My Father, Jim

My Father, James "Big Jim" Chapman, was born in Essex, England in 1939. The eldest son of a GPO telephone electrician, he joined the Air Force in 1956 as an Apprentice Radio Technician and did some of his service in Kenya before coming hack to England. He met my mother. Judy, in 1967 at an archaeological dig near Prittlewell Priory, Judy having also been in the Air Force as a photographer.

They were married in October 1968 and I came along in July 1969. My sister, Elizabeth, followed in March 1971. We all immigrated to Australia in February 1975 on the "ten pound Pom" scheme to join my maternal Uncle's family who had been in Australia for years, and my maternal grandparents who had come to Australia the year before. We stayed at the Fairy Meadow Migrant Hostel before settling in Barrack Heights, a working class suburb just south of Wollongong.

Dad wound up working for the steelworks here in Wollongong, which was owned by BHP "the Big Australian" at the time. It was a job he was totally unsuited for, having far more inclination towards academic pursuits than to work in a trade, and I can well imagine he absolutely hated the place and entirely failed to get along with almost all the people he worked with. He is not the typical Aussie beer drinking football following man, and the fact he is 6'8” and more of a loner lost in the world of his own head than a bloke's bloke surely didn't help.

That being said, however, he went to work every day to a job he hated to bring home a wage that was well below the average (and indeed, well below his potential) to support his wife and his two children without either of us kids ever hearing a word of complaint or resentment, and he has both my admiration and gratitude for doing so.

Dad instead took solace in his love of bushwalking and outdoor life, for which Australia is perfectly designed for, and to tending his beloved garden. His love of all things outdoors lead him to complete a Bachelor of Arts in Geography and then a Bachelor of Environmental Science from the University of Wollongong. For the last few years of working for BHP, Dad worked for the Environment Department, which is where I believe many of his earlier poems were written. Although still not the ideal job for Dad, I think Dad took a bit more pleasure in caring for the outdoors, and indeed, counting frogs in the old slag ponds. Certainly, it gave him a bit more space to he more "himself" (as did sitting by old slag pits, counting frogs)

The redundancy that came in 1991 was a big blow to Dad, and like most people in the same position, found the fact he was 'no longer needed' a rather bitter pill to swallow. However, once he came around to the notion that he was finally free to enjoy all those interests he had had to put off because of his work, he really came into his own.

Now not only does he write and perform his own poetry at various Folk Festivals, and continues his bushwalking and gardening interests, he also researches and delivers well-received talks and lectures on a diverse number of topics for the University of the Third Age. Dad also enjoys folk dancing to 'bush bands' at the Wongawilli town hall and likes fiddling around with various electronic and electrical stuff (going as far as attempting to re-create John Logie Baird's "mechanical television"). Dad is also forever in the middle of designing and constructing a huge model train set.

However, I think out of everything he does, Dad gets the most pleasure of all out of being a most beloved "Papa" to my son, Cary, and a most precious "DadDad" to my sister's daughter, Sarah, who were both born in 2004.

To the English, Australians have seemed like "Bronze Gods" ever since World War One. And it's only natural for an outsider both as a Pommy Ratbag in Australia and a natural loner to feel like a court jester of old. Dad remains distant enough to poke fun at the culture's idiosyncrasies, the wit to make doing so amusing, and the wisdom to also recognize a good thing, when he sees it. Dad has taken inspiration from the likes of Noel Coward, Tim Lehrer and even Pam Ayres but are all in the vein of traditional Australia "Bush Poets" such as Banjo Patterson and Henry Lawson in that they all are stories and anecdotes set in verse.

The stories in their telling may well be embellished, but have often grown from at least a seed of truth. They can amuse through pure farce (Ramsbottom poems), can be based of true events such Communication Failure but can also contain biting, satire (Such as Ode to Redundancy). However, a Jester is also an historian, understanding how the past affects the present, and so my most loved poems of Dad's are the ones based on Australian History and the people who made that history happen. Indeed, Requiem to Furnace is my favourite, not only because it tells the story of my local area but it also reflects the affection and admiration my father holds for the immigrant labourers and workers that made the place what it is today.

Whether funny, frightening or farcical, the Jester's main job was to amuse the court. However, a good Jester also made the court think whilst being entertained. I trust that you find my Father's poems both thought provoking and enjoyable.