notice".

Now one of the problems with those annual "Craker Nights" was that those damned colourful sky-rockets were just too expensive for our weekly allowance of a handful of pennies that us kids got from mum. We liked the idea of the wizz and bang in the sky - but sadly, we just could not afford it. Penny-bungers were about all our allowance could afford. So, it did not take long for David's mind to conger up a way of turning the humble penny-bunger into the Apollo 10 of space travel. This was David's design - cut the end off the penny-bunger, place a piece of paper over the exposed gunpowder end, tie it on tight with mum's white cotton sewing thread and stick the wick back through the paper and into the gun powder core of the bunger. The next stage was to tie the launch vehicle onto a shredded wooden stick made from some old pine packing box and hay presto - a penny-bunger is transformed into a penny-rocket. Now for the launch tower. Trial and error soon delivered the one pint glass milk bottle as the best answer to the height, cost and shape for a penny-rocket launch tower. Everything was set. David's trial penny-rocket was placed in the bottle and made ready for launch. The wick was exposed and placed over the side of the bottle waiting for the all important ignition and count down. Now all us kids knew that any penny-bunger on a lit fuse required much, much respect - and respect was what we gave our inaugural penny-rocket attempt. Tom, Pip and me were at a very safe distance under the house looking through the slats at David's brave lighting of his home made penny-rocket. He lit the fuse and ran at great pace to join the rest of us and watched the spitting fuse burn up to the paper and the rocket fuel gun powder. Well - it was a fizzier!!! The gunpowder just gave out a mighty fizz of sparks and smoke and the penny-rocket just lifted a few inches out of the bottle and came to rest back where it began. David's engineering brain went back to work again and figured out that a certain amount of clay was required to be left in the bunger end to ensure a tighter channel for the explosive energy release. His next attempt saw the penny-rocket finally lift from the bottle but it only made it just over the cloths line and it then fell back limply to the ground. He thinks again??? - an even tighter hole was the solution. Wow!!! - I tell you - the sight of that penny-rocket shooting straight up into the sky with that exhilarating swisssshhhh sound, was just so magnificent. So I got busy and grew with confidence as I created and tested my own personal penny-rockets - but with some rather limited and mixed results. If the weight and balance was not quite right, then the penny-rocket would head horizontally across the neighbor's yard as they quietly went about watering their lawns. If the hole was too big, the penny-rocket would lift and burn just a few feet with much convulsion, only to fall back as a spent force and lie smoldering as an example of another astro failure on our back lawn. Tom soon became interested in this rocket creating technology and decided to try his hand at building his own penny-rocket rather than just watch his big brothers' efforts. None of us were particularly confident of his first attempt and joined him under the protection of the house to watch in tight anticipation as his wick burnt down to the expected ignition. Wait for it ………Nothing - No swisssshhh - No fizz - No sparks - Nothing!! Tom disappointingly wandered over to the launched site and bent over to inspect his failed attempt. Now sadly for Tom, the penny-bunger had not yet become a penny-rocket - yes folks, it was still very much a penny-bunger, but this time, on a rather long fuse. Tom never showed any real enthusiasm again for penny-rockets after the sights and sounds he experienced that day - it was only ever those expensive fancy colorful sky-rockets for our Tom from that day until today.

David's first car was a VW. You know that now very fashionable 1968 beetle that everyone thinks is so cool. Well, he called his car the "Bilious Bug". Why? Sorry, you will have to ask him that question - but that was the name he detailed so professionally on the back engine cover of the car. That's right folks - the 'Vee Double You' (as Tom would call it) had its engine in the back. Now it is this engine in David's car that I became closer to than any other mechanical object then or since. See, 'squelchy-toes' salesman Sam was just not into David's 'mechanical engineering' toys and possessions. Well, the combination of David's tight income as an apprentice and his can-do attitude to fixing anything mechanical ensured that the problems with the VW's engine were going to be fixed by him. Now this surly highlights a problem - to fix the engine he must first work on it in a raised position and must sometimes remove it from the vehicle so that he can work on it properly. David being David, soon devised a way of lifting the car up onto some raised supports by backing the car up onto them- easy! Now for the hard part - How do you get the engine out of the vehicle without an overhead engine hoist or an under car engine jack? I know, says David's mind, get Sam to be one part of the engine jack. So, here was the plan. David would undo all the required bolts that connected the engine to the body of the vehicle. We would then both get under the raised car and by using a succession of knee and arm movements, we would jiggle the engine off the mounts and driveshaft until it dropped onto our jacked-up knees with supporting arms and chest. This part of the plan would only take a few minutes - but the challenge of extraditing oneself from under that 300klo metal monster was certainly the time consuming bit. Still, with the each other's help we managed every time to achieve the impossible and found a way out from under the weight of the engine and tight confines of the area. Well, putting the engine back into the car involved much the same drama but it was obviously made lighter each time by the fact that there were always bolts and engine bits left over after each of David's engine dismounts and remounts. In the end it is amazing that the car ran at all, with all those engine and mounting parts accumulating steadily in the special container under the house. I remember so well the final time that David called on my help to remove his now overworked engine by becoming his right hand jack once more. Everything look set up as before and the procedure was followed according to David's unwritten manual on being a human car jack - only this time the engine dropped unexpectedly (probable something to do with those missing parts) and it caught David's arm in an awkward position. SNAP! - That sound meant only one thing - David's wrist was broken. The adrenaline rush that was released into his body at that moment saw him, in some superhuman way, lift his side of the engine off his body. I looked out from under the car with a contorted twisting of my neck and watched, with much concern, as he disappeared up the stairs to attend to his injury. Sure, I was concern for him - no doubt about it, "but what about me!!!". Now I don't know if you folks have ever been left alone with a metal monster weighing heavily on your chest - but I tell you now, it's no fun. I still cannot tell you how I got out from under that greasy oppressive metal brute, but it certainly did one thing - it confirmed my career choice that day, of only pursuing pen-pushing accounting and paper-packing sales jobs.

Now someone has to tell this story and I am not so sure that my big sisters ever will. So I have taken it upon myself to be the one to give the accurate historical and objective account of our neighbor’s rather special behavior. See my account can be very objective, given that the details of the part in question did not have the fascination for me that it would have had at the time for my subjective big sisters - Helen and Margaret. Now Peter Loose was a tall, strapping, first year university student, who was embarking on the exciting path of learning and discovery. He generously felt that the discoveries he was making in his extra curricular activities at university should also be shared with others living in his immediate neighborhood. Now if one wanted to, one could look out of our kitchen window and see the open-air side veranda belonging to the Loose family. Well, that’s only if one wanted to of course. The timber veranda was typical of that old Queensland style and contained various doors providing access to its adjoining rooms. One door on this open-air veranda came from the bathroom and another lead into the bedroom of Peter Loose. I remember being drawn into our kitchen one Saturday morning by the smells of baking cookies, and strangely, to the sounds of Margaret and Helen in fits of uncontrollable giggles. I had never imagined cooking to be so stimulating. But, as I watched, I noticed that their great chuckles and doubled up recoiling reaction happen just after they each looked out of the kitchen window in the direction of Peter Looses’ veranda. Strange behavior indeed – were my only thoughts! So I took the opportunity, whilst my sisters were busy holding on to each other lest they fall down from the reactive convulsions caused by their attempted containment, to glance out the window and puzzle out the reason behind their great merriment. Well I tell you folks, it was obviously not a behind that was causing the merriment on this particular day, but I will give them this – our neighbor was certainly displaying a lot of front. So now let me give you the balanced, historical and objective account of what I saw as I gazed out that kitchen window. Well in simplest terms - here was a tall, tanned and rather fit young man vigorously doing his morning exercises in the form of hand-rope skipping. To me, he displayed a perfect timing and balance as he jumped and jumped to the pulsating sounds of the rope beating those timber floor boards under his feet. Lots to admire – surly nothing to laugh about! OK, I may have forgotten to tell you that he was totally nude and facing in our direction as he performed his open-air fitness routine. I may have also forgotten to tell you that the now extended and protruding part of his anatomy, was also keeping perfect inverse time to the efforts of his jumps and landings. The most ‘politically correct’ way to describe it is to say that it reminded me so much of the strength and pace of the metronome that Margaret would often set to help her keep that perfect time in her piano lessons. I am not really sure, but as I looked back to see my sisters doubled up and pressing their legs together in some form of tense restraint, I just had to assume that it was this sight that was causing them so much hilarity.

Victor was the name of the savage blue cattle dog that safeguarded his master’s property beside us at Wooloowin. We did not learn his name by introduction, but rather from the directed and decisive command given by his master stated in the heading above. We would hear this instruction ring out only if one of us had miscalculated the time required to retrieve our miss hit cricket ball. See, it was the command we heard from inside the neighbor’s house when we found ourselves in that ‘bailed up tucked in arms’ position on the wrong side of the shared old timber plank fence. No wonder the first rule of back yard cricket in those days was “over the fence and OUT” - followed by the second important rule “you hit it – you get it”. Now Victor’s blue singlet wearing master was, as my economics teacher taught me later, a blue-collar worker because he was employed in a manual job. Now my dad was described, by the same teacher, as a white-collar worker - ‘cause he worked in the bank. I guess that’s why my Dad wore a white singlet. Now to this day, I have never been able to work out why either signlets don’t come with collars or why they did not describe employees as blue or white-singlet workers. Anyway, we kids still thought that it was natural that this old reclusive well-muscled and seemingly always stern faced man would have a pet with a nature to match. Mum had often described him as a kind but lonely man, but we weren’t about to test her theory for ourselves by spending more time in his yard than was considered absolutely necessary. Now our dog’s name was Chippy. Chippy was the family dog but big sister Margaret had first right to his affection and care. Chippy was not a viscous dog but in the dog world, he obviously had the right to defend his territory by staking with his own registered markings. Well I tell you something; Chippy seemed to make a point of relieving himself endlessly on the dividing fence between himself and Victor. Invariably, every now and then, the two dogs would meet at the fence, as they were each marking out their territories. Still, at this moment, each was in their own territory, each was in their own scented part of the landscape and each was in close proximity to their protecting owners. Now most importantly, each had a high slatted timber dividing fence to ensure that any aggression acted out could not possibly translate into actual bodily harm. So they both felt the freedom to go after each other as hard as they liked. There was the initial gnashing and exhibiting of teeth, followed by those slow reverberating “message sent and understood” growls and then there was that digging at the dirt under the fence as if to type out an SMS message to the contender of, “if only mate” and “you are so lucky”. Finally, there was the customary charging up and down the fence line looking for that gap in which to settle this unresolved dog dispute once and for all. Now, us kids had by now begun using a wide detachable panel from the old timber fence to ensure a quicker recovery of our ‘hit over and out’ cricket ball. The sequence went something like this. 1. Climb the fence and visually locate the ball. 2. Ensure that Victor was no where to be seen. 3. Slide the panel and run and return as hard as you can. 4. Mission accomplished – see, by the time Victor had realized his territory had been violated you were safely back on your side of the fence and the detachable panel was placed back in place. This precise and timely procedures ensured our cloths and exposed skin remained in the same condition as it was when we first entered Victor’s yard. Now on this particular day, as Victor and Chippy went through their ritualistic and now almost choreographed routine, they came to the part requiring the charging along the fence line to find that longed-for gap. I was sitting in the back yard as this final sequence of melodrama was being played out. Now stupidly, one of us kids had negligently left the panel off the fence and the two loudly disputing dogs met in open space for the first time. Uh-Oh - there is going to be troubled here! Now I know that cartoonists can convey that head-tilting look of “what the?” and draw that “eyes wide open with the eyebrows back in surprise look” on a dog’s face, but to see it there in real time was such a unforgettable experience. So with this momentary interruption to their aggressive repartee, caused by an obvious prop failure by one of us kids and not by their hand, they continued their spirited charge up and down the fence line, choosing to ignore the small issue of the actual gap in the fence. I guess mum was right – with a dog like that, the man in the blue singlet could not have been so bad after all.

Getting to Point Lookout Stradbroke Island in the 60’s and early 70’s, was not a simple case of driving one’s car onto the inter-island double story vehicular ferry and being transported in effortless fashion, as one would do today. I tell you now – there was nothing simple about getting our family there for our annual holidays in those days. See – for a start, there was no vehicular ferry – also, there was no real roads on the island, just sand tracks – and finally, there were no real cars either (just burnt out old busses). So, the only way to enjoy a holiday at Point Lookout in that era was to join the day trippers on their timber cruse boat operated by Hales and called the “Miramar”. It left from the wharf at the Quay right under the Victoria Bridge on the Brisbane River. Now, the first day of the holidays had to start early because there was so much decision making and traveling logistics to resolve. See, there were no cute little fashion boutiques on the island to buy any forgotten cloths items, in fact there was hardly any shops there at all. Let me see - there was the one man (or woman) post office built into the hill under Mrs. Vans Leben’s place which opened for a few hours on a few days – there was the Durbidge’s bus garage and ice works, where Dad would get the block ice for our chest fridge at Kaboura - and there was the Moore’s corner store which sold today’s newspaper tomorrow (if you can figure that one out). So there you have it. If you forget something in you packing today, then it will stay forgotten for the whole 4 weeks of the holidays. Now, this then brings in the balancing logistics issue. Everything you packed, you had to carry – First, down to the car, then from the car along Queen Street to the boat and then from the boat to the old bush bus parked and waiting for us at Amity. Suddenly forgetting things sounded like a good idea. Sadly with a Mum like ours, she was there to make sure we remembered everything that was necessary for our survival. So, there was the “donkeys-breakfast” or the wide brim straw hat that had on one occasion been a “Horses-lunch” when Tom had got a little too close to the wild horses on the island - then there was those crappy colorful plastic sandals we got from Woolworths each year that would barely make it to holidays end, due to their inability to hold together properly when being used as a ball in any beach cricket game - and finally, there was the car tire tube. None of us boys needed to be reminded of this item of “clothing” but it did make a rather awkward carry through the main street of Brisbane on that busy Saturday morning. Also, Dad just had to take his fishing rod (or we would starve), David his goggles and flippers and my sisters had to pack double of everything that the boys did because on weekends the island would often become infested with those young fit life-savers!! Mum was usually left with some practical but very “un-cool” cooking item which she would galantly volunteer to carry. Now getting to the boat on time was organized by Dad and Gonga. They would drive all 8 of us to the city and then Nana and Gonga would take our car back to their place. So there we were – dropped off right in the middle of the city on a busy shopping Saturday morning. What a sight!! – all of us with our hats on (cause they could not be packed), our “special” colorful sandals, our brown solid school packs containing all our delicates strapped onto our backs, Dad’s fishing rods, the scuba and cooking equipment and us boys completing the spectacle with our blown up black tire tube round our shoulders. It just smacked of another “mar and par kettle” film shoot – but we did not care what others thought – we were off to one of the greatest holiday destinations on this planet. Now we managed to make the day tripping boat on time each year as we all rushed to secure our favorite position at the back of the boat. Joining us that day were those day-tourist types with their carry on luggage usually consisting of a back pocket wallet, sunscreen and maybe a small handbag for the ladies. I still remember the expression on their faces as they would walk past the back of the boat and see that motley group with their extended supply of cloths and equipment. Most of them felt compelled to recheck their tickets, just to make sure that it said “Day Trip to Stradbroke Island” and not “Four Weeks on Gilligan’s Island”.

Being the church youth leader, I decided one holiday period to organize a bus trip for about 40 of the young people from our church. It was a five day trip from Brisbane to the inland country of New South Wales which then returned through the northern coastal region of that state. It was a very eventful time, as you would expect with such a youthful and high-spirited crowd. Now one of our planned nightly stay-overs was at a very large and established caravan park in Ballina. It was a huge tourist park complete with a community hall to cater for their obvious mature local cliental. The hall was being used this particular evening as a venue for a game of bingo. Directly adjoining the hall was the male “ablutions” block, separated only by a thin fibro wall. Well a gang of our boys, that had just completed a rather strenuous game of beach soccer in their swim-togs, decided it was time to head for the showers and “abult”. Now the growth in shower facilities had not quite matched the growth in tourist numbers staying at the park. So, there was the resultant queue lined up and waiting. By the time I arrived at the block, I noticed our lively group including Johnny Tomlin, Lindsay Stewart and Robert Booy all waiting in the line ahead of me. There was lots of in-line jostling and jousting as they became increasingly restless at the wait. Finally one fatherly gentleman open the door and walked out of the small one man cubicle only to be swamped by the boys determined to wait no longer. They piled in like a group of footballers heaving forward in a push-over rugby scrum. I was not keen on the idea of communal bathing and was quite happy to wait for a more private opportunity. As one stood waiting in the line, one could not help but listen and chuckle at the commotions and descriptors coming out of cubicle 1. Of course, my contained smiles and strained disinterested demeanour made it obvious to those other mature folk, who joined the line after me, that I had nothing to do with them -Nothing whatsoever! Lots of boys – one cubicle – many raised eyebrows in that line, I tell you. When the noise levels eventually died down we could hear the calls of, “11 - Legs eleven” “7 - God's in Heaven” “8 - Garden Gate” then as clear as a bell – “BINGO!” The calling stopped – everything went quiet - and then after a tense wait, the caller continued, choosing to ignore the prank call from cubicle 1 of the shower block next door. Now, cubicle 1 was positioned against the end besser-brick wall and was fronted by a very tight common area. When the door to the cubicle opened, it came towards you in the queue making it very difficult to easily see inside. I had already reasoned that cubicle 2 was going to be the next cubicle vacated, and so I took up my position there in anticipation. I had previously given the knowing nod to an elderly gent who had gestured for approval to take up the position outside "the boy's" cubicle 1. By this time they and gone quiet, choosing to attend to the serious business of getting the dirt and salt off their bodies rather than just the boisterous tomfoolery. Well, it was the door to cubicle 1 that opened first. Tom came out soaking wet from the half opened door. The elderly gent, seeing my disinterested movements in the cubical's direction, decided to reach for the handle and make cubicle 1 his own. The door was suddenly pulled from his grasp and slammed shut from the inside. His very perplexed posture and gaze in my general direction was met with a simple shrug of the shoulders. I had quickly decided that this mature youth leader did not know what was going on either. Soon after that Robert pops out but pushed the door shut as he left. Same perplexed posture – same disinterested and unknowing shrugs. Next time the door opened and shut he did not move, but just stood there with a surreal uneasy wariness. By this time my shoulders were giving a shrug but with a lot more vigor, more from the contained chuckles than from my feigned disinterest. Finally, Pip emerges from round the door and the exasperated cultured gent is heard to declare with a huff to the waiting queue - “Thank goodness, for that!” to which Pip replies “No, there’s still one more in there”.

Cylinder Headland at Point Lookout on Stradbroke Island = hours of fun. The ever changing coastal dynamics due to the interchange of sand, tides and climate, created a kaleidoscope of possible activities on that particular rocky headland and surrounds. Three activities there I remember best were the “thunder clap stand”, “beat the barnacles” and “the headland run”. In the first two activities one planned to get wet and so one approached it accordingly. “The headland run” was a dry clothed activity meaning to get your dry clothes wet, was to fail. Now, one of the unique features of waves crashing onto the Cylinder headland, is that sometimes a recoiling wave, of about half its original size, is formed and swells back in the opposite direction. This predictably creates an eruption of colliding forces, when the recoiling wave meets the next advancing set. That’s the place to be if you are going to play “thunder clap stand”. You may well think that the thunder clap is the sound that the waves make at this moment of impact – not true – but it is the sound that you hear (if you have positioned yourself perfectly) – in your ear, as your head is cymbaled and your body is propelled uncontrollably skyward. That’s right folks, it feels and sounds a lot like that time when your brother came up behind you and slap-cupped both ears with his hands – exhilarating fun, not! Well, when we got tired of having our ears and body pummelled by those Pacific monsters, we would then move onto the next wet water activity. See, when the conditions were right, these furious waves would rise to gigantic heights and crash at the base of the headland, causing a huge volume of furious white water to shoot up the rock face like a mighty gushing geyser. So, here was the activity. 1 - Find a spot in the shallow waters of the receding wave in which to put your bum. 2 - Get as compact as you can with your sandshoed feet firmly up and in position on the now exposed barnacled clad rocks. 3 – Wait and pray that you live long enough to write this story. The next wave would hit your back and the sandbank at exactly the same time forcing you, with incredible pressure, against the rock face. If you could tame the wave’s planned intent to splatter you all over the rock face, then you got the ride of your life as the power of the wave shot you up the rock and then brought you down again, leaving you wanting to pay big money for the sequel. Of course if, like Bancroft, you could not keep your feet moving up in proper time with the driving exerted force, then the cuts and burses on your hands and legs received that day should heal up in about a week - I would guess. Well, the final activity was a game that anyone could play and one could play it fully dry clothed. In fact, it only had real meaning if you were dry and fully clothed and had a strong desire to remain that way. Also it was a game suitable for ages 8 and up and the good news - you did not have to have a death wish to play. In the 40 odd years we have been going to “Straddie”, the game has been played and it has now become part of the Baskerville tradition. It is still simply known today, as it always has, as the “headland run”. Bancroft was introduced to the game for the first time when we went there with him, Pip and Tom. Now I thought that I had explained the object of the game to him quite clearly. “Bancroft, you must run along the front of the headland on the sand left by the receding wave, to see how far you can get.” “No worries” was that typical laconic Bancroft reply. He seemed to understand OK. So, we all waited for the precise moment and took off at great pace. Bancroft was there but had been a caught off guard just a little by the unified sensed timing of us boys. Pip made it to about the 50 meter mark and then pealed off to scurry up the rugged rock face. He was followed by Tom and me in quick succession as we all saw the huge impending wave. Well, Bancroft beat us all. There he was ahead of our set mark, standing at the base of the headland in ankle deep water proclaiming his mighty victory. I wanted to explain but sadly, the wave beat me. He did manage to keep his watch dry that day by holding his arm straight up over his head but everything else was on the rock and fully submerged under that wave and its accompanying swell. Still, I guess I was right about one thing - most of his cuts and burses did heal up in about a week.

