Get a Life: Memoirs of a Lifetime and More

By John Bates

This autobiography of John L. Bates
depicts his life experiences from the 1930s
to the early twenty-first century. It is intended primarily
for his descendants who may be interested in the
trials, failures, aspirations, and successes of their
ancestor. It may also be of interest to those who
recognise that reward is not a right, but the
result of dedication and effort.

It will describe the foundation and subsequent
personal development that his life at sea, family
responsibilities and struggles in political
manoeuvring to reach business recognition
and success all led to the creation and
development of his own successful
corporate identity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jul 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499013528

John Bates

John Bates is the author of ten books and a contributor to seven others, all of which focus on the natural history of the Northwoods. He's worked as a naturalist in Wisconsin's Northwoods for 33 years, leading an array of trips and giving talks all designed to help people further understand the remarkable diversity and beauty of nature, and our place within it. He has served on the Board of Trustees for the Wisconsin Nature Conservancy, River Alliance of Wisconsin, and the Wisconsin Humanities Council, and he currently serves on the Board of the Northwoods Land Trust. John has a MS in Environmental Sciences from UW Green Bay.John and his wife, fiber artist Mary Burns, live on the Manitowish River in Mary's grandparent's old home, where they raised two daughters.

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Copyright © 2014 by John Bates.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014912911

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4990-1351-1

Softcover   978-1-4990-1349-8

eBook   978-1-4990-1352-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/25/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-800-455-039

www.Xlibris.com.au

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Contents

List of Illustration

Prologue

BOOK ONE: THE FORMATIVE YEARS (1932-1956)

Chapter 1 Introduction

Chapter 2 The Beginning

Chapter 3 Pre-School

Chapter 4 Brush with the Law

Chapter 5 Religion and the Relatives

Chapter 6 War

Chapter 7 Devastation and Daisy

Chapter 8 Secondary School

Chapter 9 Adolescence

Chapter 10 Ring, and a New Life

Chapter 11 The Preparation

Chapter 12 The Call of the Sea

Chapter 13 The American Experience

Chapter 14 United Kingdom

Chapter 15 Wharfies and Love

Chapter 16 Engine Emergencies

Chapter 17 Storms and Incidents

Chapter 18 Payoff, Home, and Coastal Duties

Chapter 19 Marriage

Chapter 20 Ashore and Now What?

Chapter 21 Socialising Shoreside

BOOK TWO: THE ESTABLISHMENT AND DEVELOPMENT YEARS (1956-1981)

Chapter 22 Industrial Process Begins

Chapter 23 Exposure to Home Finances

Chapter 24 Broken Hill, First of Many

Chapter 25 Holiday on the Cheap

Chapter 26 Firstborn and Christmas

Chapter 27 Dad’s Visits

Chapter 28 Neighbours and Insomnia

Chapter 29 Promotion

Chapter 30 Social and Freemasonry

Chapter 31 Television, IT, and Another Son

Chapter 32 Self-Analysis and Holidays

Chapter 33 Politics

Chapter 34 Career Change and Mark

Chapter 35 Better on the Other Side

Chapter 36 Children Involvement

Chapter 37 Control of Contracts

Chapter 38 Another Career Change

Chapter 39 Dad Leaves and Tania Arrives

Chapter 40 More Extracurricular Activities

Chapter 41 Business Progress and Unions

Chapter 42 Industrial Commission

Chapter 43 Political Scandal

Chapter 44 Family in the Seventies

Chapter 45 Mark and His Career

Chapter 46 SABCO Career Involvement

Chapter 47 Health and Art

Chapter 48 The Scotland Experience

BOOK THREE: THE REALISATION (1981-2003)

Chapter 49 A New Era

Chapter 50 The Long Haul

Chapter 51 Arrival in Glasgow

Chapter 52 Induction

Chapter 53 Crazy Australian

Chapter 54 Christmas and Hogmanay

Chapter 55 Visitors

Chapter 56 The Weather

Chapter 57 Golf or Whatever

Chapter 58 Caught Out

Chapter 59 Exhibitions

Chapter 60 Export Expert

Chapter 61 Misguided Loyalties

Chapter 62 The Tea Party

Chapter 63 Accommodation

Chapter 64 A Seed Is Planted

Chapter 65 Masonry in Scotland

Chapter 66 Home at Last

Chapter 67 Our Dream Home

Chapter 68 Return to the Sea

Chapter 69 Small Wheel

Chapter 70 My Business Is Born

Chapter 71 Development Days

Chapter 72 Amazing Growth

Chapter 73 My New General Manager

Chapter 74 Retirement

Chapter 75 The Call of the Sea

Chapter 76 I’ve Had a Life

List of Illustration

Frontispiece: John L. Bates, 1994

Just six months old, fresh from Sister Matthews Private Hospital.

Grandfather Joshua Bates with me as a baby, 1933.

Brian Russell and me, the one on the left, 1941.

Me with Binkie, 1943.

Mum and Dad following his enlistment.

Sending a message by signalling flags in preparation for another skill badge.

Me posing in my fighting gear.

Ruth and I during our early dating days, 1950.

Nick Price, John Andriessen, and me during our army days.

Mum and Arthur McLeod, my new stepfather.

Our family at Colin’s wedding. Me, Dad, Colin, Mum, and Alma.

MV Kaikoura (later MV Tyrone) my first ship, 1953.

Me on the boat deck during a quieter moment at sea.

Dinner with the girls in New Zealand. The chief engineer, third engineer, and myself.

Our engagement party held at Keith’s home, 1955. Mum, Mac, Me, Ruth, Keith, Ruth’s mother (Mrs Jackson).

