Time Well Spent

By Trafford Publishing

Its very easy for me
to write down on paper
for invisible readers
my needs and wants,
perhaps things
Ill never have.
Its very hard for me
to write down on paper
for your eyes only
my feelings
and thoughts,
perhaps
things youll never understand.
But, if you know me
youll understand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jan 30, 2005
• ISBN: 9781466958746

Book preview

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER. TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN’

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER. ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

AUTHORS NOTE

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

To my dear mother

                     -Sweet dreams, sweet lady

Acknowledgments

I am indebted to the many people who live within these pages, for without them this book would not have been possible.

Special thanks must also go to my friend Donna Ghappell, for her proof readings over a glass of red, for her encouragement, and her many suggestions-some of which I took. Peter Rodger for his editing and wonderful understanding of the written word. Also my mother Patricia Moxham, for her memories, her patience, and her strength, which inspired me to write this book.

My thanks, and my love.

The following pages are drawn from

and inspired by all the friend

relations and strangers

whose lives I have crossed.

It was written for those I have met

known and loved.

And for all the reasons that have been

and for those yet to come

I wasn’t a bird

-only

a little boy with wings.

CHAPTER ONE

My life began in an inner Sydney hospital on the 30th day of July 1953. I was born with the name Raymond Cooper, and found in later life that by not been given a second or middle name, I did not have the sometimes difficult task of which name to be addressed by. (Although I am at times called Coops, I do more frequently answer to Ray, or Raymond.)

Apart from medical and nursing staff, I believe my dear mother was the only other witness to see me enter this world. My father, who I never had the privilege of meeting, was at the time a very hard drinking and fast living Russian. I recall many stories told by my mother and other relatives, of my father and his extra marital habits. Times when he left for the corner store to buy milk, and didn’t return for weeks at a time. On many of these occasions my mother would seek him out and eventually track him down to the arms of another woman. I believe my entry to this world was one of the springboards for his absence. Perhaps he thought money would be better spent on vodka rather than baby food. This was the beginning of a long and hard life for my dear mother.

My first conscious memory was of crawling across a kitchen floor and reaching out for a black hand bag. I believe this early attempt at bag snatching was within my first year of life, and took place at the house (or rooms) we were renting in Newtown, in Sydney.

I must have experienced a state of suspended animation over the following few years, as my next recollection of life does not begin until my early kindergarten years at the age of five.

My early school years were spent at a catholic school in Newtown, Sydney, which also allowed for a kindergarten. This first academic year consisted of drawing, painting, and playing musical instruments (my favourite was the triangle and the cymbals) with an awful lot of compulsory napping. Looking back at those napping sessions, I do believe it was an acquired art to be told heads down, and then expected to sink into an instant 10 minute sleep. Some of my classmates were quite good, if snoring and heavy breathing were an indication. As for myself-I always ‘slept’ with one eye closed (for the Sister) and one eye open. (Also for the Sister)

This year of kindergarten was also spent admiring a fellow student whose name I recall was Debbie. At the time, I thought Debbie was the most beautiful thing that a five-year-old could admire. I remember her mostly wearing frilly pink dresses, with her blond hair tied in plaits and finished off with a rather large pink bow.

Debbie and I used to exchange what I thought were girlfriend/boyfriend looks across the room, which mostly made me blush and look away, but at the same time made me half wish she wouldn’t do it again.

My young love life seemed to be heading in the right direction I thought, with all the other eligible five year olds fighting to sit next to Debbie, but who through fate or divine direction always sat next to me, until one horrible dark memorable day.

This day started like any other for a five-year-old. Vegemite on toast-and face-and washed down with an over sized glass of milk. I remember wearing bib and brace long pants on this particular day with a broken catch on the right hand bib strap. This strap was therefore held in place with a large safety pin. It seems that at some stage during the many kindergarten activities, this pin decided to release itself from my bib, which in turn brought my pants down to around my knees. The sight of me standing there with my pants down was much appreciated by my fellow classmates, but not so by my dear precious Debbie. I imagine the sight of her loved one standing half-naked was not the foundation on which she wanted to build a lasting relationship. So the rest of my kindergarten time was spent more at doing boy things like playing cars and seeing who could pee the highest on the urinal wall, a practice I abruptly quit after my pee splashed back on to my shirt and pants. (Looking back, I suppose Debbie was wise not to get too involved with such a wild uncouth person.) I also look back at the impact that pin breaking day must have had for me to remember that it was the right bib strap that had broken.

My next few years at this school were spent gaining the affection of the many nuns who taught there. I remember being quite the studious young fellow who always applied himself to his work. (This was when I wasn’t having Matchbox cars confiscated by the nuns who caught me playing on my desktop) I still believe to this day that the Catholic Church operates a toyshop full of Matchbox cars solely supplied by my early school years.

Much of the time during these early grades was spent praying. The most valuable and precious item a young catholic schoolboy could have was his rosary beads. And the more rosaries you owned, the more secure you felt, knowing you would be kept a spot in heaven when the time came. The nuns would tend to grade you (though not officially) on how well and fluently you went through the rosary and so I made it my mission to know each prayer and how many by heart. I felt that this would surely earn me credits enough to overlook the occasional lapse of concentration and behaviour.