I have had over 17,000 lunches in my life, but none will compare to those relatively few times when I shared it with my family on those wind swept beaches of “Straddie”. Now remember, this was the era when the only transport available was the two legged “Ghurkha” kind, as opposed to the effortless four wheeled variety of today. If lunch was to be had on the beach, then it must be carried there on the backs and shoulders of mum, dad and us kids. A typical day then started at sun-up, because bed time was always at sundown - given the total lack of energy sapping, electronic entertainment available in the evenings. The first major decision at breakfast was - on which beach to spend the day. David would do a quick weather check while he was relieving himself in the backyard of our Kaboura property. (You always wondered why those banana trees flourished – didn’t you). Well now, if the wind was from the south-east then it was round to the protected northern beaches of Cylinder or Deadmans. On a northerly blow it was to off to the swimming gorge or main beach. Now on most overcast days it was always prudent to spend the day at Camels Rock, because of the protection offered by the many caves and rocky overhangs, in the event of rain. So, with the designated beach decision made, it was then on to the inter-sibling wars. “But I carried the water bottle yesterday!” Tom would cry in those ‘unfair for us little folk’ tones. Now as I remember it, Dad carried a camel colored canvas WW1 “have-a-sack” on his back (what funny names they had in the war, hey!) full of our beach equipments (tarpaulin, books, cutting boards, plates and knives), and Mum would carry a big open carry bag with all our necessary lunch ingredients. Let me see, that left – the fishing rods and tackle, a “billy and lid” with the tea making ingredients inside, a 4 litre water bottle for drinking and of course the blown-up car tubes for swimming. Now the fishing rods were light but long, and were such a pain in the tight confines of those winding bush tracks. The black soot covered “billy” was small but so was the thin wire handle that would cut into your hand on that long trek to the beach. The water jug was by far the heaviest and most awkward item to carry, but thankfully, only one way. What fun it was to swing it around you head on the return leg, as you goaded your disgruntled siblings struggled once more with their allotment. Finally the car tube was a “no drama” item as it was very light and sat just so neatly over your head and shoulders, but it did sadly rule out any looking down for beach shells, as the spare tube I still carry around today reminds me. Well, we were off - all of us - Mar, Par and kettle. Now if the designation was Frenchmans, Deadmans or Camels Rock then it meant only one thing - ‘The sand hill run’. This was a long stretch of deep orange colored sand/soil that had formed over the years between the two dry rocky headland type protrusions. It was a very steep and curvy track which met the white pristine ‘squeaky’ sand at its base at an angle of about 45 degrees. This was the definitely the observation point for much side-splitting laughter. So, all of us would run at full pace, not necessarily from desire but more by design - the hill makes it so. Now the challenge as you ‘run the hill’, is to lift you feet out of the deep clutching sand fast enough to ensure that you remain upright for the entire exhilarating experience (not always possible), but that’s only half the challenge. The major mental and physical challenge was saved until the very end. So the 'want to be a millionaire’ question goes something like this – How many steps are needed for a body that is being propelled at 60mph down a hill at 45 degrees to return to a stable and upright 90 degrees – The answer is one that I discovered from painful experience, about 1. That is, not only must your legs maintain the pace under your falling body, but by the end they must have caught up and be actually 1 step in front. The dramatic effects caused by my siblings (and some ‘no-idea’ adults) being unable to correctly calculate the maths and physics required for this final hurdle, will live long in my memory. The sight of them - face first at high speed into that clean picturesque sand, complete with those bewildering moans, the spraying fine white sand and those ejected objects of carry – makes me almost raise a smile again, even today.

Now, there have been some pretty scary moments for me on “Straddie”, but the ‘sandbank sweep’ on 2nd Cylinder certainly takes first prize. You may be a little bemused at me declaring just one event as scary, given the death defying feats already described. But I tell you, this incident was scary - firstly, because it involved all 4 brothers and secondly, the situation was totally out of our control. See, the worst result from most of our other challengers would have only left us with a broken limb or severe cuts and burses – this one was life threatened – for all of us. Now, the ever changing sand patterns at Straddie is one of the features that makes the place so interesting. On this particular day we noticed that a long sandbar had developed on 2nd Cylinder originating at the hotel headland and extending outward at an angel pointing somewhat towards the large sand hill on Moreton Island. The tide was low and it appeared to us that it was possible to walk along this sandbar for quite a way. Now you may ask, why did we? – Simple, ‘cause it was there. Now as we began that adventure it did not occur to any of us that it might be dangerous or that we should turn back. It was as if we were mesmerized by the sirens in that ancient story, beckoning us into danger whilst we pursued a desirable beauty. As we moved along that bar we began to experience the power bound up in the waves. They were not so much crashing over the bar as they were surging and rising up in a swell over the top of it. The sand bar heaved and sighed like the movements of a sleeping giant’s chest. The arrival of each new swell signaled a complete halt for the group who would take a firm posture in the sand until the ocean’s rush had passed. The swells were just knee deep at first, but as we traveled on they became waist deep and finally they got to tit deep. At this point we were finally jolted from the enticing spell and we all decided that this adventure was done. Now the ocean’s living cycle had other ideas. It had decided that the adventure was not as we thought – but was in fact, just beginning. Before we could turn our thoughts into actions, a huge swell just lifted our bodies up and out of their sure footings and then ever so gently carried us into the treacherous deep gutter separating our sandbar from the beach. We all immediately felt the new dimension to the living pattern and function of that ocean cycle. See, the huge volume of water surging over the bar was being expelled as a fast ripping current along the deep gutter and back out to sea - 'Undertow Rip' should be spelt R.I.P. Now all this is fine for the ocean who has had a long history of being way out there about 100m off the beach, but for us brothers, there was a certain ‘this is it’ feeling about the events as they unfolded that day. Every moment of bewilderment saw us being sweep further and further out to sea and away from the safety of the receding shoreline. The first reaction to swim vigorously in the direction of the beach proved as futile as a car trying to stop its sideways momentum having been caught by a train at a railway crossing. Everything we did to try and promote forward propulsion was met with the resultant sideways push. Pip was the poorest swimmer in the group and he became David’s major concern and eventual lifesaver. (both in terms of job description and actual function). David’s added responsibly saw him take a view that ‘our heads are above water and we are OK’. He was in no position to exert the useless energy that Tom and me were expending by trying to frantically get to the shore. He just concentrated on keeping his and Pip’s head above water. Tom and me soon took the same attitude once we realized the futility of our efforts. Now the next stage of the ocean’s cycle that did not occur to us at the start, was that it soon loses interest in just being a rip roaring current and so heads back to the sand bar to become just another ‘tit height’ swell. So the rip just left us. It lost interest. It had better things to do. We on the other hand had plenty to do – namely a 150m swim back to the shore. Now you have seen those shipwreck movie shots with bodies lying on the sand at the waters edge being gently pushed around by the shoreline waves – well that was us – for real. Thankfully, all the bodies on 2nd Cylinder that day were still breathing and one lived long enough to tell a story about it.

In the 60’ the only way to get to point - Point Lookout on ‘Straddie’ that is - was via the day-tripping Hayles’ timber cruse boat named the ‘Mirimar’. This boat would leave every Saturday from The Quay in the Brisbane central city precinct. It would travel down the Brisbane River and eventually arrive at Amity Point Stradbroke Island, after doing a carefree sightseeing cruse of Moreton Bay. I mean to say, if you have seen the mud flats of Cuchimudlo once, you hardly need to see it again. But we did – every year. Now the Durbages, an early pioneering family of Point Lookout, ran a weekly bus service from Amity Point to Point Lookout that interconnected with the Mirimar’s weekly arrival. So our family would all pile off the boat, complete with our 4 weeks supply of equipment and food, and promptly load it all onto the back of the waiting bus. Now when I say bus I mean a long, red vehicle with four big wheels, but no sides. Yes folks, it had no windows. This meant that, the attentive avoidance to ensure that one was not hit in the face by an overhanging branch of a tree stationed along the soft sandy bush track, was just part of our wonderful holiday adventure. I still remember it as a rather lurching ride punctuated by the occasional delay caused by some mechanical beak down. See, the sheer physical isolation of Point Lookout ensured that those early pioneers had to be pretty much self sufficient at everything, including bus engine repairs. All bus engine problems were eventually solved and we always made it to our destination at the point, even if somewhat delayed. Still, that trip would take anything up to 1 hour on a good day compared to the 15 minute smooth bitumen flash travel of today. By the late 70’s the day-tripping passenger boat ‘Miramar’ was replaced, as the Point Lookout transporter, by the ‘Myora’. The ‘Myora’ was a small rusty old vehicular barge that departed from Cleveland daily and offloaded its contents at Dunwich, a settlement situated on the bay side of the island. This means of transport was not totally without its problems either. How many times would we arrive up at the loading ramp to find a large number of cars still waiting to board the previous scheduled trip, due to have left 2 hours prior – often! Thankfully it never broke down mid trip – in the bay. Still, I believe it was the barge’s gruff Scottish jigsaw master who somehow managed to fit all 20 cars, a bus and a mineral sands truck on each cramped trip, who was the real genius of that era. The requirement to reverse on to the elevated, ever moving twin track ramp and then to proceed to within inches of surrounding vehicles was not a task to be undertaken by the feint hearted. Now the development of the mineral sands mining business on Stradbroke Island brought a new road connecting Dunwich to Point Lookout. Now the term ‘road’ may convey to you a slightly incorrect visual image. Let’s just say they were rather hard tracks, obviously without the previous grass growing in the middle and designed primarily for heavy suspension trucks, but hardly suitable for the tourist types desirous of a more pleasant and scenic journey. I remember it as a road of constant shudders – so much so that conversations were mostly limited to ‘yeah’ and ‘nah’. It was an experience that felt a bit like and hour spent on one of those fashionable weight-loss vibrating belt machines of the 80’s. The constant shaking caused by the weathered structure of the road, guarantee a top speed of only 40kmp and a trip duration of over one hour. The only relief from this constant tremor was the ‘longed for’ 22 meter strip of road on Myora Hill. See for a reason that remains a ‘twilight zone’ mystery even till today, the Island Council had laid a piece of smooth black bitumen for a whole 22 meters of this arduous 40km journey. As was the tradition, all passengers and crew were required to express the mandatory “Aarrhhhh” as we crossed without quiver over this momentary section of bliss.

Stradbroke Island was known to the Baskervilles as native title grounds in the 70's, long before the Commonwealth Government made it Australian Law in the 90’s. We had already seen the obvious tribal signs, marking out the sacred territories that we would pass through on the road to our annual holiday destination at Point Lookout. We weren’t learned anthropologists, but we could read. On some bits of rusty old corrugated iron nailed onto gum trees near Dunwich were marked in white paint the words - ‘Gun-knuckle’ and ‘Old-knuckle’. (Obviously the local aboriginal clans and land owners). Not long after seeing this first native title claim, there appeared another from the “New-knuckle” clan. I am still not sure whether this represented a younger generation or just another group who settled their differences in this unique way. Either way we were constantly remained by the many ‘shell mittens’ at Point Lookout, that this area had once been the home to some very lucky ancient inhabitants. Now surly they had no need, in such a large picturesque paradise, to settle their differences with fighting knuckles (whether old, gun or new). Well now, it was on this same old road that we were travelling one evening after just picking up Margaret and Graham from the barge. See, Margaret and Graham had decided to spend a relaxing weekend at the point and so John Baskerville, Yaap and myself drove there in the EH grey Holden to pick then up. On the return leg of this cramped and physically demanding journey, John kept complaining of sparks burning his bare feet. See he was driving without shoes and in the darkness one could see the sparks coming from under the dashboard and landing on his feet. We all laughed so much. I was just so funny watching him having to pull he long legs up to his chin to avoid the occasional fiery shower. We stopped laughing at the exact moment that the whole dashboard caught on fire. John hit the breaks, opened the door and jumped out. We all jumped out. It was certainly a moment of panic and the situation did require some action - anything! John began throwing handfuls of road sand at the source of the flame – I think more out of a sense of getting square with his tormentor than saving precious property. Well he put out the fire but then promptly expressed no desire to drive the vehicle any further. Now the last car from the final barge for the evening heading for the point had already passed us, and there was no more traffic movements expected that evening. So, Margaret and Graham in frustration just walked off into the pitch blackness of the road ahead in the direction of the point. We boys stayed with the vehicle for quite a while until we reasoned that with no one coming pass to save us, then no one could come pass and vandalize or steal the vehicle either. So the long 30km walk to our home started to sound like a good plan – particularly with a mum and dad there to make the problem their very own. Well it worked – Dad was told of the eventful story the next day and he took it upon himself to solve the problem, as the rest of us headed for the beach. When we came back from the fun and frolics that afternoon, we were quite surprised to find the EH back and parked out the front of the house. Dad had somehow been able to diagnose and fixed the problem. See, an exposed wire was hanging down loose under the dash and shorting out on the metal casing of the dashboard as the vehicle vibrated to the corrugated formation of the road. He had employed some armature mechanic survival solution, by jammed a dry twig up under the dash and so separated the offending wire from its metal accomplice. You know folks, some years later, the vehicle was sold complete with all accessories, including the dry twig from Stradbroke Island strategically placed to ensuring that the dashboard did not catch on fire again. Surly me thinks - something that should have been included in the original design.

Now if you are thinking that these are the names of some new children’s characters on Sesame Street, you would be wrong. They were lunch. That’s right – lunch on the beach at Point Lookout. Now Sandy Slice was the eating part of our lunch menu. In fact it was the only choice ever offered at that Baskerville BYO eatery - a fine establishment with great views and location but some would say, a rather limited offering. This culinary delight consisted of two slices of hand carved high top fresh white bread complete with ‘Camp Pie’ and tomato sauce and finished with a fine sprinkle of Stradbroke Island sand. Yep – it sure could have done without that ‘finished’ bit, but it all still went down a treat anyway. Sometime when the budget would stretch we would also have ‘piggy’. This tantalizing descriptor was given to a pink roll of meat (I think) wrapped in a tight glossy grey and red plastic cover and clamped tight with metal rings at both ends. ‘Camp Pie’ was the obvious evolutionary step, in that it was in a tin complete with a swanky little metal key with which to wind open a thin window around the can, so as to remove the lid. This exposed more pink stuff wobbling enticingly within some clear solid jelly surrounds. Well, if that’s lunch – then you have just had it. Now the making of the wash down Billy Tea was just so complex and arduous that it was usually left to ‘big boy scout’ Dad, but sometimes with a little bit of help from us kids. Before the tea-bag revolution causes it to be lost to mankind forever, I will give you an accurate step by step description of proper Billy Tea making (World War 1 style). Firstly build a fire, usually from the dry driftwood found lying along the beach. Then set up a “Y” shaped stand supporting a long stick, with one end over the flame and the other on the ground secured by a heavy rock (or Dad’s left foot). Place the Billy, half full of water on the stick, elevated over the fire and dangling right above the hottest part of the flame. Once boiling is achieved, throw a handful of tea leaves in with the various other twigs and insects that had already given their lives and special flavors in the exposed brew. Wait a few seconds before removing the Billy with its contents from the flame and place it securely by imbedding it in the soft sand nearby. Now there are two techniques that have been developed over the years for making those spent tea leaves sink to the bottom of the Billy. See, no one enjoys drinking their tea by using their teeth as a tea leaf strainer. The easiest way to achieve this was to tap the sides of the Billy with a stick. This created some rhythmic vibrations in the water that somehow slowly caused the tea leaves to sink. This process did take a while and was somewhat of a disturbance to those wanting to relax to the sweet sounds of bird and wind whistles, rather than the beat of the African Billy drums. By far the quickest way to sink those leaves was to pick up the Billy by the thin wire handle and spin it around your head in big straight arm circles at an appropriate speed to ensure that centrifugal forces kept all the hot contents within the confines of the container. No one told me on my first attempt to also check for tree branches that may be within the circumference of your now enlarged swing. I can tell you from first hand experience - the results are very dramatic and some would say – quite dangerous! So that’s it, ‘tea’s made’ was the rallying call. Now, pour to order using a stick as the Billy-lifter and then add a little milk and sugar to taste. I know what you are all saying – Oh for the good old days! Well, you can have them – I am quite happy sharing the kids ‘popper’ juices and Smiths chips in the not so good but quite convenient pre-packed days of today.

One of our most loved annual events as kids, was the Cooper’s Sunday School picnic. This event was usually held at the sprawling, grassy yet tree studded Yeronga Public Park. Those of us responsible for setting the area up, arrived early to erect the tent and generally ready the place for the expected influx of those all-aged Sunday School folk. You know on reflection, there had to be a better choice of picnic deck-chair than those long dark solid timber church pews that we struggled to offload and position on that grassy knoll each year. They must have presented a rather inappropriate choice of picnic comfort to everyone else that shared those picturesque surrounds with us in those days. Still, a bunch of sportsmen who also frequented the park with us never seemed to express great mirth at our rather bizarre picnic panache. The salient fact that they were all members of the Blind Cricketers Association may have had something to do with it. Now the competitions planned for that day, along with their expected winners, were as fixed (either meaning appropriate) as Sunday church. The competition was well supported by the 8 members of my family who were further joined on the day by the 7 members of Howard Baskerville’s (pronounced by preference - ‘Bar-scar-ville’) family. The competition began with the aged sprints races followed by the traditional egg’n spoon, sack and three-legged races. The rivalry discussed over lunch had as much to do with Aunty Sybil winning the women’s race – again, as it had to do with most aged races also being won by a person sharing a similar last name. The appetizing lunch consisted of a sandwich, a wash down of pine/orange cordial and was topped off with that special treat - a small tub of Peters rich vanilla ice cream. Peters was eventually taken over by Pauls (no big creative logo and marketing departments for businesses in those days). Now you would not think that the placid concept of a Sunday School picnic could pose any great dangers and threats to your health would you – but it did! Firstly, there was the twisted ankle on the leg tied together and shared in our three-legged team gone wrong. This can happen with poor timing or by just slipping on the remains of a dropped raw egg (obviously substituted in the egg ‘n spoon by brother David for the expected hard-boiled variety). Either way, whilst it may be hilarious for the observers to watch the ‘funniest home video’ results of 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-3-oops! - it was not a pleasant happening to experience. Secondly, it is the place where we learnt that not all ice is created equal. See, the ice delivered by Peters and Pauls, that maintained the frozen quality of our special treat, gave a heck of a bad bite. The term ‘dry’ in David’s smirky invite seemed to convey an image of such inert matter. It hardly reflected the more violent trapped screams that we would broadcast as we would follow David's invite to touch the pure white yet streaming block to see how soft it was. Thankfully, I did not take up his offer to also lick it and see how good it tasted. Well, the final danger was saved until the very end – boiled lollies! They must have been cheap back then because every kid got a white paper packet full of them at the close of the day’s activities. These lollies were made from 100% sugar and were specially designed to be 100% lasting. Still I would guess, because they were 100% dangerous to sensitive teeth tong and mouth, were probably introduced to Australia by a Dental Group in much need of work. The initial challenge tested your ability to pry just one lolly off the fused molecular clump bound up inside the packet. The next challenge was to try and reduce this ‘gob-rock’ to a size that could be processed by your digestive system. Cracking it with your teeth was by far the quickest way – to see your dentist that is. I would do anything to avoid that encounter and so I choose to suck the lolly and reduce its size one minuet layer at a time. Sadly, this method also meant that you just had to put up with a bleeding tong and moth caused by the inevitable air pockets in the lolly that produced those incredibly razor sharp edges. Well, whilst I managed to avoid one medical profession, nothing was going to save me from the back pain loading those picnic chairs back onto the church truck, or from the chiropractors of today as they treat and relieve the contents of my wallet.

I believe that what fundamentally sets churches apart from so many other community groups, is their open-arms acceptance policy of new folk regardless of their particular station in life. The statement recorded in that grand book of ‘whosoever will, may come’, was practiced fervently at the Coopers church and was totally supported by our Youth group. I was approached one Sunday by a senior member of the pastoral care, who said that two new young people, Russell and Trevor, were going to join our planned weekend youth camp at Burleigh Heads Convention Center. It was explained to me that both young men had some physical impediments and I was asked to take special care of them. So, when the sleeping bunks were allocated in the 8 bed huts on our first night, I was placed in the same hut as the two new invitees. Sharing that same hut were members of the ‘very cool inner club’ consisting of Greg Hill, Phil Peterson, Peter Johnson, Pip and John Tomlin. Most of them had taken to their bunks by the time I arrived with Russell and Trevor in tow. Our entrance was greeted by a certain hush and a slight sense that – look Sam, we are all for your compassionate feelings but couldn’t you go somewhere else and feel them, why in our hut? Still, as ‘too cool’ as everyone was in that hut, there was no belittling of the new boys, rather just a cramped awkwardness about how to properly conduct one self in this delicate political cum spiritual situation. Now Trevor’s impediment was quite evident in his dragging gangly gait and his obvious need to begin every word with an “H”. Russell’s impediment was not so obvious at first glance, until he pulled out a huge raw onion from his bag and began to munch it much like one would do to an apple This caused our eyes to water as much from the vegetable’s spray as the attempted containment of “don’t laugh this is serious” type feelings. To their credit, the ‘too cool’ boys did attempt to engage in conversation with the new boys, but appropriately directed most questions to the more articulate Russell. “Where do you live Russell” – “In Darra”, “Do you go to school” – “No, we both work”, “Where abouts” – “at Mach 1”, “What’s that” – “It’s a place where us handicapped people work”. Now you could feel the tension in the room notching up a little more with none of us really knowing where this was all going to lead and whether any of us would inadvertently say or ask the wrong thing. Trevor remained quiet during the entire time of this discourse but one could sense from the brightness in his eyes that he was following the conversations intently. The next natural question asked by ‘too cool - yet sensitive’ Greg was “What do you do there”. Trevor’s loud interjection as he rock back and forwards on the bed with hands clasped together and his face full of glee, was “Hugger Hall”. For just a moment no one got it. For just a moment everyone had to drop the letter “H” and translate Trevor's intended letter substitute. For just a moment no one dared believe that at this Church camp, that the translated statement could have been delivered into this spiritually sensitive environment by the very person we were ‘politically’ trying to protect. All of us looked at each other and then we burst out laughing. We got to sleep finally at about 3am that night, but when we did, we could all translate “Trevor Halk” and besides our stomach muscles needed a respite from the raucous laughter generated by this new comedy paring (just acting normally - for them). Both Trevor and Russell became as close to a real life Abbot and Costello as I have ever experienced. They may have been unsure of the objects of our laughter but they were absolutely sure of their acceptance. They became an integral part of the youth group and were treated always as equals and fully paid up members of the Cooper’s fraternity, much to the horror and dismay of most of the other ‘far much too cool’ groups that we encountered.

The first time I encountered folk with a skin darker than my 5 time holiday tan, was in Rockhampton. See, Dad had been given the responsibility to provide transport to church activities for a group of Torres Strait islanders living in our district. For all their differences in appearance, they still displayed a certain carefree, happy go lucky approach to life that I could relate to - even then. I was only 10 at the time but I would often be allowed to go with Dad to the church youth activities. They were obviously struggling for numbers when a 10 and 50 year old were readily accepted members of the ‘youth’ group. I would often sit in the front as we would pull up outside the designated house to pick up the young brothers, sisters, cousins and friends of the TI household. The street was not well lit and the back seat corner was quickly occupied by the keenest member of the group, sitting there quietly waiting for the others. His sisters and brothers soon began arriving at the back door. Now, the scream we heard as a young girl shuffled across the back sent shivers down my spine. See, there is a reason for their board smile and their pearly white display, because if they are not on display in the dark, then they can disappear like a bat in an underground cave - even to their now very abusive and startled siblings. I remember one time when we went to pick them up, we noticed that the front door was missing. Dad felt the necessity to enquire of the first passenger ‘What happened to the front door?” “Oh” the young lad said “Dad cut it up for firewood last night, because it was far too cold to go outside to look for any other wood for the stove”. Dad was rather anxious about what he saw as a rather short sighted and quite bizarre act. So, in a more puzzled yet sterner questioning voice said “Well, why did he have to do that?” to which came the reply “Because he chopped up the back door last night” Now, 'Dad the bank manager' may never understand these concepts for living, but 'Sam the gypsy' has a certain nodding understanding and appreciation of this simple ‘live for the moment’ philosophy. Happiness - life's prized posession - must be claimed and owned each day!

The 1960’s EJ Holden was a stellar vehicle with lots of style. So much so that it is still spoken of with much admiration, even today. Well folks we had one. Not in the 60’s – come on! No, some 10 years later when the price was more the style that we were looking for. It became the vehicle in which most of us kids had at least some driving lessons – most prior to the Governments allowable age. Now, just one car together with a family of license holding teenagers, saw to it that Mum and Dad found themselves at home most every weekend – strandard, rather than by choice. Our EJ had a lime green roof (yes Tom, most of the planet called that color green – not brown) and a cream speckled body color. Although when it was washed, on those rare occasions when a date with the opposite sex was a possibility, it did reveal a more brilliant whiter hue. In its early life with us it was a grand transporter of people. Most Sundays saw it carry our family of 8 the 40 minutes to Coopers church and sometimes even return with friends – a highly irregular act, in our much more safety conscious society of today. Still, traveling arrangements were worked out so that everyone found a comfortable niche to call their own. My maths has it that 3 in the front and 4 in the back should only leave a remainder of 1. Well the remainder, Pip, would stretch out on the back ledge, giving him the only ‘sleeper’ available on that long ride home on Sunday nights. Various games were invented and played with much vigor – too much vigor! One game called ‘corners’, involved maximizing the effects of the centrifugal forces at work as the car would turn sharply to the left and right. That member on the outside of the row of 4, would lever off the door and with the help of the natural forces could extract such wonderful squashing sounds from the other three travelers – mostly “uurrrrrr’. Conversely, the inflictor became the squashee on any subsequent corner turning in the opposite way. Mostly of these games would end once someone got hurt, but if not, they were sometimes stopped by our exasperated Dad. This was dramatically achieved by pulling up and ordering all of us, including our friends, out of the car. Huddled together on the road’s edge, we would watch silently as our survival transport system drove off and out of sight. Just part of a new adventure for David – but a real sobering sobbing stressful event for our younger members. Still, I remember completing my first walk over the ‘Story Bridge’ on just such an occasion. Well it worked, cause when we were picked up again most of us just sat in silence – apart from the occasional recovering sniffles being expressed by the young’uns. By it’s fifteenth year this stylish transporter was showing signs of wear. None more obvious than the sight of the speeding road passing under your feet as you sat in the back seat. Rust! – That cruel cancerous invader of all car bodies had eaten out our back seat tread plates. Dad had no mind to spend huge sums of money on its much needed repair. No, he solved the potentially dangerous structure one Saturday morning, by pouring some concrete left over from the new driveway installation, 3 inches deep over the back tread plates – there, problem solved! The EJ finally ‘gave up the ghost’ and came to rest as a sort of memorial outside our Gawalla Street home at The Gap. It stayed there unmoved and detested until a young mechanic, Dessie Lyons, asked my Dad one day “How much for the EJ, Henry?” Dad looked out at the vehicle that had served us so well and knowing the special cement features of the car, had no heart for commerce “If you can take it – it’s yours”. Dessie got a few more good years out of this now ‘collectors only’ vehicle, and by hotting it up made it into what he termed - ‘a chic magnet’.

Now I just have to admit, that catching fish at 'Straddie' is not only the natural sport of the Island, but it was actually a necessity, to ensure the supply of the staple dish of most meals eaten by my family in those early years. Mum had perfected, over the years, the standard sized fish serve that she cooked in batter, where the amount of batter was inversely proportional to the amount of fish available. Sometimes it would have been better described as ‘Batter, simmered and sautéed in fine virgin oil with just the hint of fresh fish’. This description would best suit the times when the family was relying on my ‘catch of the day’ for its sustenance. Now the most traditional and introductory level at Point Lookout, in order to catch fish, was the surf off Main Beach. I remember the old-timer Mr. Spargo saying that he had no need of a fridge for his fish, because he kept them much fresher than that – alive and well in the ocean. When he wanted a feed of fish, he would simply go down to Main Beach and catch them. Sadly, by the time I took up fishing for the family he had obviously taken all the fish close to the settlement near the headland. This fact was fully understood by Dad who made us hike about 10klm along this 20klm beach in order to get to those fish that no one had yet discovered and caught. Now, why the fish only lived 10klm form the settlement and never thought to swim any closer, was never really questioned by me – it was just accepted as obvious that all the fish close at hand must have been already caught. Not great logic, but it did have a certain probable ring to it. Now, the beauty of surf fishing is that the crashing waves on your line, gives that tantalizing feeling of biting fish and can envelop your mind for hours, whilst you wait for some really stupid fish to swallow your pippy bait, complete with hidden hook. ‘Was that a bite?’ – ‘no, just a wave’. ‘What about that?’ – ‘no just another wave’, and so on ….. Incredibly, the fish I usually caught were just meters from the shore. They would somehow attach themselves to my hook as I would wind in my line, mostly out of abject despair. Well, the other activity encouraged by Dad to pass the time between ‘wave’ bites, was the search for pippies. These local beach mussels buried themselves in the sand to about ankle depth and were unearthed from their hiding place by a special ‘Straddie’ wriggling twisting action of the body, legs and feet. Now if my family had had the same culinary pallet as those early inhabitants of the area, then we would have been well fed indeed, because dumb non-moving ankle-deep pippies were easier to catch than those dammed illusive fish – with brains. Now, I clearly remember the instruction that Dad had given me if ever a fish were to connect with the hook on my line. I was to walk slowly backwards up the beach by keeping the tension on my line and wind in the fish and line with the reel provided on the rod. But I tell you, the excitement I felt with my first unmistakable yank of a fish called a Dart, made me forget most of the more technical aspects of Dad’s meticulous instructions. Still, I tried hard to follow his instructions about tension by just running flat out up the beach with my tense rod carried upright over my shoulder. Fortunately, by the time I got to the 'go no further' high bank sand dunes, that beating shinny fish had already been dragged out of the water and was flapping on the dry sand. It took a while to wind in the line and finally be united with my gathered brothers and my first proud fish catch. It may have been just a small catch, but you know Mum, she managed to make a meal for 8 from my special achievement by simply adding just a little batter. Feeding the masses with a few loves and fishes was nothing new or special for my mum.

So, the latest Australian idol has cut his first record hey – big deal! I was cutting my first vinyl way back in the ’60, well before the rather limiting CD and DVD era of today. See today you only get one listening speed choice. Back then, we had to flick the switch and choose whether to play the vinyl record, on our family ‘gramophone’, at 78 or 33 ½ rpm. It was so much fun for us kids, when Dad was in the yard, to mischievously listen to his records designed for 33 ½ rpm being played at the ‘chipmunk’ speed of 78rpm. Equally hilarious were the 78rpm recorded songs being played at that deep ‘battery running looowwww’ speed of 33 ½ rpm. Now amazingly back then, one could hire a man to come to one’s house and cut a vinyl record containing the entire family’s audible talents. Now when I say “a” record, I mean “a”, as in one (1) only record. It hardly conforms to the commercial requirements of economy of scale demanded of today’s new artists. Then again, this record was still a total sell-out - to our market of one, our ‘Granny in England’. On reflection, one would think she must have had a proper name, but us kids always thought it actually was ‘Granny in England’, much like the ‘Queen of England’ – only much older. Well by the time this strange suited man with funny ear muffs had set up all the microphones, turnstiles and accompanying leads, we had been bathed, groomed and readied for our royal performance. Being all of 8, I am still not sure of the order of appearance set down for us gifted souls, but I do remember each of our contributions to the entertaining success of that evening. Mum and Dad were the MCs and managed to fill in beautifully the pregnant pauses on the album that was being recorded in real time, as we scratched and doodled. See, we seemed to be paying as much for the silence as for the noise. Pip understood this all too well, and managed to provide a background wail right through the entire recording – nice contribution Pip. Tom and me were given the task of singing a Sunday school song about being a sun-beam – a totally physically unrealistic concept but still sung fervently with a high note emphasis on the 'beam'. Helen recited a beautiful sensitive poem about a poor little dog that drank all the chemically charged soapy bath water and died violently – I hope England enjoyed that one. David gave a solemn account of one of our trips to Straddie, struggling at times with the plural of octopus and leaving out large sections of his death defying and torture inflicting actions – I guess England was best not informed about that stuff. Maggie was the obvious star of our first album and demonstrated her talent by playing again her Grade 3 piano lesson “Fur elise” – a lesson whilst being appreciated for the first time in England, was the constant early morning wake up call for us kids - for about a month. A few more fill in statements from mum and it was into the final track on that very popular album – the family’s unique rendition of “Oh come all ye faithful”. The children’s beautiful soprano and alto voices combined superbly in the verses but were sidelined in the chorus by the seemingly suddenly inspired deep loud monotones of big brother David. Merry Christmas “Granny in England” was the organised sign off and title of my first album.

Christmas morning – who can forget? That empty pillow sack I hung at the end of my bed last night is now full to overflowing. Wow! - Christmas gifts in abundance. Always, at pride of place, was that very large blown up balloon stuffed into the top of the case like a bubblegum popping from the mouth of a wide-eyed child. Underneath that, there was the huge cellophane bag of multi-colored popcorn. Tucked tightly into the bottom 1/3 of the case, were those longed for, high value presents. Who cares – it was full and it all created such a wonderful feeling of surprise and suspense. I remember being so excited one Christmas morning about that sack being full of presents, that I shook Tom awake and we went dreary eyed into Mum and Dad’s bedroom, only to be told to go back to bed as it was only 2:00am. Oh No! – Not another sleep until Christmas. Now presents in those days were usually small, as was our weekly allowance that had to be saved up carefully to buy each member of the family their special gift. Let’s see - $7.70 divided by the 7 other members of the family, meant $1.10 to spend on each person. Some years, you would plan to save money on the cotton handkerchief for dad , just so you could splash out and buy a much-needed colored plastic sugar bowl for mom. “Just what I always wanted” were the words I heard – but you know, I never grew tired of hearing my mum say them in that almost believable way - every Christmas morning. Now, no one was allowed to open their presents alone. So, we all traditionally gathered on Mum and Dad’s bed with our full pillow cases at the side to open our presents from Santa and our siblings. Most arrivals were attended by age, from youngest to oldest. “Bag-of-Bones David" and “Sleepy-Head Maggie” were usually the last to arrive and join mum sitting up in that pink frilly nightie and Dad lounging and relaxed with his checkered flannelette PJ’s. The present opening sequence would go round and round. Each time picking out a present but always being careful not to select the ones from Santa too early – these always seemed to be the better value gifts. Still, it was a lovely joyous and rather protracted event that you wished would never end. One year as we opened our gifts, Dad spoke to us all and said that he felt very strongly that we should each give one of our presents to another family he knew – who had no Christmas gifts. What’s this? I thought - giving one of our precious presents to others? How cruel – particularly at Christmas! Yes Peter – particularly at Christmas. A lesson in giving – a lesson in life. Another unusual paradox was that the tighter the financial situation at home – the better the presents. When life was tough with money scarce and situation critical, Dad would come home with the most wonderful gifts – as if in defiance of our plight. Tom and me played with those remote controlled cars for weeks and will never forget the generous thought behind them. We just could not believe how good life could be – and this was just round one. See, our extended family would gather every Christmas afternoon at Wavell Heights, where our grand parents lived. It was a time to catch up with our riotous cousins and of course round two of jocks, socks and handkerchief gifts. Still, you knew that it was time to be quiet and absolutely still when you heard those words “My fellow subjects…..”. The Queen of England was always an expected quest at our family gathering, even if she presented poorly in those various shades of grey and tended to roll slowly from bottom to top when the horizontal hold on my grandfathers old TV was not working properly. A royal Christmas indeed.

Before there was fishing – there was sailing. Dad had kept his promise to ‘eager for adventure’ David, and purchased for him a sailing boat on his seventeenth birthday. The sailing class that perfectly matched Dad’s budget at the time, was named “Mirror Dinghy”. I soon discovered why it was given this unusual name. See, it was to high speed sailing what hopping backwards is to running. Well, ‘Mirror’ was appropriately named because it was so slow you could still see your unruffled mirrored reflection in the wake of the passing water, and “dinghy” because if the wind could not give you forward momentum then its dictionary definition just may – “[n] a small boat of shallow draft with cross thwarts for seats and rowlocks for oars with which it is propelled”. Sadly, David’s sailing challenged “Mirror Dinghy” did not come with oars, which left us back at the mercy of those fickly winds. Now this particular barge with a sail had what I thought to be a pretty serious design impediment – a broken mast. The Mirror's boat designer had somehow figured that a mast in two pieces and strapped like a badly set fracture, was some sailing design breakthrough. The fact that this design was never pilfered by another sailboat designer is testament to his matchless view – I would say stupid! Our first day out, at the sheltered waters off Scarbrough Bay, was fairly uneventful – apart from the fact that we got out and push the “Mirror Dinghy” more than we sailed her. This was due to the outgoing tide and the fast raising and exposed mud flats. It did give David enough confidence though to strike out at something bigger - on his own. His decision was made, “Why don’t we sail from Cleveland to Dunwich and back on Saturday, Sam?”. I will tell you why, because if that crossing takes over two hours in a barge with twin engines – it will take a good week in our barge with none. Still, the sound of the water lap lapping on the bow of our red sailed, double jointed row boat as we headed for Dunwich, tasted of pure adventure. We arrived safely at Dunwich at about 1:00pm having only taken about 5 hours to cross the bay. A world record for that class. Trouble was the world class had nothing to do with sailboats but far more to do with Dad’s “World Class Idiots” comments later. Dad was right on this occasion, but even us idiots get hungry. So I ran up to the shop in the center of Dunwich and ordered 3 drumsticks. One for David, one for me and one for Joyce – David’s girlfriend. David was a better mathematician than me and soon figured out that we should take off as soon as possible to get back before dark. He also figured that the quickest way back was a direct route, rather following than the engine powered barge route that he had chosen in getting there. Now there is a good reason why the barge goes around, rather than between those two little islands in the middle of Moreton Bay. They are actually joined together, under the 12 inches of illusionary mirage water, covering the gap between the exposed land masses. No problem, last week I pushed the dinghy over the mud flats – this week I pushed it a kilometer over the rocks and barnacles. I simply thought that this is what one did when one went sailing. Eventually we cleared the shallows and I joined the rest of the crew in the comforts of the boat. Then a remarkable thing happened – the wind stopped. There we were becalmed in the middle of Moreton Bay in a tug boat without engines, designer oars or fickle winds. There was however the most gentlest of breezes beginning to puff from the direction of the land. The boat began to lap, lap, lap as the day got dark, dark, dark. It was quite an eerie surreal feeling sitting there in the darkness just listening to the ripples of the water and the wind puffs occasionally catching our flapping disjointed mask. At one point David asked me to take the helm whilst he comforted Joyce. I will never forget his instructions – “Sam, just keep the boat pointing for that bright yellow light on the mainland”. Now as I looked ahead all I saw was a long horizon of Christmas lights. Still, with intent concentration, I was able to identify the light in question. David had obviously picked out the area where car and trailer were located, long before it had got dark and had maintained focus on that spot until the darkness brought forth our guiding light. I was far to distracted by the interesting surrounds to figure out any of that survival type stuff. Well, at about 10 pm the mirror came putting out of the darkness like the ‘African Queen’ of old. David had navigated us right to the illuminated boat ramp from which we had launched some 15 hours previous. Just like Captain Bligh had done when alone and forsaken. There was the lonely but faithfully waiting VW with trailer standing in readiness under a light - and there too was a solitarily figure standing solemnly with arms folded in that ‘I thought we had lost you tonight Baskerville’ type pose. That pose could only belong to one man I knew - my Dad.

When David began earning good money as an engineering cadet for Evans Dekins in Brisbane, he finally had the means to upgrade his sailing medium. Time for speed were his only thoughts, a concept at the very antitheist of the Mirror Dinghy’s special attributes. And so it was, out with the oarless, deep single hulled dinghy and in with the sleek shallow draught of the twin hulled cat. Now, the catamaran design did not have the obvious physical impediments of the Mirror. For instance, there was just one continuous mask (clever), a huge billowing sail area and it sat on top of the water rather than submerged in it. The design embodied all aspects necessary for speed – but hardly any for comfort. See, there is no provision of seats in a catamaran and so only kneeling was possible - sometimes was even desirable when things got really scary. Another thing not disclosed in David’s exciting sales brochures for these speedy cats, was the pertinent fact that the spray from all that speed made you wet. Also, blissfully unaware to us brothers was the fact that the generated speed came from the constant draft of wind over the sail, the boat and your now spray-wet and unprotected body. There was no where to run from that Artic rip and nowhere to shelter from its freezing affects. Apparently, as David explained later, this was just part of the exhilaration of sailing cats. Now if exhilaration means being so cold that you could not move your fingers sufficiently to unzip your fly, so that you could relieve yourself on the tree rather than in your pants – then exhilaration it is. Or if wanting to be a ‘martyr at the stake’ by sitting on the exposed beach fire just to create a different pain sensation to the one you had endured throughout the last sail adventure – then I agree. Still, there was one part of the cat experience I would call exhilarating – the trapeze. Not the circus one, even though it often provided a similar spectacle, no, it was the sailing trapeze. Well this necessary function involved firstly wearing in an item of clothing that could best be described as a large polyurethane nappy with a front curly metal hook. Cool gear in front of those in the know - the object of derision to most uninformed picnickers at that beach. So, when the winds got strong and the cat lifted onto one hull, it meant one of two things. We were about to tip over again, or, it was mu cue to stand out horizontal to the boat supported by my metal line connected to the top of the mast head. I was to ride that high speed cat using my body weight and movement to maintain its highly sensitive balance on one hull. My body weight of today would have been best used to secure the cat in a storm – as an anchor. But in those days, David had chosen me for this role for two main reasons (1) he was not letting go of the steering rudder (the only other job on board) for anyone and (2) my gymnastics ability was often needed to perform this job properly. It’s hard to believe that gymnastic displays could be a feature of sailing, but the cat and trapeze made it all possible. See, there was the triple somersault into the sail when the cat often tipped over. The man on trapeze was always furtherest from the water line and often in the inappropriate crisis position for such a disaster, compared to the little slide into the water that everyone else did on the cat’s soft trampoline base. Gymnastic skill was most evident when a wave would unexpectedly stop the raised up, speeding cat in it’s tracks whilst the trapeze man was ‘hanging out’. Sometimes the forward inertia just required a quick tap dance and two step to the front of the cat until forward momentum could be restored. Sometimes it did involve a triple spin way out to the front of the cat with the returning swing cleaning up any inattentive crew members like a crashing metal building ball. At worst, sometimes one would find themselves, after completing the triple spin forward, returning on the wrong side of the craft. It is at that moment that you finally understand why your mum told you never to put a plastic bag over your head, because within seconds you were under the water with that expansive lightweight plastic sail over your head making just breathing your new sailing adventure challenge. I often wondered what those poor folk who purchased our Mirror Dinghy were doing on our sailing days. They would probably be just sitting there on those comfortable seats just puttering along with no spectacular ocean spray – how sad! They had no idea of the possibilities of drowning, spinning, bruising, freezing and suffocating feelings they could be experiencing, sailing at ‘Cat Speed’.

Well it did not take long, once Dad had purchased a sail boat for David, for the younger brothers to want a piece of this wet water experience. So, Dad got a boat for us in what he called ‘the legendary Sabot class’. Now being a French name, the “T” is silent - much like the sudden movement of the beam holding the sail when Tom went about unexpectedly. I tell you now, there is nothing silent in the English name “Boom” given to this lethal piece of sailing apparatus. It is one word in our native language where the pronunciation perfectly matches the reverberating sound one hears as it connects dead centre with your daydreaming forehead. Well, it was a petite craft with a flat nose and obviously designed for teaching one very diminutive French child, sitting down inside the boat – not a couple of Aussie teenagers hanging out on it’s side. Now, that flat blunt timber panel located at the supposed pointy end of our hoped for sleek sailing craft, certainly gave the initial impression of an unhurried adventure. Also, the high timber sides and small single sail also typified the safe European lake sailing aspects of this legendary craft. What was Dad thinking? Slow – safe – for us? Didn’t he realize our right to adventure as well, in spite of our tender ages of 14, 11 and 8. As it turned out there was enough adventure in this tiny craft for us to return home bruised but content. Like David before us, we were taken by Dad to the sheltered waters off Scarborough bay for our sailing initiation. The limited design aspects of the Sabot sailing box, did make cross wind and down wind maneuvers our only really successful sailing tacks that day. The only problem with this limited ability arises when one wants to return to home base and find that its direction is not located on either of these two axis. So, getting out and pushing it across the mud flats in the direction of the intended destination, became our only reasoned solution. Now early in the day the winds were quite strong and Tom and I got up on those high timber sides and lent out like those professionals did in those sailing magazines. The wind at one point however, kept the Sabot tipping over one way while we went the other – over the side and into the water. Then the fun really begins as you try and right a sailing boat in a strong breeze from the difficult position, floating in the water with your oversized bright yellow life vest trying to push your arms, nose and ears up towards the top of your head. One time our struggle took so long the Sabot actually went right over and was finally righted with a masthead complete with fine Scarbrough Bay mud. (There was some explanation about that one back at base). Now one of the most difficult and terrifying aspects of sailing we learnt that day was the ‘going about’ maneuver. See if the boat speed was not sufficient and your timing was poor then ‘going about’ turned into a ‘going nowhere’ maneuver. Quite often Tom and I would just find ourselves sitting in the boat watching the sail flap rigorously above us as the Sabot stalled into the wind and refused to move. Much like the horses we hired once that refused to move once they had decided that our charge time was up. Still with a few rows of the rudder, we did manage to coax the reluctant box back into a movement more in keeping with the concept of sailing rather than just sitting. Now it was terrifying because there was no warning, from our limited experience, when that BOOM was going to whip across the boat in an effort to maim, eject or frighten anyone in it’s path - nightmare! Now, once the sailing experience was complete for the day, we loaded our sail boat back onto it’s transport apparatus much like those other kid’s fathers that were there that day, put their boats onto the specialized sailing trailers. Sadly for our macho sailing physique, our petite little French number just had to be strapped neatly on the EJ’s roof rack – hardly the stuff of legends!