I even chose a picture of Our Lord over a number of beaut looking spinning tops and comic books when I won first prize from a spinning wheel at a school fete. I remember taking this holy picture home to proudly show my mother, and her asking me if I had stolen it. I’m still not sure to this day why she had asked me that. Perhaps it was because neither my mother nor I had ever won anything before, or because I was at the age of 7 or 8 when one is expected to give in to certain temptations and dares, or because what other child would have selected this picture over spinning tops and comic books?

My mother was a hard working, kind person who would always give more than she had. She was also the ‘black sheep’ of her family, which consisted of 6 brothers and 3 sisters.

I believe the ‘black sheep’ tag came from never living more than two years in the one place. Although my mother worked and lived mostly in Sydney during my early years, she always (and still does) call Grafton home.

Grafton is a large rural town in northern New South Wales, which was always famous for its towering Jacaranda trees. These beautiful mauve coloured trees create a tunnel affect over many of Grafton’s streets, and are host to the annual Jacaranda Festival.

Grafton was also the home of my mother’s parents and where she and her many brothers and sisters grew up. I believe that I too, after all the places I’ve called home over the years, still call Grafton a second home.

They say that the sense of smell is the strongest memory provoking sense that we have, and I do believe this. To this day whenever I smell freshly cut grass, I think of walking down the streets of Grafton with my mother, as most of the footpaths in Grafton at the time were grass rather than concrete.

My grandparent’s were strict Salvation Army country people. I never knew my grandfather that well as I was never close to him. No doubt he looked down on the unstable life that his daughter’s son chose to lead.

My grandfather was a private person who worked as-among many things-a grave digger at the

Grafton cemetery and I am sure would have had some good stories to tell us young people on dark, windy nights. Unfortunately, these stories had to be filtered through my uncles and aunts over the years before reaching any of the grandchildren. The memories I have of my grandfather was of him listening to ‘Dad and Dave,’ a popular radio serial at the time, or chopping firewood and then stacking it in his wood shed. That shed was nearly always full from dirt floor to tin ceiling with wood. Another fond memory was of him chopping the head off one of his chickens for Christmas dinner, then letting it run headless around the back yard. I swear that even without a head, that chook always knew which way I was running. Grandfather never owned or drove a car. Instead, like many of his generation back then, he rode a pushbike that by today’s standards would fetch a pretty penny in an antique shop. Most of these push bikes, (including my grandfather’s) always had an old hessian bag tied under the rear of their seats. To this day, I have no idea why. I guess what I owe most to grandfather was the influence he had on my ability to whistle. It was a rare moment indeed to come across grandfather when he was not emitting his long high pitched single note whistle. This whistle would go for many minutes, only to pause long enough for a breath, and then continue. I must somehow have picked it up when learning myself as a child to whistle, for the only whistle I’m capable of now is a long high pitched single note sound-very dangerous to one’s hearing when in a small enclosed shower cubicle,

I dare say the memory that stands out above all others surrounding my grandfather, was the well in the back yard.

To set the story, this ‘well’ at the time was hardly a hole large enough to fit a small child’s fist down. The tale that had filtered down through family members over the years was that 30 or 40 years prior my grandfather had witnessed the murder of a young man who was having an affair with a close friend or family member. (One must remember that this story has only been handed down in pieces and details are somewhat sketchy) It seems this unfortunate young fellow was ambushed late one night on his walk home across a neighbouring paddock, and set upon with a rather heavy length of timber. Because my grandfather was in the immediate area at the time, he was somehow forced into helping dispose of the body down the backyard well. Apparently the owner of the house my grandparent’s were renting at the time (and still rented up until the day they died) was also the fellow who committed this gruesome crime, so there was no problem with the well being used as a grave, and filled in the very next day. I dare say this may also have been part of the leverage used in acquiring grandfather’s assistance.

I believe an area in the wall of the well was dug out at floor level and the body placed there, before filling in.

During my childhood-and that of my many cousins-I have vivid memories of playing in my grandparent’s backyard and being quickly chased by grandfather from the small hole and hollow that was once the well. It seems that this ‘sacred’ area had almost become an obsession with my grandparent’s over the years, and under no circumstances were any of us grandchildren allowed near it. This was difficult at times considering the hole was almost square in the middle of the back yard.

I was 19 years old when my grandfather died. Nanna had passed away about 2 years before this, and so their house would soon go back to the owners.

7am on a fine Sunday morning, two of my uncles (Stan and Les) and I were standing in the middle of my grandparents’ backyard with picks, shovels, ropes and buckets, one ladder and one movie camera.

My Uncle Stan had always said that within a week after his parents were gone, he would be digging up that well to prove or disprove a life long family tale.

I thought if I volunteered to dig I would be assured of a ‘ring side seat,’ and I had no intentions of missing this day for anything. I found it was easy soft digging and we soon came across the circular brick wall that did indeed show this had one day been a well.

Much of the soil I was filling the bucket with-which was then hoisted up by rope-was littered with broken bricks and animal (?) bones. I believe I was near the bottom of the well, perhaps 14-foot