All the locals at Point Lookout knew when the Baskerville boys were on holidays at Straddie, again – there were no water filled lagoons on the beaches trapped high by nature’s ever changing cycle. We became a kind of Amnesty International for beach lagoons with a self obsessive mandate to set free any of these ensnared waters whenever or wherever we would find them. Led by Squadron Leader ‘Dam Buster’ David, we would troll the beaches in search of any lagoon we could identify as primed and targeted for release. One time all the brothers were at 2nd Cylinder with the church youth group, when we discovered a perfectly positioned large volume lagoon stranded high on the beach. It was a perfect target given that the tide at that moment was at it’s optimum lowest point. The Baskerville boys soon began their now customary setting free routine, with just a little help from some rather junior cadets of our dam-busting fraternity. One such cadet that day was a new loud mouthed member with long dark hair, an olive tanned skin and self styled ‘Casanova’ demeanor. Well, the digging and draining on this particular occasion went well – a little too well, I might add! It was as if the long stilled and separated waters of the lagoon could wait not a moment longer to be reunited with it’s previous wave crashing ocean parent, and proceeded in that joining endeavor with a mighty intent. It was a truly incredible sight as we watched that huge volume of water surge through the narrow gap and carved out sand cliffs of the hole we had just created. It took all our physical effort to just stand and watch in awe as the rushing torrent swept around our ‘Pisa’ leaning bodies, some 10 meters from the lagoon breach. Now as you would expect, our much too smooth Casanova with a chest measurement in straight and perfect symmetry with his thighs, decided to jump into the middle of nature’s mighty demonstration in the vain hope to imbibe some of its energy and power for the obvious impression of the opposite sex gathered there and watching. Well, nature’s course that day was set and resolute and had no empathy for such wanton macho wishes. The raging cannoning waters simply proceeded to sweep him into a deep trap, being the high volume wash cycle of death. At first, the Baskerville boys watched in great amusement as he came up for air on the first cycle with arms flaying and then being dragged backwards and under by this powerful revolving cycle. Our laughter was soon restrained however, when on the second time round we witnessed only his arms coming up for air as his head and body was spiraled backwards in nature’s unrelenting death roll. We all then experienced that helpless inner panic that everyone must feel when they witness a life threatening situation but find themselves powerless to do anything about it. We all tried valiantly to move against the raging torrent in an effort to provide salvation, but none could. Then something happened that I have never been able to understand fully to this day. Out of my peripheral vision I saw Tom start surging forward through the driving force set against us and traverse the 10 meters to the edge of the deep rotating trap. At his very moment of arrival the lifeless black mop of black hair surfaced once more and he just reached out and grabbed it. He then pulling it with its attached body, towards the safer rapids making their divergent way out to sea. In this one miraculous moment, Tom was able to short circuit nature’s circling death trap and I believe he saved a life. Why none of us could make the slightest impression on that powerful force and yet he was able to just effortlessly serge the 10 meters when required, will stay in my mind forever. Well, the embarrassed, spluttering hero soon recovered sufficiently to declare to all that would listen the daring of his exploits, but none of us who witnessed that event will ever forget the quiet determined and cool ability that Tom displayed that day, that saved a life. [Photos]

When there was nothing much to do at the Gold Coast Youth Fitness church camp, we often found ourselves gathered at the trampolines. There were four of them bound together on the grassless area just beside the tennis courts. Ex 'Queensland Gymnastic Champion' David, was the self proclaimed ringmaster of this particular circus arena - with no argument from us! It was here that he taught me to do a double front somersault, not in the conventional way from feet to feet on the big red centre cross, no, in the dangerous but spectacular way of back to back from one end of the tramp to the other – there was always a twist on convention with David. Now trampolining can be exhilarating fun, but only after the painful lessons had been experienced once and then carefully avoided in repeated activities. Like the unthinking ending high jump off the trampoline, stupidly expecting the hard ground to give soft comfort like the feeling of the sprung mat, experienced for the last 30 minutes of activity. Wrong! The violent shudder in the legs caused by the colliding contact with the unforgiving ground was soon followed by the taste of blood as you tried to use your plummeting chin to hammer your knees deeper into the earth. Still, the lesson learnt most painfully for us boys was, never to land a jump with legs apart into the supporting springs. Why? – cause the springs would open up under the pressure of the falling weight and then close on their rebounding action and trap and pinch between those sprung steel coiled vices, any loose soft part of one’s anatomy. Now why something so painful should cause such hilarity for all the other boys, can be partly be explained by the centuries old boy’s reaction to the inappropriate delivery and chiming receipt of the cricket ball into one’s delicate appendages. Well, the only public humiliating way to extradite oneself from this predicament, was to have everyone stand on the tramp around the spring and by the introduction of enough weight, persuade the pitiless metal coil to let go of its prized catch. There was also the important lesson of exercising appropriate care if ever David offered to share your tramp. A lesson supa-keen Bancroft just had to learn from hard experience. One time, David asked Bancroft to team up with him on the tramp for a demonstration, to the gathered crowd, of tandem trampolineing. One could not help but notice Bancroft’s rather chuffed demeanor at being personally singled out to perform a high air stunt with the ringmaster. So, with purposeful application he began to counter-match perfectly David’s high-air recoiling bounce. They presented initially like a well oiled crank shaft with twin firing pistons responding in harmony. Now, whilst Bancroft concentrated intensely on his seemingly required back up roll for the display, the crowd waited in anticipation of the master’s applause-warranted act. Of little concern to the focused Bancroft, was the evolving fact that David had gradually shortened his jumping style until those thrusting pistons had changed their impetus by design from converse to parallel action. At this high upward thrusting moment of twin airborne bodies, David raised his knees level with his grinning face and with a full leg extension launched Bancroft into a beautiful traveling layout. Gravity played it’s part in the act, as it does, and pulled both bodied back in an earthward direction. Firstly, one body felt the cushioning of the tramp’s mat and heard the stretching sounds of the extending springs. The other? Well Bancroft’s bruised bum from its connection with the grassless ground, made even walking a difficult proposition for most of that day and even the next. As I understand it, he made a solemn vow to never again be the ‘pult’ in David’s often repeated display on the unsuspecting - The Flying Catapult.

One of the unique natural wonders that had formed over the centuries on Whale Rock was the 'blow hole'. This loud thumping high-spraying geyser, was usually viewed by the tourists from the safe distance on the seats at the top of the headland overlooking the rock and it’s deep dividing channel. Being initially enticed to the rock by David for a spot of unprofitable fishing, Tom and I soon discovered the life cycle of this gushing phenomenon – close up! See, we could not quite lock in to our other brothers’ excitement of just sitting on the barnacled rock with index finger resting on a slowly winding line waiting for a big sea monster to strike. Tom and I were looking for real adventure, and it found us one morning as Pip and David continued their troll for the ocean’s Holy Grail. Now, it is the air-ripping high pressured extrusion of the blow hole that first takes your attention, because it is usually a sound associated with too much danger. Being the brave souls that we were, we contented ourselves with an observing safe distance look and marvel. Well, after watching this royal performance for a while we soon identified certain patterns in the seemingly unpredictable demonstration being displayed before us. Keen-for-adventure Tom, picked a moment of quiet interlude to run over and put his terry toweling hat on the top of the calm gaping hole. What fun it was to try and catch that flying hat as it was propelled some 20 feet into the air by the exploding forces caused by the cavity crashing waves. This activity kept us amused for quite a few rotations until I happened to put the hat on the hole just a little too early. Too early - you may ask? Tom just said “That sucks!”, and he was right, because the blow hole actually sucked Tom’s hat into the hole faster than a crab disappears down the sand hole when it is disturbed. It just vanished from sight in an instant! Tom seemed unperturbed by the loss. I guess he reasoned that it may provide some wholesome panicked entertainment at the serious end of the rock as his hat went floating past those ‘lost in space’ fisherpersons. Tom and I then discovered some loose sand and shell grit near the hole and we began shoveling it in to the hole at the precise timely moment. We then had to crouch and cower appropriately as we were showered by the combination of water, sand and grit. Finally when everything loose on that rock had been thrown down the hole and blown to bits in the air, Tom decided it was time for the ultimate challenge – to sit on the blasting hole. Well Tom had obviously not learnt the lessons of the sucked-in hat, because just prior to the next detonating event, the hole breathed in a lung full of grit and sand. Now sand blasting may be a useful technique for removing solid attached impediments from large concrete structures, but it is hardly the medically recommended treatment for removing unwanted hair from one’s bikini line. Tom had always tried to explain his lack of hair in certain private parts as the after effect of his radiology – sorry Tom, we all know better now, don’t we!

The experience of holidaying at Kaboora on Point Lookout Stradbroke Island in the 60’s, could easily provide enough footage for a whole series of TV’s ‘Survivor Survivor’ today. Now, apart from the primitive bathing rituals already described, there were many other survival experiences at that cottage that had to be endured and conquered. Well, the survival urge was none more evident than when it was applied to Kaboora’s toilet facilities. See, high up the hill tucked neatly into the bush, far away from the house, stood a little timber out-house accommodating one of the scariest inventions of human ablution concepts – “the bottomless pit”. See, the 60’s era at Straddie was pre-sewerage and even pre-septic. In fact the simple idea of a hole in the ground in which to ‘abult’ was originally, as I learnt at school, a carry over of the pre-historic era. The only development evident over the millennium on this island, was that, with the introduction of metal tools the holes could be dug much much deeper. Well, perched on top of this China directed hole, was a custom-made timber ‘Thunder Box’ complete with a smooth beveled edged carved hole, big enough for an average adult sized aaarrrrrhhh - bottom. Now I would imagine that those adult bottoms would have been quite comfortable sitting there completely filling the designated space and having their feet being firmly planted on the ground. But spare a thought for the half moon tiny bums sitting there and leaning intently forward with their legs dangling and hoping that whatever was living deep in that deep black hole has no interest in reaching up and grabbing our little white bums. Also, the fear of falling into that seething cesspool made our ‘Niagara Falls’ and ‘Bombs Away’ bodily functions a quicker experience than even brushing our teeth – and that was done in minutes. There were never any of the usual books to read in the ‘bottomless pit’ at Kaboora because firstly, us kids would not have had time to read past the first page and secondly, no kid was going to let go of the sides of that Thunder Box in a risky maneuver to turn the page past the front cover – no sir eee! Well this describes our day time experience with this Temple of Boom - imagine the fear of any evening calls of nature as they occured. For us boy the process was quite easy: the Banana trees for number 1’s and wait till the morning for number 2’s. For my sisters it was not such an easy choice. I believed it was the only time I chaperoned my sisters on their nights out. I would walk them up the concrete path and stand guard outside the pit door, carrying Dad’s very long black torch. One time curiosity got the better of us all and we bravely decided to peer over the beveled timber edge with Dad’s torch to discover the bottom reality of the dreaded bottomless pit. We held on to each other tightly least any of us fell and we forced our eyes to look and face up to our irrational fears. Now I can’t speak for the others but what I saw made me pull back with hand firmly placed over my mouth or the lower intestines would have quickly been saved the long process of digesting the recent evening meal. It would have been regurgitated unprocessed there and then had I not withdrawn my membership of the bottom viewing club. I have come to the conclusion that the director’s of those boiling, seething, feeding-frenzy, devouring movie scenes, must have also shone their torches down a bottomless pit at some time in their past – otherwise how could they have reproduced the effect on the big screen so well what I witnessed all too well in the bottomless pit at Kaboora. [Photo]

Many of the new property owners at Point Lookout today are expressing concern about the encroaching sand dunes drifting northward from the top of Main Beach. Each year they slowly inch their way forward like a slow moving glassier rolling inexorably towards those expensive little holiday cottages nestled at the back of the Point. Well, in the 60’s and 70’s the local residents saw this natural advance as an opportunity to have their waste buried 30 feet under without the need to employ expensive digging equipment or even waste management staff. They would simply place all the garbage at the base of this loose sand mountain and let the elements of wind and blowing sand, cover their unwanteds with the minimum of human input. Well now, this dump area also became a local-knowledge short cut for us kids to get from our holiday house rental to Main Beach. We would walk through this dump and then climb the steep sand hill on all fours, followed by a long zigzagging downhill run to the beach. Now with little electronic or live entertainment on the island in those days meant a great turnover was guaranteed for the Durbig’s pub each evening and it also ensured a little too much VB elbow bending at most kitchen tables scattered around the point. Each year one could see a gradual buildup of empty beer bottles being discarded in the dump. Some creative types decided to make retaining walls out of a combination of this growing beer bottle menace and some home made cement. One recluse even managed to make a complete house using the same method but tendered to use beer bottles whose contents had been previously been devoured by others. There was another house being built along similar lines that was not completed for over 10 years. I can only assume that this particular builder thought that one should only use the bottles from your own cellar to make the bottle-house an authentic structure. This creed obviously limited both his access to resources as well as limiting his ability to perform the required building works after having secured the necessary building materials in this way. Still I would guess that it only took about 500 hangovers for him to complete his 10 year business plan and dream. So now, those bottles that could not find a home as building materials were dumped at the base of Main Beach’s moving sand mountain. Well, it did not take long for David to eye these fragile and discarded building resources and see a full afternoon’s entertainment. David lined up a long row of bottles on the fence and then joined the itchy fingered Bancroft and all the other ‘here-we-go-again’ brothers on the designated firing line with rocks primed and ready. It took a good 30 minutes to break most of the bottles from our sporting distance, before the fighting over the scarce rocks soon became the major entertainment on show. Then we heard this strange woo, whoosh, wooing sound coming from the end of the line where David had taken up his position. A beer bottle to hit beer bottles – what a great idea, and what an explosion of sight and sound that was achieved on any direct hit. Well using this new weaponry we finally achieved our objective and obliterated all the targets that David had lined up and set for the group. Now what? The time for the ‘flying long neck pigeon shoot’ with the accompanying beer bottle rain - that what! Well, this activity involved one member of the group launching a ‘long neck’ bottle high into the air while the others aimed and released their ‘stubbies’ at the falling target. A direct hit would not only score you maximum points but it would also reward you with the sight and sound of a mighty mid air blast, but more importantly the sight and sounds of the other members crouching and protecting their heads from the showering shrapnel. At afternoon’s end when the scores were all tallied and the head injuries attended to, it suddenly dawned to us that in our blind and frenzied excitement, we had failed to notice that we had completely surrounded our bare feet with a horde of broken bits of hostile glass. We then all got that uh-oh ‘Colonel Custer’ surrounded feeling. Still we did managed to pick our way through the bloodlust glass and made it safe home to the puzzled and questioning looks of a mother none too sure about that rancorous stale beer odor emanating from her gleeful teenage children – Beer bottle rain, Mum, just beer bottle rain is all.

Well “all children have a Nana” – nothing special about this statement you may say. But see, I have never met anyone else who had a Gonga. I remember clearly the perplexed and quizzical look on my school friend’s face when I said that I was going over to Nana and Gonga’s place for the weekend. I really thought that everyone knew what a Gonga was – apparently not! As I understand it, the first grandchild Margaret, used her editor's license to pronounce Granddad as Gonga – and it stuck! Her initial lead was taken up by all members of my generation until my Granddad came to be known affectionately as Gonga. Now Nana kept a very neat and orderly house and managed to maintain that status under this simple principal - quiet, gentle, doll playing sisters were welcome inside whilst rough-house rowdy boys must find their entertainment where they belong - in the backyard. Well Gonga’s yard contained one item of huge magnetic attraction for us boys – the macadamia nut tree. It was always our first comfort stop, after being refused entry into the well preserved antique and historically appointed house. We boys would excitedly rummage through those nuts lying on the ground to find a prized specimen with the greatest possibility of providing a culinary delight. The first inspection of any nut was to check if a little borer worm had not already beaten you to those inner delicacies. Another method to increase the odds of a good find, was to wait for David to shake the tree and then beat your brothers in the race to the newly fallen tasty morsels. Having collected a folded back shirts full of eating possibilities, we then proceeded to break into Gonga’s sacred site – his tool shop. It was located under his high-set timber house at Wavell Heights. Now, Pip and Tom were expected to squeeze through the ornate 6 inch wide fibro slats in order to open the laundry door to let the bigger brothers inside. Once free to explore that normally locked and forbidden underground zone, there was usually a rush for only one item – Gonga’s bench vice. Now by holding the hard shelled casing of the nut in the vice and winding the straight bar handle vigorously, one would hopefully gain access to the taste of one of God’s specially created delicacies. Now I say hopefully, because it was not as easy as it seems. Firstly, one must remember to remove one’s fingers from the advancing jaws else the resulting pain from the trapped pincers tendered to negated the pleasure obtained from that tasty entree. Secondly, quite often the exploding crack in the hardened casing simply provided a quick escape for the now rather distresses worm who would wriggle off along the vice leaving you to try and enjoy what remained of his tasty meal. Thirdly, there was no guarantee that the extracted nut was going to be a pleasurable delight or an offensive let down. Our eye was not so specialist trained as to visually identify the divergent palate difference between the first or second experience, but our humor was unmistakably fully developed as we derived much enjoyment from our brother’s spiting cursing reaction to the rotten bitter ‘Russian-roulette’ gamble of the second. Now, the real art to nut cracking, was to be able to break the outer shell but still leave the soft nut on the inside completely in tact. This precise procedure sometimes meant that the tension in the shell was not completely released and so it would spring closed on your keen-to-remove fingers as the pressure was taken off the crushing vice. The yelping sounds of another pinched finger convinced David to take a slightly different approach to nut cracking. He found some wire in the metal waste bin and proceeded to pick Gonga’s locks that were securely fixed to his tool cupboard. Minutes later David was into the tool cabinet removing a huge hammer with which to smash those nuts to smithereens so as to pick out his food. There was just no finesse to David’s nut cracking style, but he did display a certain flair and obvious profitable talent for the art of lock picking. I am convinced that the profits from his lock picking talents would have secured enough funds by now to purchase his own nut factory, rather than simply being the headmaster of one.

“The mullet are in!” David would say excitably as he rushed into the house after doing his first day of holiday orienteering. See mullet at Point Lookout Stradbroke Island were not always ‘in’, but on occasions, our annual holidays coincided with the migratory movements of great schools of a fish technically known as Mugil cephalus, but simply known to Straddie fisherman as mullet. They would school together for protection and move slowly northward as a rolling pack from Main Beach around the point and then hug the shallows along the northern beaches of First and Second Cylinder. Now from my earliest encounter with them, I recon that these fish did not play entirely fair. See, they had no interest in our tasty fleshy baits cleverly threaded onto our sharp shinny hooks – cause they ate plants for a living, and it was so jolly hard to find an interesting plant to put as bait on the end of your hook. So, we all just stood there powerless on the rocks, and watched four week supply of breakfast lunch and dinner roll slowly past our tempting offers, without even the slightest tug on our fish trap lines – the bastards! Well David was not the type of guy to let all this fish protein and nutrition pass by without some contest of a catch. So our first attempt at catching these illusive fish was devised at their starting point on Main Beach. It was here that we witnessed the mullet being temporarily standard on the sandbank after the passing of a crashing wave. Caught in just inches of receding waters they would vigorously made tracks for the safety of the deeper channel close to the beach. David saw a catching opportunity in this occurrence and issued instructions for me to return to the house and bring back the planned mullet catching equipment. Now I don’t know what those cool lifesavers on the headland thought of two boys running along the sandbank thrashing metal rakes at the dark shadows – but I am sure there were lots of rolling back eyes and shaking heads. Well, Plan B was instigated soon after the exhausting and rather embarrassing failure of Plan A. David soon figured that if they were not going to take our hooks then perhaps our hooks could take them. So, David thought up the design as we trundled home with out garden fishing rakes slung over our shoulders. He visualized a devise where three huge shark hooks could be bound together with heavy metal wire and by strategically separating the points he could construct a three dimensional jag hook. So now as the schools drifted around from Main Beach and past the rocky fishing platforms near Camels Rock, we implimented Plan B. The most effective technique for this new strategy went something like this - Firstly cast the jag hook into the middle of the schooling fish. Secondly, before the hook with its accompanying weights sunk below the fish pack, lock the reel and jag the rod back over your head with all your might. Now, if no contact is made with a solid object then it is likely that you will soon be facing the opposite direction and winding your line in as you walk slowly across the rocks and up the beach until you are reunited once more with your jag hook. Meanwhile, it was hoped that your jag hook did not connect with any blissfully unaware beach strolling tourist. Well this method did produce some mixed results. See, if a jag was successful then it was usually into the side of the fish. Oh the constant disappointment of pulling in a 6 inch mullet with its high friction dynamics of a sideways landing that felt more like a 20lb mackerel on the line. Sometimes a seeming successful jag suddenly gave way and delivered only a surprised single eye looking down the hook at you and wondering what the heck had just happened. As it turned out we only had to wait for the migration to move around to 2nd Cylinder to ensure a successful catch and a good night’s feed. Well, waiting patiently on this beach were the crouching craggy professional fishermen with their row boat and net. As the ocean and surf turned from blue to black, the net fishermen sprung into action. Their full and thrashing net was dragged in from the ocean by a tractor at one end whilst being anchored by the mighty strength of the fisherman at the other. Us boys simply formed a semi-circle rearguard position behind the beach advancing net. There we shuffled along with hats and string bags at the ready, waiting to catch any escaping fish. These bewildered and often dazed vertebrates turned out to be so easy to catch after all, because they all came out from under the net and carried on just like stunned mullet.

I remember that it was the fibro cottage named ‘Kaboora’ that was our first holiday rental at Point Lookout Stradbroke Island and remained the preferred family holiday choice for much of the 60’s. It was a quant little hut with a timber slated front porch, a main ‘mum and dad's’ bedroom, a large kitchen dinning and sleep-out room for the boys together with a separate bedroom for my sisters. The walls, whilst providing some definition between the rooms, did not extend to the ceiling – because there was none. Yes folks there was very little protection to help insulate us against those winter chills. They were only kept at bay by the blackened wood fired stove with its belly of fire that radiated heat from the far corner of the small cabin. Other appliances in use at that time included the fridge, which was really just an ‘ice chest’. See, a block of ice, purchased from the Durbige’s bus garage, was fitted into the top of the box, which did provide cooling for the family’s meat and vegetables stored below – until the ice melted away that is. Chilled water had to be obtained from the constant leaching water filled army canvas bag that Dad would string up in the prevailing breeze on the front veranda. The showering system was a pump action self administered torture chamber whilst the toilet facilities with its bottomless pit, rounded out the cutting-edge horror of this 'back to nature' adventure holiday experience. Washing clothes was just a primitive scrub with soap and water in the worn out concrete moldered tubs. The wet cloths were then hung out to dry, either on the cloths line leading to the little house of horrors or hung in the timber boarded and enclosed confines of the back concrete patio. Water for all our drinking, washing and cooking needs was provided courtesy of the natural rain and the metal ringed storage tank situated in the back yard. This tank caught all the rain water that fell onto the roof but it also provided a protected development compartment for the wriggler larvae of the annoying Straddie mosquito. So there you have it – a complete living existence, all without the luxury of electricity. Now luckily the cottage also did come with two kerosene lamps that lit the living room after sunset, otherwise the day’s fun would have finished at dusk. This light provision did allow for the odd card game to be played in the evenings from time to time when the mood among the siblings was considered congenial. One game called ‘snap’ involved the laying down of cards randomly onto a center pile by each player in a circular sequence, until a pair of cards bearing the same value were placed on top of one other. The rules that all of us played under (except David), was that the first hand on the pile after the matching pair was revealed, won the converted pile of cards. David’s reading of the rules differed ever so slightly from ours – see his heavy fist would come down so hard on the already assembled and competing hands on the pile, that we would each be forced to drag our smashed hand from the contest for a closer examination of the collateral damage. David would then roundup the cards and sweep them towards himself with a certain ‘well I guess I won that round’ kind of smirk. Now, none of the younger contestants, nursing their now bruised hands, were about to object – see we reasoned that David just had a different view on the concept and meaning of this game called ‘snap’. Well ‘Kaboora’, being set in a natural bush landscape, had no surrounding and protecting fences – in fact, no property at the Point had fences in those days. This meant that any animal could just walk up the front lawn and generally intrude into the activities of the house. I remember the wild tan coloured horse called ‘Banjo’ making just such a trek in the hope of finding of a little honey to satisfy his desire. He ultimately got from us his sought after reward. Now, I also remember vividly some donkeys from the surf lifesaving club who also came up the garden path with a mind set and desire for much the same sweet outcome. Sadly for these animals they were sent away disappointed, because my sisters instructed me, from under the sanctuary of their beds, to go out and tell them that honey and sweetie were not at home.

One Christmas school holidays I remember well as a total gutter experience. No, not with the negative connotation that you may be jumping to. See for us the gutter was actually a place of great excitement and much creative fun. The particular gutter in question lay opposite our house at the Gap on the steep side of the hill that adjoined our neighbor’s front yards and footpaths. Well, it was at one of our regular street cricket matches that David, whilst retrieving a well hit ball, slipped on some heavy green slime that had built up along the sides of our neighbor’s gutter. The cricket game soon disbanded to make time for the much more threatening pastime of ‘Gutter Skiing’. Now, this activity involved running at some pace up to the start of the green chase and then with a combination of careful body balance and a carefree outlook, one could experience some of the exhilaration of downhill skiing. Oh sure, there was the usual comical ‘bum sat smack’, ‘tumble roll spin’ and the ‘all fours gallop’ but no falling disaster seemed to dampen our want for more. Finally, David reasoned that with a supporting running mate he may well be able to ski all the way to the end of the green track – the metal storm water grate at the bottom of the hill. “Tom give us your shoulder for balance” says David as he steadies himself by grabbing Tom’s shirt at the start-gate and readies himself for the full downhill run experience. Well it worked. So whilst David’s acceleration was at the typical gravity induced meters per second squared rate, Tom’s more flat line linear speed graph had plateaued soon after the first bend. Sensing the loss of his flagging support, David took the evasive action of a quick jump and a fast run followed by a tumble roll on the grassy footpath, but not before Tom had experienced first hand that ancient lesson of ‘never jump to the bitumen from a galloping horse’ – why? cause it’s going to hurt. Ask him nicely today, and he will show you the sergeant’s stripe scar on his left knee where the black tarred pebble embedded road took a bite of Tom’s flesh on that fateful day. So now by mutual agreement, coupled with a few stern words from Mum, a complete change of activity - but not venue - was ushered in. Poor Tom was just sitting there in the gutter with his strapped up knee lamenting the end of his physical involvement for the day. He decided to start rolling things down the steep gutter and wistfully watch as they crashed into the metal gate at the bottom. Not long into his lament he created a structured pre-historic roller wheel from the dense clay he found in the eroded and exposed parts of the footpath nearby. Well the boy’s competition was rejuvenated. “Let’s see who can make the fastest downhill roller from this available clay resource” was the challenging cry. There was Pip’s tall skinny attempt that never made the turn due to its high center of gravity (a concept luckily foreign to him at the time). Tom’s short fat early model certainly showed promise but his impatience to wait for the appropriate drying period saw his entry go pear (even sausage) shaped before the finish line could be crossed. By some quirk of nature, I happened to design a perfect model of clay roller in both width and height completely suited to this particular course. It was named “peanut” due to what looked like a nut embedded into its side. It may well have been true, given that I slipped the soft clay roller under mum’s Sunday (nut flavored) Roast to ensure a racing hard entry. “Peanut” saw off any pretender to the crown of F1 Gutter King until David decided enough winning by me was enough. At the start line one afternoon for the umpteenth time “Peanut” lined up against the brother’s newly finished designed. David chose not to reveal his ‘winged keel’ secret weapon for the next race and stood in a position behind our crouched over bodies. GO! - and the race was on between Peanut and Pip and Tom’s entry. Well before the first bend was negotiated we were all overtaken by David’s new entry. Now when I say over taken I am not meaning around – I mean overtaken, as in over the top. See David had created a huge juicy soft slushy clay entry which he had launched after the starters gun, and it simply devoured in it’s tracks all our competing racing vehicles. David loudly claimed a mighty victory as his clay roller with its embedded competitors impaled itself on the metal grate. His celebration was only cut short by the meekly inquiring feminine voice of our neighbor who asked ‘now that the race has finally been decided, do you boys mind if I pull the plug on the bath which I had this morning’.

My name is currently etched onto some pretty special honor boards of my old senior school at Brisbane Grammar, in some rather prestigious locations I might add. But you know, the etching that held most honor amongst my peers right up until my last day, was carved under the masters table of the 2nd form classroom allocated to class 2E. “2E?” my mum puzzled when she first heard of my particular placement - “Why did they put you in there”. “Because there was no 2F” was my obvious ‘get with the program mum’ reply. Anyway, another place where my name is remembered in fine gold lettering, is on those dark mahogany timber panels of the School’s Great Hall. Under the column School Gymnastics Champion, my name is recorded beside the year 1970. Two entries up in 1968 is recorded a name carrying a similar surname but displaying the first initial of my big brother David. See it was David who introduced me to the precise sport of Gymnastics, primarily because it would provide a great opportunity to express my artistic freedom - particularly on the School’s Wednesday afternoon compulsory club or military cadets participation stipulation. See, whilst the rest of the school was busily engaged in military parades or some sort of indoor club activity - David, me and the other members of his “Gymnastics Club” were expressing that artistic freedom by climbing over the fence onto the railway tracks and nicking off from school about an hour earlier than was set down for club activities to end. Still, it just so happened that the prerequisite skills required of a good gymnast did reside deeply in our family genes. Firstly, you had to be small in stature – passed that one very easily. Secondly, you had to have a good sense of timing and an ability to think quick under pressure- well, growing up with David’s life threatening games soon honed these specialist skills. Finally, you needed to have a sort of death wish – The Baskerville boy’s natural trait if ever there was one. So there you have it, the perfect specimen to be a Gymnastic Champion – and so it was, and evidenced by winning the Brisbane Grammar School Championship, the YMCA Championship, the Queensland Schoolboy Title and the Under 19 Queensland Title all in that “15 minutes of fame” year of 1970. My greatest competitor for those titles was my close school friend Lindsay Evans. When I explained to David one day that he was my greatest rival, David gave a certain acknowledging nod. “I know of him – yes, that's right, it’s the name written on the gym shorts I have been wearing for the past month”. Well, the gymnasium change room was build on an open plan with a timber bench and hook arrangement, where uniforms and gym gear were usually strewn from one end to the other. Wearing another’s clothes by mistake was commonplace and generally accepted by students, if not by parents. It was also a place where your bus fare to get home was secretly hidden in the toe of your school shoes – remarkably, a place where school thieves for countless generations have never thought to look. Now then, back at the gymnastics and it is all very quiet. Folks, I just don’t understand why the crowd goes so 'pin drop' silent during a gymnast’s performance. It simply endures that the slightest sound emanating from the strained gymnast’s efforts, becomes amplified beyond reason in this tense, strained and soundless atrium. Grunts – fair enough, tissing through tight tense teeth – understandable, pant splitting wind releases – totally unacceptable, and are dealt with in the usually crowd sniggering, chair shaking way. Well finally, at the end of every competition whilst the judges added up the competitor's scores, the gymnasts were permitted to give a carefree demonstration of their special freeform tricks to keep the crowd entertained. Most tricks involved double aerial spins or rotations followed by some complex floor activity combinations. Once the flashy displays had taken place, David would usually just step onto the floor and proceed to do a backward somersault but deliberately land on his belly. The groans from the male members of the crowd spoke of a certain empathy that they felt for David who continued to ham up the act by writhing on the ground, only to jump up, waive to the crowd and go back to the end of the performing line. He eventually taught this Baskerville only trick to me by explaining that the force of the landing must be taken by your elbows and thigh mussels, but unfortunately not before I had spent my first attempt lying in agony on the mat, wondering if it would ever recover sufficiently to father any children in the future in order to carry on this noble family tradition.

When I was in Grade 4 at primary school, Dad accepted a job transfer to the Commonwealth Bank in Rockhampton. This sadly meant leaving our sun-lit family home in Lisson Grove Brisbane and moving to a high set timber house at the top of Albert Street Rockhampton. It was a dark eerie sort of house that I think could easily have been used as a set for the Adam’s Family TV sit com. The front lawn appeared quite green and lush as it swayed 3 feet off the ground in the pervading breeze. The back yard was currently being strangled by the long tentacles of some encroaching evolving exotic vine. The huge dense bottle green mango tree at the house’s side simply added to the murky gloom, as it willingly gave covering protection to all manner of flying and crawling insects. The inside of the house was now home to a diverse gang of feral cats. As they were chased from their favorite spots in the house, they would look back at you with head slightly tilted and posture upright in that “I’ll be back” piercing stare, before disappearing into the labyrinth of darkened cavities that was our back yard. The previous occupants of the house had painted all around the inside walls. In fact, they had painted right around any of the furniture that was inconveniently placed against the walls as well. Over there is the outline of a book case, the TV stand was placed here and lounge suite was in this corner. Those object’s forgone silhouette were impressed into the wall like the shadowy remains of an earlier nuclear blast. The grotesque murals on most room walls simply added to the macabre atmosphere of the place – a place we were now to call, our home. Still, its one redeeming feature was the mangos – a fruit too expensive to buy in the markets of Brisbane was hanging free-of-charge just off the veranda of our new home. The trick here was to get to the ripened fruit before the local troop of flying foxes arrived and partook of their regular evening indulgence. I still remember lying awake in those darkened high ceiling mural walled bedrooms, listing to the screeching squabbling sounds of those ferrous pre-historic beasts – chilling! Now the mango, the fruit God must have created on that penultimate seventh day, embodies in its persona both ecstasy and calamity. Ecstasy, for its unparalleled nectar-of-the-gods taste – calamity, for the fourteen yards of dental floss needed to remove its stringy fibers from between your devouring teeth. The ‘ying’ exhilaration of the ravenous munching delight was matched by the ‘yang’ of the gooey, gluey, gluggy gunk that would run down all over your face, arms and chest. It was not uncommon for mum to place us kids naked in the bath with our forbidden fruit ready to enjoy at will, without the dreadful repercussion of much more body and clothes washing. Yum, mangos – God’s own special sweet. Now where was I? See every place has its own sweet tempting “Apple” of desire that distracts you from the real forces and influences at work. Well, Tom and I finally decided to go ‘a jungle exploring’ in our own back yard. We crawled tentatively under the thick covering vine and into the natural realm of spiders, snakes and feral cats. It was dark, itchy and scary until we surprisingly came across some cute little kittens with lots to do. We were so excited that we took our wriggling life forms to the back door of our house. We rushed inside “Dad, Dad we found some fun-active kittens in the backyard” we excitedly proclaimed – Dad went to the back door, looked down, picked up the three little kittens by the scruff of the neck and proceeded immediately to the laundry where he promptly drowned them all – major, major shock for two poor innocent little hearts. Ok, the kittens were lying on their sides and spinning round in circles with legs thrashing and tongues hanging out when Dad picked them up and did his thing. We just thought they were being kind of playful, in a weird kitten sort of way. How were we to know that Dad was both giving a mercy solution to a cat distemper outbreak, yet mixed with a very deliberate response of “No your not” to their previous “We’ll be back” parting statements.

Well, the stories of our two year stay in Rockhampton would not be complete without at least some mention of our idiosyncratic church at Charmers Street. The building itself radiated a certain ‘exceptional’ posture, given that it was built right up to the council allocated property line, leaving no neutral space between itself and the passing sinful crowd. The timber pews were unpadded and uncomfortable - much like the constant theme emanating from the pulpit each Sunday evening. See, I had become pretty familiar with the wrath of the four horseman of the acropolis right there, long before it became a scary movie epic. This particular pastor had a singular pension for the doom and damnation of the hallucinogenic type stories contained in the last book of the bible – Revelations. Usually a supreme challenge for a whole conference of biblical scholars, this pastor saw it as a particular challenge to unravel its deep mysteries to the simple folk of that beef-exporting country town. I know that the rather large proportioned Mrs. Cronin must have really appreciated it. She eventuially demanded a full immersion baptism in the water tank provided for such a purpose, under the church’s raised stage and pulpit. Her baptism was unfortunately more reminiscent of the parting of the red sea, as the water from either side of her backward falling body flowed out of the tank and into that church hall. I could see at that moment, that the pastor felt that Jesus’ raising of Lazareth from the dead was an easier miracle than having to raise the now spiritually prone body of Mrs. Cronin from the bottom of that baptismal tank. Scotty was also a regular at those evening sermons, but he seemed to have a special ability to just disconnect from the high emotion of the thoughts and ideas being portrayed. Well, his little black on/off switch was located on the left hand side of his pocket hearing aid and it did provide him with an option to just dose off on those long winded detailed description emanating from the lectern – until one of his kids would lift it from his pocket, turn it on and up, and yell a wake up call into it, that is! Now, there is no verbal record of the specific reaction of the blind man’s behavior to the monstrous and vivid imagery that was colorfully described, but I suspect it must have all made for an interesting, if not tentative, long walk home. For the non-visually challenged folk, their frightened disposition was often neutralized by the flop of minister’s hair flapping parallel to the ceiling as the huge pedestal fan kicked in to provide some cooling breeze to the now sweating and exposed skin tight scalp. Tom and I stayed with the program through most of the congregation singing and individual song items. We were there singing loudly when those saints went marching in and we wanted it to always stay that way. See, it had to be better than the rather heated burning alternative that was on offer. Still, we soon resorted to our Tin-Tin books once the minister got up to speak. Captain Haddock and he seemed to have such a lot in common. The “blue blistering barnacles and thundering typhoons” expletive by the Captain seemed to us in perfect harmony with the sentiment of much of the reverend’s message – just the word choice was different. So, when the lead weights in our eyelids dropped and finally wanted to close, Tom and I would go in search of a three empty seat pew in which to stretch out for a nightcap. Worryingly, there was that ever fearful message that one day all the saints would be taken to heaven, leaving the heathen alone on the earth – and so it happened. I woke one night all alone in that darkened church hall. The saints had all gone and left me behind! Yes it is true - they had all left me, but fortunately, only as far as our Albert Street home. 1,2,3,4,5…. “chummily we are missing one of the children” was mum’s remark to a very tired dad. What a relief to my sleepy eyes to open the tall front timber doors of the church and see my Dad coming back to collect me. Nice one God – OK, count me in!

One noticeable transition that occurs in the natural evolution from primary to secondary school, is the way in which teachers are recognized by the general student body - and so it was with my early initiation into Brisbane Grammar School. No more Miss X and Mr. Y – no sir! Now they were now appropriately referred to as Pogo, Buster, Bouncer, Chrome Dome, Cactus and Moof Moof - if you don’t mind. Now in my era, one Master, as they were branded only in the official school literature, was allocated to each form of students to uphold the position of Form-master. Grammar seemed to be one of the very early schools to adhere to a policy of being an equal opportunity educator. This equality was most evident in the way they seemed to match the average student I.Q. with the appropriate I.Q. of the Form-master. Given that all my form classes ended with a letter well down the list, it was only fitting that I had a Form-master holding a similar degree. Now, the Form-master for my first year at Grammar was named Harvey Trip. See, some masters at Grammar did manage to maintain their original family name – but only when the student body decided that the belittling title given to them prior could not be bettered. Try as we may, the members of our class could not find a better descriptor for our Form-master than the name his mother gave him at birth. Still, he drove a classy set of wheels, but while the other master’s vehicles were propelled on four, Harvey Trip would peddle up the school drive each morning only on two wheels. He also had a certain obsession with ‘black marks’, which he would enter into his little black book against a class name, whenever he observed a misdemeanor. “Baskerville – that’s a black mark straight away’ – boy, I soon got tied of that often repeated saying, and its accompanying detentions that followed the ‘3 strikes and you are out’ Harvey Tripp crowd control system. He was not a very patient man and seemed to resent the daily roll call required by the school’s administration. His solution was to call the roll in a sort of constant verbal stream like a property auctioneer onto a good thing – Ahern, hup, Asprey, yep, Atkinson, here, Barklay, sup, Barnes, ho, Baskerville, yo, Bell, yeh, Berry, ha, …. Smith, ya, Smith, yo, Sturges, here, Thornton, ok, Waller, sir. It all happened at such speed that often a class of 40 where ticked off as present and correct, even though 5 of them were still in the change rooms running late for class after completing their morning’s sport training. Incredibly most of that class can still recite that monotonous daily class call, without missing a name. Pogo was the school’s student councilor. I have no idea why he was called that name, but it did kind of suit this rather strangely behaving 'i want to get into you head' type psychologist. Buster was my relieving maths teacher in my final years of study. “Stand Up! Turn to page 14. When you have read it all sit down” he would say as he buried his head into some favourite Old English literary manuscript. Occasionally a glance up from his engrossing read would reveal a class seated and perplexed about the next step in the classical teaching process. “Any Questions? Good” “Stand Up! Turn to page 15…..” and so on. And you wonder why I struggled at maths! Now, I often thought that it was an incredible coincidence that the teacher that David often described as bouncing students out of the 4th form class rooms was actually called by the same name. When he stormed into our ‘run-a-muck’ 2nd form class one day, I was the only one who was able to answer his question addressed to the now sheepish and quieted class “Do any of you know who I am?” “Mr. Bouncer, sir” was my keen quick retort. Well having to stand with shaking knees outside his large office in the 4th form wing the following day and wait for him to ask me the same question but with a different response expectation, is an emotional fear I will not easily forget. Well a Chrome Dome - is a Chrome Dome. Here was the first time I saw a chamois replace a comb in the back pocket of a man with a hairless head. Cactus was our chief grounds man who was immortalized by the students of the Latin class who wrote on his shed wall once ‘Catio Cactis’ - I drive a tractor’. Then finally on to the keen intellect and science teacher that was Moof Moof. Now, I am not sure whether it was his surname Maloof, or his high tied belted shorts or his floppy bottom lip that mated more with his bushy moustache than the designed other lip when trying to pronounce those ‘M’ words. Still whatever the original basis of the tag, his statement “Moldered moving molecules mostly mutated my modified methods’” sounded an awful lot to me, like Moof Moof.

Now there is a recognized spirit of adventure - which I can identify with, but there is also an instinctive longing for survival. I am still not sure which best one matches our Camels Rock sleep-out experience. Well the story went a bit like this. We turned up quite excitedly at our rented house at Point Lookout one Saturday, having just disembarked from the open sided red bus with our usual holiday period supply of food and equipment. “Yes you are booked in this weekend – but starting tomorrow” was the land lady’s, Mrs. Vans Leben, response to our puzzlement about our holiday house having people on the inside looking out at us in that ‘were home – wish you were’ look. “Well we are just going to have to sleep out under the stars tonight” was Dad’s shoulder-shrug response. See, there were no camping grounds available or any other spare cottages in which to sleep that particular night at the Point. So we carried our holiday provisions down the steep sand hill and on to Frenchmans beach, which eventually swung around to a collection of rocks that look like a Camel crouching – Camels Rock. The grown ups had decided that this particular place provided the best possible protection from the evening’s hostile elements. Joey, David’s Blue Mountain Lorikeet, could have flown to the rock in minutes, but he was instead carried by David for a full hour in his wire cage, much like the royalty of ancient times that were carried in their slave powered vehicles. Joey was the first to secure his lodgings for the night as David strung up his cage in the tree – much to his squawking and screeching approval. Dad and David then built a fire on which mum managed to cook some ‘bangers’ which when served, quickly quieted the rumbling of surrounding little tummies. I am sure that the devouring fullness related more to the mandatory two thick sliced of sponge-like bread and tomato sauce rather than the skinny beef sausages that were served as an accompaniment. Well abluting was as much a challenge here as it was at most toilet facilities at the Point in that era – it’s just that the holes for this one night stay did not have to be dug nearly so deep, as to rate them bottomless. Family sleeping positions were then arranged in a sort of wagon wheel radiating from the center hub of the fire place. The night was clear, the stars shone bright, the gentle puffs of the sea breeze rustled the overhanging leaves. Everything looked set for a peaceful night’s outdoor rest. Now I don’t know who added cement to the sand lying under my allocated sleeping space or which imp turned on the ice-fridge that must have been buried deep under my white sandy bed – but it happened. Anyone who has spent a night on the beach sand will know what I am talking about. This special trick of nature woke me early enough to beat the rays of morning light by a good few hours and I joined David who was already poking and stoking the red embers and floating sparks of the previous night’s fire. The next night we finally spent in the luxurious surrounds of a timber floored, louver surrounded home with a matrice made of coconut husks for my bed - well whilst its comfort level reflected the same as the previous night - at least it wasn’t set on 0 degrees F.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, in our far away home at Wooloowin, milk was actually delivered to the back door of our home each day by a friendly neighborhood milkman. Now milk only ever came in those one pint glass bottles, where the lighter cream content of the milk would naturally separate and settle into the top third of every bottle. Way back then, homogenized milk was a concept far too sci-fi to even contemplate, let alone pronounce. Well the square squatty shaped Brisbane city bottle certainly made the skinny long neck Rockhampton model look rather weird at first glance. Anyway, whatever their signature shape, all bottles had to be returned to the vendor for refilling rather than just being disposed of in rubbish bins like the milk containers of today. Their gold, blue or red stripy alfoil tops were meant to be removed by carefully lifting a small side tab and tearing across the top. David typically reasoned that if God had already created a milk bottle opener in the form of a thumb, then it should be fully utilized as such by the downward spike through the seal and into the thick creamy ooze – there, access problem solved! Now it was also considered quite bad form to pour from the bottle onto your morning porridge, without making at least some attempt to mix the longed-for top settled cream back into the general milk body. Still ‘what Tom don’t know – Tom don’t miss’. So it was creamy rich luscious porridge for Sam and low fat skim lite milk porridge for Tom. Just looking after your health I was, Tom – really! Now the other strange thing about milk in the 60’s is that you also got it for free every morning at school. Small little milk bottles were delivered to the school in heavy metal framed crates with bits of melting ice scattered throughout. Each student was expected to consume his/her allotment – or else. It seemed like a sort of Government forced calf-fattening exercise for my whole generation, under the strict scowling supervision of the on-patrol teachers. Oh the envy I had of those class mates whose mothers provided them with a chocolate or strawberry flavored straw through which to consume this by now sun-warmed white medicine. Well over the years the milk name has not changed – only it’s taste. As quality gives way to the pressures of speed, marketing and convenience, then taste is the resultant looser. Just like that other symbol of life’s food staples – the loaf of bread. It was quite common to arrive home and find that the local baker had also home-delivered a loaf of bread to the top of our back steps. There it sat, two mountain humps of dark baked crusty bread wrapped in a white tissue paper shroud and emitting an enticing aroma incapable resistance by any small person within 10 feet. “I wonder if….?” was a sentence that was never really completed, because you could not keep your hands from feeling the texture and warmth of this glowing 'kryptonite for kids' - “I bet is has just been baked!” was the expectation and was mostly proved true and evidenced by the loaf’s radiant warmth and home-cooked bouquet. Now, like most things – the real delicacy actually lay within. See, by separating the two half loaf humps, you could expose the delights of the warm fresh baked bread inside. So by peeling and devouring the white fleshy strips that were exposed at the face of the separated halves, one could experience a taste of pure rapture. Sadly by continuing to pursue this forbidden desire led to a rather interesting phenomenon – a hollowed out loaf of bread where the outside remained intact and untouched but housing a hollowed out centre created by a small ravenous intruder. The obvious solution to the wake-up reality of the damaged caused by the uncontrollable urge, was to stick the half loves together again with the white paper shroud and walk away as if nothing had happened. Still, there was no escaping mum’s yell from the kitchen as she cut the bread for the evening meal and simply peeled off slice after slice of dark bread crust quoits. The game was up – and the kid with the guiltiest look got the appropriate verbal hammering – whilst all of the remaining siblings kept their heads down least they be identified as an accomplice to this heinous crime. A crime that my English mum told us, would have seen you in the 1800’s deported to Australia as punishment. Some crime! Some punishment!

  Tradition and loyalty are quite wonderful attributes when applied to most situations in life. Still, I would like to share with you some real experiences, which I believe may bring into question the validity of such noble intent. See my grandfather Gonga, went to a dentist named Benny Freeman. My father’s dentist was Benny Freeman. Benny Freeman was also my dentist. You may have missed the stand-out point here - so I will be blunt. By the time Benny Freeman was my dentist, he was a very old man indeed, complete with some similar vintage dental practices and equipment to match. His surgery was located on the 2th floor of an old, heritage listed Queen Street building in Brisbane. The surgery was accessed by two equally heritage designed, dark timber paneled lifts with their accompanying heavy metal concertina gates. The family logic was simple enough – if he was good enough for my grandfather, then he was good enough for us grandkids. Being a loyal bunch, our Baskerville line followed in the family tradition - Benny Freeman was our dentist and that was that. Now the concept of pain killing injections was, in Benny’s eyes, only for wimps. His World War 1 attitude was that you should just ‘grin and bear it lad’. I can tell you folks, there was no grinning as this bear of a man caused such intolerable pain as he worked the tooth nerve to tears. His hot air puffer, used to dry the drilled tooth cavity, was initially heated over the exposed flame of a Bunsen burner. The warm puffing air, giving relief to the recently engorged hole, was soon negated by the pain of the hot metal spout branding your bottom lip as he rested it there for support. For his more detailed work, Benny would put on an extended set of ‘Groucho Marx’ type springy eye spectacles. Look, he was not totally insensitive to your feelings and would occasionally ask if everything was OK. Any muffled reply expressed through the huge cotton wads padding your mouth was simply interpreted by him as a "yes!", and so the operation continued without change. Now Benny’s drill was not like the high-speed diamond heads bits of today. No sir – his drill was so slow you could actually see it spin with the naked (and by now rather fearful) eye. The drill was powered by a series of black rubber pulleys. The spinning movements of these pulleys became the major point of distracted focus as he would perform his oft repeated drilling procedures. The power supply to the drill was controlled by a loud clicking foot switch, which Benny would continually drive like a VW clutch in some busy peak-hour traffic flow. This grand museum piece of 19th century drill engineering emanated an eerie high-pitched resonance throughout the whole surgery. Shivers would run down the spine of any other sibling sitting just outside in the wait-room on those dark mahogany seats. Being second in line meant twice the pain – firstly, as the vicarious suffering of a waitee and then later as the direct recipient of the drill's activity. Well, we arrived one day at the building for our Mum double-booked appointment. David could see that there would be an ugly brotherly argument taking place in the surgery soon about who would take the coveted first service. So he decided to set for us both a selection contest to determine which of us would be the first patient. "Lets each hold a lift open on the ground floor and at the given signal we must each take our lift to level 10 and then back to level 2. First one back to level 2 is the first served" explained David. "Sounds fair. Lets go" was my competitive reply. My lift ran beautifully. Straight up to level 10 she went and then it rattled back down to level 2 – all without a missing beat. I flung open the metal gate and ran through the door of the surgery, confident that my perfect physical execution would be rewarded with that sought-after front running. So imangine how I was totally taken aback when I saw David and that sheepish smirk which he gave me as he glanced up from his relaxed reading position in the wait–room. Still, I know I had to accept the inevitable result of the contest. But, on this particular day I had to endure three forms of torture. Firstly the torture of the wait room and listening to that blood - curdling pitch. Secondly, in the dentist chair with the direct attention of that 'special' drill. Finally the emotional torture and suffering when David revealed that he had simply gone straight to the 2nd floor, whilst I had naively completed the yo-yo lift contest all alone.

If it was a hungry man who, whilst working the waste conveyor of an ancient abattoir, decided to pocket the passing ox tail for a good night’s meal, then it must have been a ravenous man indeed who grabbed the ox tongue with excited thoughts of a hearty meal. For me? – I have never been that hungry, yet my mum would serve up these European foreign delicacies in the hope that hunger would eventually conquer brains. Speaking of brains, I also remember having fried lamb’s brains dished up much to the mental anguish of all us 6 kids. Our dinner table, in heartland Australia, was often adorned with delicacies that were considered the staples of British gastronomic consumption. There was "Haddock in white sauce" which was a fish with a rather strange orange rusting skin. There was also mum’s famous "traditional pea and ham soup" where the peas were soaked over night whilst simmering in genuine long fleshy pink pig bones - much like some Macbeth witch’s cauldron. Finally, there was that English appetizing dish called ‘Toad in the Hole" – well, I know the pastry as a very recognizable taste but the toad bit remains a mystery, even to this day. Now I tell you folks – there was never a food so aptly named as to express your palettes reaction, than that of the ‘chocco’. No matter which way mum served it – "chocco" was always the knee-jerk throat reaction. Oh yes, she would smother it in some fancy named cream sauce or bake it, fry it or even steam it. Still, there was no escaping that convulsing reaction when fork met mouth. What a surprise for me to learn in later years, when truth in labeling was applied by law, that this vegetable made up 90% of my long time favorite accompaniment – tomato sauce. Rhubarb pie was another ‘out-there’ dish, but mum did seem to have a good clearance rate on this one. My mum was never to know that this clearance was achieved by simply swapping your full dish with the empty one sitting in front of dad – well it was his favorite dish! (all six serves of it). Now I must confess – I did have a childhood problem with mum’s apple pie. I hated it and it hated me. Many a night was spent staring at that green mushy monster wishing it would disappear with a simple "I Dream of Jennie" nose twitch – but it didn’t. I would have to sit there alone at the table, whilst my brothers and sisters watched some enjoyable TV show and painfully swallow those little pieces of razor blades. Still I can’t be too upset at mum’s attempted introduction of European culinary delights. Because, my mum did make the best porridge - the best potato cakes, the best Sunday roast and bubble n’ squeak. But of all her signature dishes she will be remembered most fondly by all her kids, for that heart warming smile and ‘a cup of tea & toast’ most every wakening morning.

Television may well have come to Australia in the late 50’s, but it never got to our home until many decades later. To our dad, this new technological marvel was simply a killer of creative fun, the evil destroyer of precious time and more importantly, a great excuse for us kids not to do that "A+B" homework. Well, our long retired grandparents, Nana & Gonga, had no qualms about the loss of the above mentioned life-experiences and so purchased a TV pretty much the day after it was first released. And so, any pronouncement by my dad that we were going to see our grandparents, created an immediate scramble for that night’s TV guide followed by a sort of diplomatic voting pact between the siblings on what the order of viewing would be. I don’t know why we bothered, because Gonga was such a keen fan of World Championship Wrestling complete with ‘black shorts bad man Killer Kawolski’ Vs ‘white shorts hero Mario Milan’ that this was the obvious first viewing choice. The wrestling perfected the art of air swings with their accompanying foot thumping canvas fight acting. There was the dreaded ‘sleeper hold’ followed by the ‘one-arrrr two-arrr three-arrr, break that hold’ command issued by the black & white striped shirt umpire. See, everything back then was in black & white. TV directing must have been so easy in that pre-colour age - Badies wore black and goodies white and umpires 50/50 (so easy). Now, this ‘meant to be taken seriously’ evolving melodrama was too much for Maggie on one occasion, where she broke a chair she was sitting on from too much raucous hilarity. Often, the raising tension of ‘good white shorts in battle with bad black shorts’ would necessitate Gonga having to pop a heart pill just to settle his racing anxiety. Nana on the other hand was a devotee of "The Black & White Minstrels" with it’s black face white eyed Al Jolston singing that drawn out ‘oh mammy’ just one too many times for our liking. This program easily took the viewing second place leaving what ever was left of the evening to us kids. Now, Nana had a rather disturbing habit of simply walking over to the TV and changing channels on a whim or even turning the set off all together with those now family folklore words "there is nothing much on here Harry". The fact that 6 little kids were glued to the set awaiting the outcome of some very dramatic moment in the show was completely lost on her. At least, without the advent of a remote control, she had to get up out of the couch to do the changes and did manage to slow her down, a bit. One teething problem with this new technology created the need for the installation of a manually operated vertical hold override knob. This was needed when, for no explained reason, the picture would start to slip upwards forcing us kids to have to nod up and down in time with the picture motion just to stay abreast of the story. Eventually some grown-up would step forward and try to solve the problem with a twiddle of the V-hold knob. I tell you now, no picture problem or program break for advertisements was ever going to drag us kids away from that highly stimulating visual moving entertainer. So apart from our grandparents, we shared those evenings with Lux soap ‘for that beautiful (movie star) skin’, Omo for it’s ‘stronger than dirt’ knight on hourse-back, the ‘your soaking in it’ Parmolive dishwashing detergent, those ‘happy little vegemites’ and the ‘light up a Vicount’ & ‘join the Escort club’ cigarette adds. It’s OK folks! No long-term brainwashing marketing effect here - just part of life, when growing up with Gonga’s TV.

  Now I know what you guys are thinking - here is a story about a policeman with a bell. Wrong! This is in fact a story about a pair of appliances brought together in perfect symmetry, much like their ‘movie star cousins’ R2D2 and C3PO. The copper and the wringer kept house on the wind-swept concrete floor under our high set timber home in Wooloowin Brisbane. They both were part of the evolutionary development of the modern day electric clothes washer and dryer combo, being placed in a comparative timeline somewhere around Neanderthal man’s era. So now, imagine a heavy black metal witch’s cauldron with a belly of fire complete with a copper-tone half-spherical inner tub – that was our Copper. Obviously taking its name from the content of the fabricated metal rather that its general cauldron appearance. The driving force behind this appliance was the fire burning under the tub, which boiled the water that stewed our dirty clothes. The necessary agitating action was provided by way of a washer-person with strong arms and a sturdy back who would prod the submerged bundle with a long water-weathered wooden pole. I remember my Anty Phillis being just such a person with her tiny frame lifting in reverse proportion to her downward stroke of the pole. Well, standing right next to the copper and always ready for duty, was the wringer with its raised rotating head and sporting a robotic ‘ear to ear’ grin. Those twin creamy gummy rollers were so tight shut that they squeezed the hot water from those boiling clothes that came fresh out of the copper. Feed one small end of the washed item into the waiting jaws and then wind hard on the protruding lever and watch the water flow from one side as the steam-rolled 'cartoon type' clothes emerge from the other. David of course found no use for the copper, most notably because he could not get any of us to sit in it long enough for the water to boil. But oh the fun he had in feeding our Sunday best ties into the ringer’s mouth and winding on the handle until our noses were hard against those spongy ringer rollers. "UUUUnnnnkle" I think was the muffled call required by the extortionist to guarantee quick release. The final appliance in the wash/dry workflow was our stately Hills Hoist. Every Queensland home had one in their back yard but none holding quite the same stature as ours. See us kids eventually discovered that you could lower the hoist sufficiently to ensure that each kid was able to hang on each one of the protruding arms. The biggens, David and Margaret, whose legs could still reach the ground, would then run the required circles whilst holding their allotted Hills arm. This ensured an aerial ride for us littlens of high adrenaline excitement. Of course the Hills Hoist was designed for holding clothes but it was certainly not intended that the children would still be inside them. Finally our poor hoist with its bent droopy arms began to look more like our Weeping Willow trees than a patented modern day cloths dryer. Still, I reckon that I would gladly take a few more thong hits on the bum from mum just to experience that feeling all over again.

For neigh on 15 years Tom, Pip and I morosely watched as our birth state’s rugby league football team lost to a team of sky-blue jerseyed super stars from our southern neighboring state of New South Wales. The loss was always hard to take, but more so because so many of those sky-blue super stars were only just last year - our ‘maroon-jerseyed’ state heroes. See, our players had since been lured to the gambling revenue rich southern football clubs with their deep pockets and nice fat cheque books. Such was the heartlessness of these club administrators that they twisted our champions’ desire to promote their careers and give financial protection to their families into a traitorous curse – ‘You must now wear that sky-blue jersey and become an enemy of your birth state’. What glee it was for those New South Wales Czars to watch a game against Queensland being won by these now cursed sky-blue pawns – what bitter heartache and anguish for us! Finally after years of pleading, our state was given the chance to pick a team based on where the players first played the game. It was a chance to go back in time to when the game was played for heart, soul and spirit rather than just for money. Well, I got the (3) tickets for that inaugural 1980 "State of Origin" game to be held at ‘The Cauldron", Lang Park. There were only 40,000 tickets sold to that first game in spite of more than 80,000 people today claiming to have actually at that historic occasion. Then again – the crowd were so ‘one-eyed’ one could easily imagine how twice as many people could fit in to that Queensland witch’s torture-chamber. So, like ants to the honey pot we joined the thousands of streaming fans in walking the back streets of Milton to that special game site. Being our first game as spectators to an actual grounds - Tom, Pip and I took our place sheepishly on the allocated wooden benches. Apart from some fairly beefy blokes in checkered flannelette shirts, we shared that spot with tomato sauce, beef pies and XXXX. Now that’s not a censored type-mark to hide a politically offensive word – it is in fact how us Queenslanders spell beer. You know, it took a while for me, Tom and Pip to get into the game for real. We soon realised that it was impossible to enter into the spirit of this live game until we learnt the Queenslander’s war-crys and the supporters cheering anthems. "BOOO" was picked up fairly quickly and was obviously the call given whenever the other team did anything - good or bad – like legitimately tackle one of our blokes. "Arteeee. Arteeee." was the next war-cry we picked up and was obviously the call given whenever our veteran captain Arthur Beetson did anything super-skilled like catch the ball and roll forward or punch an opposition player in the gob whilst the referee was not looking. The final war chant took a little bit longer to pick up, probably because it consisted of more than one word. This call was obviously given whenever the referee gave a penalty against our beloved team. The chant sounded a lot like a repetitive monotone groan describing in detail the excrement one would usually find in a paddock of bulls. Now each of these supporter’s calls may seem to you of little significance, except for the fact that between 40 - 80,000 were calling them – loud and in unison. Such was the intensity of the crowd’s vocal support that some stars of the game in sky-blue were reduced to fumbling nincompoops. Some players in maroon colours were seen to grow 10 feet tall and referees tendered to give decisions in favor of the home team quicker that a Don King appointed umpire at one of his specially organised prize fights. Well, Queensland won that inaugural game, but it was sadly marred by a very ugly incident off the field at half time. See, Tom and me had been a bit too heavy on the soda-pop for most of the first half and so had developed a rather pressing ‘nature-call’ urge. We had stoically held our position however until half time, fearing the loss of not witnessing some great historic sporting moment. Finally the whistle blew and we were off to the ablution block – along with 40-80,000 other patrons. Now I don’t know if you have ever joined a conga line when doing the rather private abolition function but that’s what happened that night. Long, long conga line in – long, long conga line out. It was a rush. There was push and shove. Lots of shoulder to shoulder jostling on the ‘50-man heads down Wailing Wall’. There were a few too many nudges in the back as the line behind pressed forward impatiently. In amongst the shifting swaying man-bodies lining that wall, I eventually found a spot alongside Tom as we attempted to do ‘natures pressing thing’. After a long pause I joined Tom in zipping up and fighting our way through the waiting lines to the wash basins and then on to join a now more relaxed conga line gliding out of the place. Once we got to the safety of the stands Tom looked at me and said "Phew that was tough. How did you go?" "I didn’t - I couldn’t" was all I could say with a painful grimace and a bewildered shrug of the shoulders. Well, I may have missed some vital historic match play halfway through the second half, but at least I managed to get some privacy in the now deserted cubicles. Believe me, it was an even better feeling than an historic Queensland win – RELIEF!!!

David was the obvious engineer and builder in our family. This fact was recognized in him at a very young age by my parents. So, by the age of 12 he had a metal Mechano set to die for. I say this, because most of the things he built with it could easily have killed you. See it was not just ‘wussy plastic clip together colorful blocks’ back then – no sir, it was damned heavy metal bars with threaded silver bolts and solid nuts. These items created structures that could be used to inflict pain if they were ever placed in the wrong hands. Anyone now feeling that David’ hands were the right hands to place them in, has not been keeping up with my stories - have they! Anyway, thankfully by the time David had turned 18 he had outgrown his Mechano set ‘weapons of mass destruction’. He was all grown up now and obviously needed a bigger challenge - like designing and building an electric chair. Now why didn’t I think of that? Well, I should have thought a whole lot more on the day I was called into his room with the excited invite of "Hey Sam, check this out!" So, I did as he asked without much thought and sat on the Blue Stool and waited for him to show me his latest discovery. Now I’m not sure what it was he was going to show me because I was soon airborne and sailing backwards over his bed, as I felt an electric current seize my bum cheeks and cramp my leg muscles in a simultaneous jolt. "Yeah, I thought I had the settings too high" were David’s only words as I ended my trip in a crumpled heap in the far bedroom corner. Well, he eventually got the settings right so that only a bum-stinging shock was felt by the other family suckers, rather than the catapulting bolt of lightning that I experienced. Now this Blue Stool became a constant companion whenever we went out to any YFC church youth group function. Most games there were designed around David’s Blue Stool with the contest loser often ending up with bright red cheeks at both ends of his anatomy. One memory test game I remember particularly well was the new couple’s dating test. The process called for the male partner to be sent from the room while David asked the girl three questions about their new and budding relationship. Where did you first this and when did you first that ….. and so on - were the questions. Her answers were noted and then the oblivious lad was called back into the room to sit on the Blue Stool and answer the same questions. David would stand at the back of the chair with finger poised over the executioner’s button ready to activate on any mismatched answers. Folks, I tell you now, it certainly took a lot of peer group pressure to get him to sit down again after experiencing his first wrong answer. Amazingly most boys blamed the Blue Stool for their suffering rather than the cheesy grinning designer standing nonchalantly at its side. Now, if the first two answers were incorrectly matched then the ‘pretty-little-partner’ had to sit on the chair and hope that her man-hero would save her by answering the 3rd question with the same answer that she had given. Boy, the resultant recoil was not a good look and not a good sound either, with that high pitched screaming – but you just had to laugh, particularly when she belted the bloke for getting the special moments and facts of their relationship so wrong. Now I know this discredited electric shock therapy was all the rage in psychiatric circles back then, but I still reckon that Tom could have solved his maths problems with A+B in a single night. All he had to do was just give his answers to Dad’s questions whilst sitting on David’s Blue Stool - with David standing right behind and ready for action with that cheesy grin of course.

  " I really hope I don't let them down" was Mick's concerned comment as we drove to the GPS Track & Field Championship being held at Nudgee College, Brisbane in November 1999. Mick, my youngest son, went on to say, "The coach has got me running the anchor leg of the relay, even though I am the team's slowest runner - I just don't get it!" When we arrived at the stadium Mick went over to his school's tent at the far end of the oval. He met up with his teammates who were doing their stretching and warm up exercises. I mingled with the various school supporters and watched with interest as the programmed track events were contested and concluded that afternoon. The resulting points from each event were added to each school's running total that was displayed on the large scoreboard positioned in the center of the grounds. The scoreboard showed that this particular year's inter-school competition was close fought - a fact greatly contributing to the afternoon build up of supporting crowd numbers and their vocal intensity. Not only was Mick's run in the Open 4x400 meters relay one of the last events on a close fought day, but it was also the last competitive run for all the seniors who were to be completing their secondary school studies in the next few weeks. This fusion of emotions tended to raise this particular event's profile, it in the eyes of many seniors at least, to an almost Olympic-type status. 1999 had been a disappointing year for Mick, in that he had been selected earlier in the year to play for the First XV Ruby Team but sadly had to pull out due to a reoccurring dislocated shoulder injury. Unperturbed, he turned his interests and commitment to the Track & Field activities in an optimistic attempt to make the school team - in spite of never having had any formal athletics training or coaching. He was thrilled when word came that he had been named in the GPS Brisbane Grammar team as the school's representative for the 400 meters Open hurdles as well as being selected as a member of the 4x400 Open relay. As was the tradition, Mick was well supported on the day by members of the broader Baskerville family fraternity. Grammar old-boy uncles Tom and Pip were there along with their future grammar sons Mitchell, Stephen, William and Tom. Chris, Mick's older brother and past Grammar student, had also came along to support Mick's effort, although I thought he had later left the grounds before the running of Mick's Open relay event. Chris had also been a member of the Brisbane Grammar Track & Field team that had won the championship by just half of one point two years earlier - A team also competing with Mr Howes as the head coach. Mick's first event, the 400 meters hurdles, was held soon after the lunch break. In a mighty effort he outran the best hurdlers from 7 other schools, but finish 2nd to an outstanding state champion from Ipswich Grammar School. Still, he did run a personal best time and finished with the 2nd fastest time ever recorded by a Grammar athlete for this event. A result that simply amazed hurdles coach Mr Stanaforth and the other coaching staff who knew full well that Mick had only taken up hurdling some 4 weeks earlier. Even more elated at this result were the other Grammar athletes who came out of the team tent to personally congratulate Mick and acknowledge the fact that they had just witnessed a run quite special. Now, there was only an hour or so before Mick had to ready himself again for competition - this time in the Open relay. He had no real time to enjoy or reflect on his achievement in the hurdles as he now had to focus on "The Main Event" In the Nudgee tent close by, things were also being readied for the up coming 4x400 Open relay. Their coaches decided to strengthen their relay team by replacing their program nominated anchor runner with a their long time champion athlete named Butler. Butler was a nationally ranked runner at schoolboy level - he was the 1998 State & GPS 100m Champion and he held the U15 100m time record. As all the teams gathered in the center of the oval for the start of the 4x400 relay it became apparent to Mick's teammates that the anchor switch with Butler had been made by Nudgee. The significance and impact of this switch was rather lost on Mick, given that he had not witnessed Butler's domination of the track over the past five years - unlike his long-term team mates. Finally the time had arrived for the start of the 4x400 Open Relay. Now, the first leg of the relay was run in a staggered formation with individual lanes allocated to the runners from each school that were given differing starting points. However it became obvious by the timing of the 1st changeover, that Grammar's starting runner had given his team the lead. Grammar's second runner was competing against one of Nudgee's best and in spite of running a personal best time he handed the baton to Sharn with the team now slipping back to second position some 5 meters behind Nudgee. Sharn was Grammar's fastest runner and knowing the challenge facing Mick later, valiantly turned the tables on Nudgee and delivered to Mick a 10 meter lead at the changeover for the final leg. By this time the relay had become a 'two horse race' with the Grammar and Nudgee teams well out in front of the other competing schools. Now, while Mick and Butler stood at the start line waiting for the baton to be pass, Mick did an extraordinary thing. He leaned across and wished his Nudgee competitor 'all the best' and extended his hand, not in a "Carl Lewis" play of gamesmanship but simply out of sporting respect. Butler shook Mick's hand but I think he mentally resolved to blow this 'up-start' right off the course as soon as possible and re-establish the track's rightful pecking order - and that is exactly what happened. No sooner had Mick rounded the first bend than Butler had made up the lost ground and continued to sprint hard at full pace past Mick down the back straight until he was some 20 meters in front. I watched as the race unfolded down my movie camera lens and was reminded again of those anxious words spoken by Mick at the start of the day. My heart sank. "OH NOOOO" was heard from one of the Grammar athletes standing near the school's tent right behind me. They all knew the significance of Butler being 20 meters in front on the final leg. They were resigned to the outcome that they had witnessed so many times before when Butler takes the lead. Unbeknown to them, Mick was also thinking "OH NO" but more in the context of "OH NO …YOUR NOT!" Mick managed to maintain the distance between himself and Butler at the 20 meters mark all the way down the back straight. Now, what happened next will live with me forever. See, at the far end of the oval was gathered the largest contingent of Grammar supporters and it included Masters, Girls Grammar borders, BGS students and their parents. Mick spirits were clearly lifted by their passionate encouragement and he seemingly set his resolve at that very moment to cut down Butler's lead. I saw it in the movie pictures that I was making. Mick was no longer holding the 20 meters - he was actually gaining! The gap was clearly closing as they rounded that far corner. You could sense that each athlete was calling on that deep reserve of spirit and energy to achieve that ultimate glory for their team. The spectators and competing athletes also began to realize that this fluctuating and prestigious race was far from over and they were all drawn to the track's edge as if by some magnetic power. Sadly I and all the Gammar athletes standing at the team tent lost sight of the final epic struggle. For about 10 seconds we could see nothing of the race - only the cheering of the two team's spirited supporters. Then we saw the winner - falling - arms flaying - collapsing to the ground as he came through the crush of officials and coaches standing on the running track at the finish line. The winner was wearing the sky blue-dark blue colors of the Brisbane Grammar team - it was Mick! "OH BEAUTIFUL! - OH BEAUTIFUL!" one Grammar athlete kept repeating as coaches and teammates rushed over to pick Mick up from the ground where he lay utterly exhausted at race end. My body was already shaking uncontrollably as I found it nearly impossible to focus my camera with my eyes so full of misty pride. So, when the whole Grammar Track & Field team spontaneously gave "Three Cheers for Michael Baskerville" - folks, I just had to put the camera down and join in as best I could with my rather choking voice. In explaining the decision to run Mick as the anchor, the MIC of Athletics Mr. Stephen Howes wrote "The anchor is usually the fastest or in this case someone who I believe will just give everything and pull out something special on the day. This is one of those gut feelings that coaches have and they should be able to make them but usually can't because of justification requirements sought by athletes, parents and administrators. I made it anyway after consulting Mal Staniforth and history will show it was a good decision. Later Mr. Howes gave me a copy of the video taken by the school that day and I was able to witness those final 10 seconds of that race for myself. I watched as Mick closed the gap on the final turn from 20 meters to 15 to 10 to 5. With 80 meters left to run down the final straight Mick had caught up to Butler. I am sure that he could easily have run wide of him down to the finish but you could see in the video that he ran straight at Butler's shoulder - as if wanting to symbolically dominate Butler's spirit by running over him rather than just past him. Butler must have thought - "That nobody that I burnt off the track so easily at the opening bend was back and now running step for step within inches of my shoulder - how come?" Butler's competition expired. His heart gave in to the pain and lactic acid now engorging his legs. Mick on the other hand had stuck to the coaches' disciplined game plan of a quick start, easy back straight and then turn up the final challenge from the start of the final bend, like an illuminating dimmer switch. The pictures showed him still pushing himself hard for the line least he give hope once more to those conquered runners left in his wake. He fell victorious over the line for the honor of his team and school. Other student's parents that knew Mick well told me later that they cheered yet cried at the same time. School friends and peers hugged Mick - all crying. Family members gathered round Mick wiping their eyes. I cried. Mick seemed more relieved than elated - "At least I did not let them down" he was heard to say. You did more than that Mick - you set the standard! The usually circumspect head coach's comment summed it up best when he looked up at me after congratulating Mick, as he rested exhausted against the fence, and said with both thumbs up - "B$%&y good run!" After the race I caught up with Chris and expressed my concerned that he had sadly missed a tremendous race by Mick. "No,no I was there" he said. "I saw it". He certainly was. In full animated color, the school video showed Chris as the upfront, on-track, hat waving ringleader of the supporting crowd that had cheered Mick all the way to the finishing line that day. The headmaster later wrote in the school newsletter " For me one special highlight amongst many was to be standing on the bend before the final straight of the 4x400 Open relay. The team ran wonderfully but in the final leg of this punishing event the Nudgee runner passed Michael Baskerville in the back straight and held a small lead as they rounded the bend. As we watched one could see the spark of determination blaze into light as Michael determined to throw down the gauntlet in the final 10 meters. At a moment when athletes in this event find their legs refusing to respond Michael strode out in a battle with his rival in a tussle that I am sure will remain in his memory as it will in all those who cheered him on. His effort was rewarded and he snatched a wonderful win for himself and hid team mates." Mr Howes went on to write; "All the boys in the team ran personal best times with Sharn actually running the fastest, but rightly or wrongly people will remember the last leg where Michael ran down Nudgee. All the boys will never forget it. It is always good to win a team event" Mick and I attended the Track & Field team dinner in the school assembly hall later that evening. After the meal the head coach got up to speak and present the special awards for the outstanding athletes of the team. He also used the occasion to announce his decision to stand down from the sport after more than 10 years of successfully coaching the Grammar team. He expressed the honor he felt to be head coach of a 'bunch of boys' that made giving of their best for the team the ultimate goal regardless of their finishing position. He spoke of how proud he was to coach a team of supportive 'try-hard' boys rather than just a group of special individual 'stars'. He explained how Grammar's bunch of boys did not give up just because it got tough - they weren't overawed by the stars they were competing against from other schools - they weren't just thinking of themselves in their events but realized that the team depended on their best endeavor. He mentioned that he was particularly proud of the fact that no Grammar athlete won their event with gestures of disrespect to their competing opponents. At the end of his emotional speech he announced his pick of the outstanding athletes in each division. There were a lot of excellent and outstanding performances on the day in the open division but Mr. Howes declared Mick 'the freak's' run as the "Most Memorable Performance", because of the way he ran down Butler in the home straight. As he handed the award to Mick, he verbalized what all the members of the Track & Field family were already thinking - There is no doubt that "Mick's Run" will long be recounted, and it will ultimately take its rightful place in Grammar folklore. "Michael has cemented his place in Grammar folklore with his two runs at GPS. He is a gutsy young man who has certainly repaid my faith in him." - Coach Stephen Howes

  After just 6 month, the family moved from the high-set house at Albert Street Rockhampton, to the new low-set address at Herbert Street. I remember overhearing the grown-up saying something about the Albert Street house being sold, now that mum had replaced the ghastly 'rocky-horror' murals inside the house with some pleasant homely hews, and now that dad had tamed the surrounding thicket to a respectable 1 inch stubble. Still, us kids were able to take the move in our stride and continue to explore and experience all things Rockhamption. Now 'Rocky' is a hot place - really hot! Hot like - a place where the reflected radiation of heat on your legs from the ground is actually hotter than the direct heat from the sunlight on your head. Hot like - being able to leave your footprints in the roadside tar with your now liquefied rubber soled school shoes. Hot like - the fact that the water that came from the garden hose in the yard was hotter than the tap marked as such in the bathroom. Well, the heat of the place was only matched in intensity by its craziness. Crazy like - the dog that howled at the rising moon most every night. Crazy like - the man next door shooting at the crazy dog howling at the moon most every night. Crazy like - our intellectually challenged dog crashing through the closed glass louvered laundry window after previously being locked up there to save the mutt from being shot at by the crazy neighbor. Still, don't get me wrong, it was a place of great fun too. Like the time when the big brown cow named "Lonely Charmen III" stood on Tom's foot and bolted. Tom was being paid big bucks (5c) by some farmer to lead the cow by the nose round the grand parade of the Royal Agricultural Show grounds when he was all of 7 years old - now that was fun! Or like the time when David invented a new barefoot running game down the side of the house and all the way to the back fence some 100 meters away. Now that was fun too - well, if you enjoy having your feet completely impregnated with painful little prickles by the end of the contest that is. There was also the thrill that me and Tom experienced when we hid behind the front concrete fence with a home-made periscope. Tom would identify an approaching unsuspecting pedestrian/car and then we would jump up and let them have it with our plastic semi-automatic Christmas presents at the most unexpected moment - now, that was fun too! 'Rocky' was also the place of some special culinary experiences. I remember the tasty fresh tropical fruit being delivered to our home each week by Mr. White and his fruit truck. It must have been a very profitable business, cause I will never forget the Luna Park smile that would grace his face each time mum handed him those folding notes. I have also vowed never to forget or forgive the taste of the delicious looking deep red cherry that grew on the tree at our front gate. Just one bite into this temptation and everything caught fire. Nothing could stop your lips from their spontaneous combustion - nothing could put out the fierce flames burning the tongue, gums and throat - nothing was ever going to cause me to forget the name of something that sounded so cool yet delivered such pain - CHILLI. Then again, there were mangos - aahh, 'nectar of the gods' some would say. This was 'Rocky's' saving grace. They grew wild everywhere in this hot sunlit city. Plump, fleshy, juicy, golden delicacies. Unbeknown to me there were other varieties beside the 'Bowen Special' which was the popular choice and king of taste in this region. David had by chance discovered a different long and slender variety of mango that actually grew in our Herbert Street yard. One day he kindly peeled it and cut it up for me to enjoy. Now, I don't know which product got its name from which - cause they both tasted exactly the same. Turpentine the Mango and Turpentine the chemical paint thinning solvent. There you go - Rockhampton - crazy one day, even crazier the next!

  The Baskervilles were one of the first families to build on the newly developed estate at The Gap Brisbane, and so us kids pretty much had the early run of this wilderness territory. As each new neighbor built there they succeeded in providing us with enough firewood, from their framing off-cuts, to keep us warm through many winter nights. One neighbor even left some new bricks that we could have easily used in our garden landscaping, had it not been for Dad’s conscience and his penchant for returning property that did not belong to us. Oh well, each addition to the estate did bring the opportunity for more playmates along with new obstacles for our roaming territorial playground. Now I ask you - how were the Beesleys to know that when they prepared the land to build next door, that they were going to turn our Sunday soccer field into an excavated archeological site. As with everything Baskerville, it did not stop the matches – it just made the game all the more interesting. Watching Pip sidestep the ball and himself into the 1 meter ditch just to avoid an opposing team member’s challenge, I’m sure contributed to his skill set on the more level playing fields he was to play on later in his life. As I remember it, the ball we played with wasn’t even a soccer ball – it was an inflated brown plastic elongated rugby ball. Now I may have grossly exaggerated the description by calling it inflated. Crumpled, buckled and perforated would be a more accurate call. Still, this international game of skill provided a whole afternoon of fun on numerous occasions. Many a kicked ball disappeared down a land cutting marked ‘laundry’ or skidded left instead of the intended right because of its warped shape. Many a big toe was sent to the blood-bin if it connected with the ball’s hard-case ends rather than its softer under belly. Now, one of the last houses built on that estate was named by its owners - "Done-moving". It belonged to the Arnold family, who had decided that after 13 house moves that enough was enough. It was great to have them settle in the area, not just because their timber off cuts fed our fire-place and warmed our house – but because they provided the other half of a respectable sporting team. With the soccer field now being annihilated by the Beesley’s house, it was time to find a new field – and a new code. Joey, Mick and Tony Arnold Vs Pip, Tom and me Baskerville. It was touch football on the road at the end of our shared dead-end street. Being younger than each of us respectively it was eventually decided to mix the family members around so that us Baskervilles did not keep losing to this football mad and sports talented family. We simply created a daily mixed team of – Us Vs Them. Well the touch football field presented an even greater challenge than the now defunct soccer field. Firstly because it was neatly divided between a soft raised green grassy footpath in the one half and a hard pebbly bitumen surface on the other. Secondly, because there were the lamp-posts and a raised concrete gutter both positioned down the center of the field. The third challenge involved the bordered outlines. Rose bushes and a steep bank on one side and barbed wire fence on the other. There - a perfect field for playing football, don’t you think? Well we all though so and played touch football there most every afternoon. What a great sense of satisfaction we each had as we trundled home when the dwindling light called time-out for the day. The scratches from the barbed wire and rose bushes - the cuts and bruises on our feet from the rough road and concrete gutter trip - the sore head from failing to side step the center positioned lamp posts - they all contributed to that sense of a game well fought. You know, it is all a far cry from the sore fingers and flat aching bum that my kids complain about when they are contesting those time-consuming inter-galactic cyber football contests on their Internet computers today.

  Wooloowin was the name of the suburb I grew up in Brisbane in the ‘50’s. Now that’s not to be mistaken for Woolloomooloo, Woolloongabba or Woollongong. Our indigenous Australians have certainly made their contribution to many a trivia question and spelling contest, not to mention giving a uniquely local flavor to our place names. Who needs those overdone European letter constructions anyway. Well, whatever it was called, it was a great place to grow up as kids. The time-honed geography of the suburb may have provided the landscape and the vegetation, but it was always David that found the adventure possibilities in these landforms. Like the time when he turned our childish game of ‘roll the tyre’ into an inventive vehicular transport system. This involved him physically squeezing us into the empty space found at the center of any car tyre. Then, after all the fleshy bits were tucked in tight, he would launch us down the backyard slope rolling A over T, A over T, A over T as we went. Given the ball like contortion we had to achieve with our young flexible bodies, it was actually possible to literally ‘kiss you’re a*** goodbye’ before the launch, as it was only ever inches from your face. Well now, most of the time we just rolled over once or twice and then flopped sideways - or one body part would be ejected by the centrifugal force causing the locomotion to come to a messy and sprawling end. Still, every so often it worked! Down the back slope we spun, picking up a little bit of pace as we went. I know what your thinking ……. brakes? Well folks, that’s why we had a back fence. Bang - Bounce – Flop. Try as you might there was no standing upright for quite a while after that little trip. Any attempt to do so was met with that angled sideways sliding fall. Now apart from our sloping back yard, the ancient geology of the area also delivered a wonderful play area under our house. It was a large area of dirt - fine ground, black and compacted. As for it’s taste – you will have to ask Pip, cause he seemed to eat bucket loads of the stuff. I always thought it was a great place for building matchbox roads for my metal dyecast matchbox cars. David on the other hand saw it as a fisherman’s paradise. You see, dotted around in the dirt under the house were all these inverted cone-shaped dimples. They were in fact the home and food-trap of a weird insect with long pincer jaws. David had figured out that by delicately dangling a fine piece of cotton at the bottom of the impression he was able to induce an instinctive response from this pincer insect. The dull-witted insect thought that the struggling movement in the fine loose dirt was being causes by another equally dumb fallen ant and so it would launch an attack on its lunch. What a surprise it must have had to find itself just holding David’s cotton line and dangling upside down whilst being surrounded by the hoots brought on by another successful catch. Pip must have been impressed because him and David still do the same thing on the rocky headlands of Point Lookout to this day. The other old historical landmark that I remember at Woolloowin was Mrs Mullins and her corner store. The peeling weathered cream exterior, the rusty corrugated red top and the elaborately adorned antique front, fittingly describe both the shop and Mrs Mullins herself. Us kids were regular visitors to the lolly counter of her shop and I remember her doing everything she commercially could to fill our lolly bag, given the few copper pennies she held in exchange. Some afternoons Margaret would come home from the shop with a broken heart. See Mrs. Mullins would give her a metal tin with some of the un-saleable broken ‘Hav-A-Heart’ ice creams. Only Mags, with her generous spirit, saw to it that the contents of the tin were shared between us all. Had wise old Mrs Mullins given the tin to any of Margaret’s other siblings, then I am sure that there would have been more broken hearts at our place than those that were contained in the tin.

Folks I have a confession to make. Well - I have it! I have "RMD." That’s right guys, "Rhythmic Movement Disorder". Its OK – don't panic - its not contagious, unless you want it to be of course. I’m not sure if it was the red or green cordial that caused it, but it was a disorder that manifested itself just about every night of my childhood. My socially sensitive mother did not tell me the full scientific name or significance of my special condition – she just called it "Wo-Woing". No wonder I never took it seriously – I mean to say – how can a psychological problem called a ‘wo-wo’ be that severe that it requires immediate medical treatment. Imagine going to the doctor in those days and saying "I wo-wo!" He would have more than likely responded to my ‘coming-out’ declaration with "Pleased to meet you wo-wo, I Doctor Poo-Poo". Still, in one way, I’m glad that I at least have a disorder. See, strange as it may sound, some of my family and friends have never been diagnosed with a "TLD" "Three Letter Disorder" and I have no idea what or who they blame for all their stuff ups. Me? I had "RMD" – and folks that’s the reason for everything that I ever did that was wrong. I just knew there had to be a medical excuse for not doing my homework, not eating apple pie, watching TV instead of working and eating Mum’s chocolate biscuits and blaming it on Tom - it wasn’t me, no sir, it was the diagnosed effects of "RMD". Now with the help of the World Wide Webb, I have finally been able to identify and label this insidious disorder that robs people of sleep. Not my sleep mind you – it was my poor brothers that lost their sleep. They had to share the bedroom with me and could not sleep until my disorder had run its course for the night. It’s still a bit hard to talk about it, but they do say it is good therapy to do so. All right - the ‘wo-wo’ went something like this. Firstly, I would hop into the middle of the bed at night on top of the covers. Then after lying on my back for a moment or two, I would bring my arms and hands together over my chest in a prayer like fashion. Finally, once in the ‘dead papal’ position, the "RMD" would kick in – vigorously rocking my body from side to side with my head leading the action. In this state I would rock-till-I-dropped – and quite a while before it was ‘hip’ to do so, I might add. See, the rocking would continue until my sub-conscious brain took over in my deep sleep state and finally shut the B%&$*y thing off. That’s it folks – that’s "RMD". Oh yes! I forgot to tell you. I also had "LSV" with my "RMD". It was in fact the "LSV" that created the greatest disturbance in my house. "Loud Singing Voices" have a tendency to do that, particularly late at night with the reverberating sounds being more reminiscent of a drunken, gurgling sailor than a soloist from the Vienna boy’s choir. Still, they were church songs that I sung from the list I had written and placed on my bed head. I don’t remember singing to the bottom of the list at any time but boy did Gabriel, the music angel, get a hammering from songs 1 to 5. Oh well, if you must have a "Three Letter Disorder" to keep the plethora of psychologists in business today, then mine was not such a bad one to have. All it needed to become medically mainstream, was a better marketing profile and more acceptable branding - than mum’s "wo-wo" descriptor.

"If I told you once I’ve told you a thousand times!" - I reckon I must have heard that one-liner from my English mother, thousands of times. Some may call my statement an exaggeration. I would simply call it "like mother like son". She reckons she told me a thousand times to – ‘not leave my school bag in the hall’ – ‘put the lid back on the kitchen jars’ – ‘put my school socks in the sock draw’ – ‘not leave my dirty clothes on the floor’. Now I don’t know from which continent she got her unique sayings, but either way us kids heard plenty of them – on plenty of occasions. One saying that was definitely carried with her from the Home Country, was Mum’s call to "wear your Macintosh and galoshes." I only found out that this saying is not quite Aussie, when I named them as such in front of my primary school class. (my raincoat and wet boots that is). I couldn’t see the hilarity about an oft-used Mum home-phrase – but they sure did! And then there was the "get the Hoover" saying. Well, many years later I was to attend a trade show of vacuum cleaners. Many years later I was to make the encouraging statement "What a great range of Hoovers you have!" Now the only problem was, these vacuum cleaners were made by National and were being represented on the day by some now rather irritated sales reps.. Come on guys! Mum had always called our vacuum cleaner at home "the Hoover" – and National did have a great range of them – So I ask you, what’s so wrong with my statement? Oh, she also asked me on many occasions to "get the Eubank" (floor polisher). Even I knew that a name like that should not be repeated outside the house. There you go. Mum’s phrases, used and understood at home were one thing – outside in the real world, now that was something else! And another thing, I have no idea where mum got the term ‘jobbie’ from, to describe the #2 seated bodily ablution function. I remember well being half-asleep and on my way to breakfast only to be confronted with the words - "have you done your jobbie yet." Huh? What? Oh that! Yeah, soon Mum. Maybe the term came out of the English depression years to try and provide some distinction between those that were just sitting waiting and those that were ‘on the job’, had a ‘job to do’ or ‘were getting on with the job". Who knows – but that’s what mum used to call it anyway. Now, our Church Minister at one time made an attempt to add religion to our breakfast, by coming up with the slogan "No Bible - No Breakfast". Mum could see us kids starving to death under criteria like that. So good old Mum, just put her own spin on this early morning religious decree "No jobbie, No breakfast" became her special catch phrase. At least under this order we did get to have some breakfast occasionally. OK folks, let’s face it. A Mum is a person that has always existed to a child. She is bigger, older and all grown up. Kids know instinctively that Mums have some pull with the other all-seeing, all-knowing Deity and our Mum was not slow in calling on her ‘big gun’ contact whenever she needed to. Mum’s oft-repeated call of "Lord give me strength" meant a couple of things were going to happen. Firstly, mum was going to take off her thong (no, thankfully not the English one – but the Aussie one that she wore on her feet). And secondly, with the lord’s help, we were all going to get a few well-directed thong hits to the bum. Only once did this sequence of events not go quite according to Mum’s plan – when David reached up and took Mum’s thong off her and then simply just walked off with it. See, there were some forces at work in our family that not even the Lord was prepared to help out with. (Note to all parents – It is usually best not to try and physically discipline a child that is bigger than you – especially if only armed with one floppy rubber thong) Still, of all the phrases mum used on us kids, there was one that was crystal clear and unambiguous in its concept. It was scarier and more chilling than any of her other phrases and was guaranteed to destroy a whole afternoon’s fun - as we would wait in anticipation of the impending doom. It went a lot like - "I will have to tell your father about this when he gets home."

"I’m off to the Arnolds" – and with that statement, one of the Baskerville brothers would disappear out the front door of our Gap home in Brisbane and head on down the hill. Well, it did not take long before three more Baskerville boys were also exiting the front door and heading down to the end of the road where the Arnold family lived. However, not before we had covered our extended straight forward reaching arm with bread slices, that were adorned with a smorgasbord of exotic toppings like white sugar, hundreds & thousands, peanut butter (and butter) and treacle – yes, even black gooey molten treacle. To any ill-informed onlooker it may well have looked more like a ‘Hitler Youth March' going down that hill rather than just four boys off for some late afternoon adventure with their well-armed snacks. Now, in those days, the Arnolds and the Baskervilles were as inseparable as the force that joins the north and south poles of a magnet – there was always an instant ‘thick as thieves’ connection whenever we met. The kids from both families possessed a strong inclination for adventure, sport and just a little mischief. The sport thing I have already covered – look, they whipped our arr…. bottoms – OK! But when it came to dangerous death defying action and adventure, the smaller framed Arnolds were no match for us Baskervilles. This fact was none more evident than in the "Three Legged Swing" ride that David set up on the biggest tree in the forest growing near the Arnold’s place. Not content to install a single stimulating swing rope that swung back and forth over the creek bank – OH NO! David decided it would be far more exciting to have three rope swings tied to the same spot of the high overhanging tall tree branch. I know what you are saying – don’t worry, I hear it – "You must be mad, because three rope swings joined at the same point are going cause a collision of bodies at some point!" – PRECISELY, my dear Watson - now you are getting it. A real Baskerville adventure is one where there is a 90% chance of serious injury, coupled with a 10% chance of just injury. Otherwise I ask you, why would you want to play? So come on now, let the fun begin! All right let me explain a few things first. Well some things in this orbital aerial game you did control - and some things you didn’t. What you did control was the timing and direction of each push off from the thickset center tree trunk. Your choice was either to perform an open aerial circular orbit or a straight-line push out-and-back pendulum action. Ultimately whatever your choice, the physics of inertia, centrifugal force and gravity brought you back to the same starting point at the tree trunk. Now, the part of the ride you did not control was the timing and direction of the other participants in this ‘swings of death’ game. So then, a good ending result from the inevitable mid-air collision of bodies, was to arrive back at the starting tree trunk - feet first. A bad result was ten years of chiropractic adjustment to a back that was slammed so hard against the tree trunk that it made the coyote’s splatter on the cliff as he failed to catch the Roadrunner once more, look like a just another cartoon. "Are we having fun yet?" was Bancroft’s only lost-for-breath question after a particularly bad result for him in one ‘battle of the titans’ swing with David. Of course a mid-air collision only occurred when the swing participants were not properly prepared. If you were so prepared you would have met your opponent in mid air and then launched them in a spiraling opposite direction with the full force of you spring loaded legs. Those poor small-framed Arnolds did not stand a chance – did they? Well, this bruising battering beat-up managed to keep us all entertained for weeks until each exposed weathered swing eventually wore out and broke. It just so happened that they each broke with a heavy set Baskerville family member sitting in the riding position (a real ‘yang’ for the Arnolds who had suffered too much 'ying' in this game). It’s OK mum, we all lived to tell the tale of the ‘Three Legged Swing’ ride – so it can’t have been that bad a crash-landing. I remember looking up from my crash position nestled between two granite boulders of the creek back and thinking – well that’s the end of that ride and I survived, I wonder what David’s next ‘death defying’ adventure will be!

Bancroft was much more in touch with the run of the world than my religious upbringing ever allowed me to be. This fact was none more obvious than in his understanding of all things alcoholic. I just simply recognized all those tempting drinks as the ‘devils brew’, whereas Bancroft amazingly, knew each one of them by their first names – like Bundy, Johnny, Jim, Jack and Glen. I was so fascinated by his mixed drinks knowledge base but I did not dare partake of those evil % ALC/VOL drinks, least I go to ‘you know where’. So, sensitive to my aversion, Bancroft came up with a non-alcoholic ######## for me that would help me not look so wossy in the company of my work mates. "Make it a Lemon Lime and Bitters – Thanks mate." It certainly carried a much more with-it manly ring than my previous timid requests for a glass of lemon squash – with ice. Many an afternoon was spent relaxing on his balcony at The Gap Brisbane sipping on our homemade LLB’s - much like those gin & tonic colonials of old. I still remember the brew – 5 ice cubes + 30ml Cottees Lime Cordial + 300ml Schweppes Lemonade + 3 drops of Angostura aromatic bitters. That’s right, just 3 drops makes the drink taste great – 4, and you KILLS it! Folks let me give you a tip, if you are going to invest your hard earned money in a drinks company – forget about Angostura! One bottle per person per lifetime is hardly a volume turnover formula for strong cashflows and massive profits. It was hardly a surprise then to discover in later years that it was in fact a product of lay-back go-easy Trinidad & Tobago – MUN! Now the church youth group had a planned get together at the home of one of the earnest elders of the church on the up coming Saturday night. The usual procedure called for each person to bring a plate of food and share it in a fellowship-tea type arrangement. I explained to Bancroft that my task, as youth leader, was to look after the drinks – as per usual, a big bowl of fruity punch spiced up with a few bottles of ginger ale (my favorite) – just to give it some real added kick. As I told Bancroft of the meeting he expressed a real interest in joining in the night’s activities and said he would bring along something to contribute as well. Well we all got together at the church elder’s place and everyone was most careful to show their respect with their initial circumspect behavior. Everyone made their contribution to the food and drink, including Bancroft. I loved the punch that we created that night and I made it my job to not only served it around but drink copious quantities of the delicious stuff as well. As I remember it – everyone had a great and jovial time that night including surprising, the now most animated most reverend church elder. Now I am not saying that I remember a lot about the evening activities but the friends that tucked me into bed at my cousin John’s place, said later that I was truly the life of the party. The boisterous party type behavior of the entire church youth group got my cousin John thinking about what might have been ‘in the water’ so to speak. Oops! Apparently Bancroft had put the wrong non-alcoholic cherry flavoring into the punch. The next day, the church elder was most grateful of Bancroft’s early morning offer to come round and help tidy up the place, as he himself was not feeling that great. Still, if he was impressed by that offer, he must have been far more impressed at the way Bancroft insisted on taking all the rubbish away with him as well – complete with the three empty bottles of over-proof Cherry Brandy concealed in a brown paper bag.

Us Baskervilles always knew it as 2nd Cylinder. See, in the 60’s no one had bothered to give this beach its own name yet because it was mostly desolate and unvisited. It seemed as though we were the only family to ever made the effort to go there. I think that it had something to do with the fact that to get to this beach one had to walk pass the pub – and on a hot day at Straddie, that was something only a complete tea-totaling family like ours could possibly do. Still, the fact that we had the beach totally to ourselves with lots of shade trees and a landform that gave protection from the prevailing south-east blow, made the long walk there so worthwhile. Now once the campsite of shade-cloth, campfire and blanket was properly established and mum was propped up with her knitting and dad with his book, the kids took off to create some fun. An oft played family game was called "no return". This involved carving out in the sand, lots of well-defined circular and crisscrossing tracts with quite a few intersecting points. The game was a Baskerville adaptation of the game "tiggy". Basically, someone was "up" and they had to tag someone else in order to lose their demeaning label. The trick was to try and trap an opponent on one of the long marked out routes. See you could only change direction at an intersection and also you were not allowed to stop moving at any time in the game. So you tried to trap someone by getting them to commit to a particular route and then beating them to the inevitable intersection by taking a different course. They had to continue their movement towards the intersection where you were hopefully waiting – and now they were "It" as there was "no return" once you committed to a route. I remember us little’ns being "up" on too many occasions. Come to think of it, I don’t remember "make your own tracks when it suits David" ever having to carry that degrading title. Well, we weren’t always alone on 2nd Cylinder. There was always the wreck of the "Rufus King" to keep us company. Dad told us that it was an American Liberty ship that had mistaken the South Passage Bar for the North West Channel located at the northern end of Moreton Island and had run aground on a shallow sandbank. Sadly, it met its end on the 7 July 1942 only 6 weeks after it was built and commissioned in the USA. A lot more of that fateful ship would have been visible today had it not presented such a good target practice to dad’s WWII mates in the RAAF. There were two other visitors that I remember with vigour coming on to 2nd Cylinder in the most unusual way. Now, apart from the constant reminder of the Rufus King – war was as far from our thinking as it possibly could be in this secluded and isolated island paradise and beach. Still, there we were playing at the waters edge when coming through the breakers we heard the roar of an approaching instrument of war. Up onto our beach emerged a huge Army Duck and with just a smiling wave to us stunned kids, it disappeared along the beach and out of site to obviously fight a war some place else. The second encounter with visitors on 2nd Cylinder I am sure rates up there in intensity with "Where were you when President Kennedy was assassinated?". On this occasion David was the only one capable of running ahead and make it to the protection of the clump of trees on the beach uyp front. The rest of us just stood motionless, huddled in a group as dad had commanded us. The pounding hoofs of the 30 plus stampeding wild horses that galloped either side of our statue like and petrified group that day will stay in my memory long after it was replayed by permission 40 years later in full Technicolor in the movie "Fellowship of the Rings".

The fundamentals of home economics ensured that homemade cooking was as much a necessity in our family home as it was a creative art. I remember well that special sound of mum’s Sunbeam mixmaster beating up yet another batch of her famous Anzac biscuits. As a kid I knew that it was important to respond to that sound with haste, otherwise you simply ended up with the spoon to lick rather than the much sought after beaters or the highly prized bowl – there were five other competing siblings remember! Anyway us kid were so inspired by mum’s creative cooking craft that we decided to apply our collective intellect to a few kid's signature dishes as well - honeycomb and ginger beer. Now I am pretty sure that it was the other Marooka "Bar-scar-villes" that instigated the quest for the perfect honeycomb. Their team was led by that budding science professor – Straight A’s student, Cousin John. Like Dr. Heckle in his lab, John would add the necessary ingredients in exacting proportions to the baking mix to insure a product outcome somewhat resembling the stuff found in a popular confectionery of the time called the "Violet Crumble Bar". Sadly, when the instructions were transferred to the Baskerville family at The Gap via me, I must have missed some vital steps in the interpretation. See, our first attempts at honeycomb created a certain swirling orange road tar which when consumed produced a kind of "lock-jaw" reaction in the "guinea pig" younger siblings engaged by us as market samplers. Not good for their palette – not good for their dental work either. So, the natural overreaction was the addition of more rising ingredients - too much rising ingredients! Now, I am not sure how we got the hot molten exploded goo off the ceiling before mum came home that day but we must have managed it somehow because she still knows nothing of our rocket science attempts to this day. I think the ultimate consensus we reached was to invite ourselves over to Cousin John’s place whenever we felt the urge for that sticky sickly sweet. Still, I must say that our attempt at homemade ginger beer met with greater success than that violent crumbling stuff. I guess because this time round the whole family, including dad, was involved in the mixing, making, bottling and storing process. Dad had originally brought home a ginger beer making kit with written production process instructions that he could verbalize to us "keen-to-create" kids. I am sure that we added the right quantity when we were told to add – mixed in a clockwise direction when he said to mix – poured into bottles when we were told to pour, but you know folks for all that exactness - those ginger beer bottles were all different, they were all individuals. Now some good bottles behaved precisely as the instructions said, "with a moderate effervescence of escaping fermentation gasses upon release". Some however just went PPPHHHFFF reacting like some dead drained dishwater. Now while our home brew carried a striking visual resemblance to my dishwater allegory, I thought it was poor form for the homemade brew to behave like it as well. Some bottles even choice to empty half of their contents onto the dinner table in a convulsing act of aggression upon opening and some very naughty ones exploded in the fridge one morning at about 3am. Luckily, Mum & Dad had been previously allocated the clean up duties by us kids in the family ginger beer production process. Well this particularly unreliable characteristic of our home made ginger beer meant that it was a requirement by mum that every bottle be first presented to our neighbors outside our back door before it was ever permitted to be brought opened to the table for serving. Something I am sure the neighbors appreciated – not. I also remember being commanded at one time by brother David to open and deliver another home brew to the table whilst he casually chatted with dad and I begrudgingly did the dishes. So as commanded, I presented a bottle of opened brew to the table and returned to my dishes with a happier disposition knowing full well the inter-brother wars had just moved ahead one point in my favor – David’s spitting and spluttering at the sudsy murky taste simply confirmed my point.

You know on reflection, Christmas as a kid at our family home was as good as life gets! Not so much for the quality or quantity of festive gifts that we received, but so much more for the feeling that you belonged to something quite special - a family that truly loved one another. Sure, we were all individuals – we were all different (OK, your right - Pip wasn’t, he was the same). But collectively we made a tight nit unit of caring human beings proudly known as – The Baskervilles. We each had our place – we each had our function. Mine was always at the foot of mum’s bed on Christmas day recounting the colorful stories of the past and dropping the one-liners (but only if I thought someone needed it that is). Isn’t it funny that after all these years that some things have not changed. Now dear Helen was always the prime mover in getting our house ‘Christmaseee’, as she would put it. Decorations, music, card display, atmosphere – she made it happen for all of us every year. Its true, Margaret always bought the best gifts. Nothing educational mind you – but they were always really good fun! David mostly projected a rather disinterested posture in all this emotional Christmas stuff – but he never let you down. He gave his gifts around but I tell you now, you are only going to get educational presents from him. Still, he always played his part to the letter in whatever family event required his input – whether he held the necessary skills for it or not. Folks, no doubt about it – Tom was there for the presents. ‘Lots of toys please’, was Tom’s only thoughts at Christmas time. The trick for him was to make them last at least past Christmas lunch before they would all brake. Still, I think our family Christmas time meant the most to Pip. Well, he was the youngest and he did get lots of really really really nice presents because of that special lucky lucky status. The Ba%$#&d! Still looking up from his low physical position he could clearly see the strong ties that bound our family together and understood their importance to his developing wellbeing. So, if ‘laughter’ is your choice of entrée and ‘acceptance’ is your desire for main course and ‘inclusion’ is your wish for dessert, then I am sure that Pip would highly recommend to each of you a healthy double dose of our family. They all have these qualities to overflowing and unashamedly share them around even without prompting. In my personal opinion, you could not wish to be in the company of a better bunch of people - ever. Well, our merry band of six kids and two parents that fitted so comfortably on mum’s double bed most every Christmas morning in times past - has sort of exploded! These days in 2004, we would need to rent out an entire Captian Snooze store just to fit everyone onto a bed on Christmas morning - what with mum and dad, the 6 begats with their 6 outlaws, the 23 grandkids and the one great grand child. So who do we have to thank for this precious heritage of family love and acceptance – yep that’s right, my mum and dad. But talk to them openly and they will tell of the family love that they too received for their parents. What they had received – they have given. It is my hope, that my great grand father’s dying wish for his three children which was to "love one another as I have loved you" be also our singular commitment to every member of the greatly extended family of Henry and Anne Baskerville – Merry Christmas 2004 to you all - Sam. [Mum]

 

Every weekend our family would take the monotonous and repetitive forty-minute ride home to The Gap from the Sunday night church service at Coopers. It was boring enough to put you to sleep – and that is what it mostly did. Mum was usually the first to doze off for her oft declared ‘fourty-winks’, with the kids falling down in quick succession. Dad was the only person who never slept on those trip, which was a good thing mind you, given that he was always the designated driver. His mind was often still trying to digest what HE the Lord had said and commanded through the sermon from the pulpit of that evening. Well this particular night the trip was as mind numbing as any other, apart from the constant monsoonal-type rain that had bucketed down all evening. We were nearing the end of the trip that headed down the hill from Ashgrove towards the St.Johns Wood creek crossing. Mum had by this time woken from her 30 minute ‘fourty-winks” and was heard to cry alarmingly “Look Chumley … the road has gone”. The previous dead corpses from the back seat were now all sitting upright, straining to look through the poring of rain to see for themselves the reason behind all this melodrama. It soon became obvious to all of us kids that the road was still there – it was just 3 feet a raging overflowing creek that had broken its banks. Now this flash flood must have come up suddenly because we were one of 6 only cars that had been stopped by the calamity. Five of us had stopped on the side of the road just before the swell – with the sixth one stopped in the middle of the creek and was being pressed hard up against a tree by the sheer weight of the flood waters. Strangely, its cabin light was still on. Excitement turned to panic when dad and a few other people realized that the driver of the car parked in the middle of those raging waters was really up the creek. To be more precise - he was up a tree just up the creek from where the torrent had valet parked his car.

Dad decided that he should try to lend a hand. He put on a raincoat over his Sunday best and promptly stepped out of the car into 3 feet of muddy swirling water. At least the raincoat kept his shirt and tie dry. After a short recognizance and discussion with the committee of rescuers, Dad was soon back looking for torches, ropes and ‘anything heavy’. We tried to assist him in the frantic search but all we could come up with were some Tin-Tin books, Phantom comics and a Bible. None of them fitted his description apart from the Phantom comics, which can sometimes be a bit heavy. The rescue committee continued to discuss the possible means of salvation - when HE pulled up in a big fella’s Ute. A tall hardened man with a gruff voice and wearing a navy blue singlet. HE had it all; the rope, the torch, the timber and an out-of-my-way-you-quislings attitude. HE did not have to tell Dad nothing - Dad was already out of his way. HE was on the scene and was soon handing out the jobs – I think Dad got torch. Then with some mighty heaves of the timber , HE was able to reach the stranded and distressed tree hugger with the rope. The grateful man held on tight to the lifeline while those designated with the job winced him to safety.

By this time, the rain had abated and so we had all ventured out of the car without our shoes and socks. Our Sunday trousers were rolled up to out knees as we waded over to a lamppost. We stood at that lamppost trying to calculate whether the water was still raising by marking it at the current level. Dad soon came from the rescue scene with some of the committee members who were generally congratulating themselves on their successful rescue. “That went well Chumley” mum said proudly. “Oh … I just did as I was told” was Dad’s quick retort.

No sooner had Dad joined us than another car came floating gently down the stream. The driver was still inside the vehicle and turning his traction-less wheel repeatedly in the direction of Cummings Street but the torrent had other ideas. It also valet parked his vehicle against the tree. By now, HE was getting a little pissed at having to rescue yet another stupid Sunday-Driver.

It was not long after the second rescue that we noticed a large space had appeared between our lamppost mark and the now obvious receding water level. Well, the big fella’s Ute was first to cross followed by the committee ducklings, tentatively in a line. As it turned out – HE was actually the reclusive farmer who used to yell at us kids whenever we took a shortcut home across his farm. After the redemption of St.Johns Woods, we respectfully decided from then on to walk around his vege-plot - rather than just straight over it.

I have already told you the one about going down the Stormwater Drain at Greenslopes. Well this is Mark 2 of that same story. Not that there was anyone named Mark being stupid enough to traverse that tunnel of death. No, the only people I ever remember being that stupid were David, Pip, Tom, Cousin John and your good self. Oh yeah, I forgot the dog Duffy - and I guess he was stupid enough to think he was people too. Now on reflection, a place identified as a Stormwater Drain should have given sufficient warning to anyone of the danger lying ahead. The only problem was, we all thought it was simply the place name given to this particular construction - a bit like naming a creek 'Breakfast'. Well, another lazy Sunday afternoon - another call to adventure by fearless group leader David - and before you knew it - another Baskerville activity with a high chance of injury was well underway. David, Pip, Tom and me gathered at the mouth of Stormwater Drain and waited for the call to enter. David said wait. He wanted to first set fire to a cloth soaked in kerosene that he had wrapped around a stick. The flames took to the torch as quickly as it took to the eyebrows of those showing far too much interest in David's "Temple of Doom" light stick. Soon after that little fiery introduction, we were off. Into that darkened catacomb we crawled with David and his guiding light leading the way. It was good to finally be able to see the path ahead - not so good to finally see the thick green ooze that previously we had only felt between our toes. The further we went the duller became the light, until it eventually died from the lack of air. I tell you now, whatever oxygen was available in that place was being sucked into the lungs of four very frightened boys. The flame just could not compete with our collective desperation for that limited resource. Now with the light gone - the jet-black shroud quickly engulfed us. I have never been in a place so black. Your eyes would strain wide open in an attempt to make out any shape or form - but there was no hope. Then as we moved on further we saw it - way up ahead. A slither of light coming down from above. A Damascus experience? I think not. Well anyway, we shuffled forward carefully and gathered round that golden beam. Peering up we could see through the hole in the drain's top that the light was coming through the floorboards of a dwelling above. David gave a wry grin then reached up and knocked ####### the boards. Then he yelled something like "say me … yoo hoo … boys is here". We laughed and scurried off further into the blackness of the hole. Not that anyone was going to chase us mind you! Well we all made a point of doing the same ritual whenever we would pass that point in each of our future adventures there - and back. Above ground, surveyor/engineer David was eventually able to calculate that the floorboards belonged to a small timber framed local corner store. Mum and Dad would drive right by it every Sunday on our way to church. They must have been quite perplexed at the snickers emanating from the back seat whenever we would pass that particular mixed business built so pancake-flat on the ground. Legend has it that the man that ran the store was forced to eventually revise his business plan. He gave up selling lollies and groceries to his ever-increasing nervous clientele and changed his marketing. Today, the shop is one of the special places visited by the "Ghosts of Brisbane" tours. Their brochure explains that children must have been buried alive under the site of the store many years ago since there are countless witnesses who have declared that they have heard them knock on the floorboards yelling something like "shame you who bury us here"

Now those of you that know of the story will understand it when I say, “Tom is the only bloke that I know that can put his big toe in his ear”. Impossible!! I know … I hear you. Well look, if you lost your thumb in a work accident, what else would you expect the doctors to do but to replace it with your big toe. Makes sense doesn’t it? It is certainly more desirable than replacing it with that other extrusion of Tom’s anatomy – don’t you think? Anyway, this is not a story about our Tom’s Thumb – it is actually a story about the Tom-Thumb.

Well the tom-thumb was a cracker. What’s a cracker? - I hear you ask. A cracker is a miniature dynamite stick that was only available on cracker night. What, never heard of that either? All right, cracker night used to be a 5th November celebration of a guy called Guy Fawkes. Are you with me yet? Need more? Ok, some 350 years ago in a far away place called England this guy tried to blow up the parliament with the king inside. He failed and was executed. See, that’s why the Australian Parliament allowed us to buy crackers each year because they figured that we would be so busy blowing each other up we might just forget about them – and they were right. Every year it was the same – we blew each other up.

One of the blow-up games that David got us to play was called the-letterbox-run. This game involved us kids standing on the patio and holding a tom-thumb between your fingers. David’s job to light it. Once lit the race was on to get down the stairs, along the path, open the letterbox lid, throw it inside and close the lid – all before it exploded. Of course, to make the game more interesting, David would often light the wick half way down just to put some tension into the game and also into the hand holding tight that fiery blast. Still, this was not the only game possible for the diminutive tom-thumb. Now I have a painful confession to make – ummm … maybe later. See about this particular time us kids were all growing into adulthood fast and we were starting to get out and about so to speak – with Maggs leading the charge. She had carved up Uni and was now fully engaged with her work scene that involved some after work functions. Now as these things often go – Maggs took to the dreaded fag. Given the rather tight religious discipline at home and being surrounded by 5 younger highly influential siblings, meant that there were not many places at home for the poor girl to go and have a quiet one. The only do-not-disturb place she could find was in the loo. So with a series of shuffles and sits (be careful how you say that), she was able to do her thing and blow smoke out of the external louvered window as well. Her mastery of this technique of smoke exhaust ensured that her secret remained just that for quite some time. Until of course one of her younger brothers found a packet of durries in the toilet one day.

Now as the mischief in this boy’s mind works, he figured that there could be a real opportunity to use these ciggies in a game of chance by using his tom thumbs (the cracker). So he set it up and waited for the desired response. He did not have to wait long before a cracker bang in the loo was soon followed by a bedraggled person staggering out into the hall with a cigarette butt and tissue hanging from a smoke gaping mouth and tobacco confetti littering her eyebrows and hair. Sadly, this willful infliction of pain and shock by one human being on another just for a laugh – is a true story. Yet her magnanimous forgiveness manifests itself today with nothing but love and affection towards that younger brother in the story – and well …ummm … Tom really … really … appreciates it. Phew!