Cousin, friend, and sparring partner, Chappie Charlesworth, at our engagement party.

The bridal couple and Dad. The honour roll showing Harold Jackson’s name is behind us.

Ruth and my wedding group, 1956. Colin, Marjorie, Me, Ruth, Carlien, Betty, Ross, Betty (Ruth’s sister), and Cheryl (flower girl and Marjorie’s daughter).

The Austin A40, our first motor car.

Our first house at Forbes.

John Driver and I erecting the tent at World’s End Creek. ‘When I nod my head, you hit it.’

My Master’s regalia as worn during Lodge meetings, 1975.

Our night out at the Checkers Nightclub, 1960. Me, Ruth, Jennifer, and John.

Ruth at the front of our house in Forbes with Craig and Daryl, 1960.

Ruth and Dad with Mark, Daryl (front), and Craig.

Our three sons. Craig, Daryl, and Mark, 1963.

Tania with her doll’s pram, 1967.

Daryl, Louise, and Craig early during their careers.

Family group at Craig’s Passing-Out celebration, 1978. Wendy (guest of Daryl), Daryl, Me, Tania, Louise, Craig, Ruth.

Mark and his first car, 1977.

Mark receiving his Duke of Edinburgh Award from the Duke, 1982.

Mark in his lieutenant’s uniform, 1978.

Tania, Michael with Arran and Abby at Abby’s christening.

The house we rented while waiting to move to Scotland. Note the candle pine.

Our wedding group 25 years on. Colin, Marjorie, Me, Ruth, Ross, Betty, and Carlien.

Ruth and I with farewell gifts from the SABCO friends. Note the tartan travel bag and the large wooden spoon for stirring.

More farewells. Colin, me, and Mother.

Ready to go at the Adelaide Airport. Me, Ruth, Tania, and Mark.

Our three sons were growing up. Craig, Mark, and Daryl.

Waikiki Beach from our hotel room.

A local dance by one of the native girls in a Hawaiian Polynesian village.

The Polynesion Village Stage Show. Note the stage built into the mountain slopes.

The wreck of the USS Arizona. Note the oil slick on the surface.

The backyard of our house at Condorrat. Foxes and hares would frequent the lawn.

Tania prior to our relocation to Scotland, 1980.

SABCO Scotland factory and warehouse 1982.

The Boys’ Soccer Team ready to take on the Girls, SABCO Scotland Picnic, 1982.

Hoary frost, not snow, 1981.

Snowed in and digging commenced, 1981.

Edinburgh Military Tattoo, 1983.

SABCO stand at the Cologne Housewares Fair, 1963.

SABCO stand at Chicago with the ‘Egg’ girl next door.

Ruth and Tania taking a ride on the canals of Amsterdam, 1984.

Ruth and Tania in The Hague, Holland, 1984.

Crosbie House, Paisley, Scotland. 1982.

Formal invitation to Her Majesty’s Garden Party, 1983.

Marina and I ready for the Garden Party, 1983.

Leaping Salmon, Scotland, 1984.

Dykeneuk Manor, Pollockshields, Scotland, 1984.

Our next house at Langside, Scotland, 1984.

Ruth horseshoe-tossing in the snow. Christmas, 1984.

The Golf Club farewell, Scotland, 1986.

Formal farewell from Ken and handover from me, 1986.

Our farewell with Josie Logan, 1986. Ruth, Josie, and me.

The house we built at West Lakes, South Australia, following our return from Scotland, 1986.

Bates Family Coat of Arms.

Our new office complex recently vacated by Westpac, 1992.

Craig, Louise, Tara, and Sean upon his embarkation for the Gulf War, 1991.

Quality House, 1995.

Our family group, 1997. Me, Louise, Ruth, Craig, Tania, Daryl, Mark.

Mark’s children, Alix, Sam, and Jack, 2000.

The Murray Cod and me.

Daryl at Government House, NSW, for the Order of Australia Investiture, 2001. Ruth, Keaton, Daryl, and me.

Prowler, 1990.

Boats from the CYC rafted up for the Port River cruise dinner, 1993. Note Prowler next to the wharf, obviously at high tide.

S-Cape, 1999.

Painting toward my exhibition, 2002.

Ruth and I, 2002.

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Prologue

M y life thus far, depicted in this autobiography, records most of the major and many minor occurrences of my life—or at least those I remember or care to remember. It does not necessarily report every minor happening, of which there have been many. Firstly, I naturally cannot clearly remember everything that has happened over the past seventy years, and secondly, some actions are not for publication. If told they may disappoint some readers or provide others with the fuel to identify reasons that could be used to discolour my reputation. Not that I have ever done anything really bad, but some of my youthful exploits are better left unsaid. Times have changed, and what may have been considered acceptable or merely mischievous in earlier periods may be distasteful, or even downright unlawful, in these more enlightened times.

I keep remembering occurrences that could be included, but one must stop somewhere.

Where the reputations of others could be affected through the telling, names have been omitted, and sometimes the full story has either been diluted or has not been told.

On rare occasions, happenings have been repeated in order to maintain a logical flow of information and to retain the credibility of the story.

Many have asked why I am writing this book. I’ve thought hard and long about this.

Is it because I am a Leo? Some have inferred that the project is just an ego kick. Perhaps they are right. I don’t know. But if it is merely to boost my personal beliefs, then so may it be.

Is it because I have some deep-seated philosophy about life to offer? I don’t think so. The book is not necessarily intended to guide, educate, or motivate the reader. It is intended to provide an insight to life in the twentieth century and, the experiences of an ancestor to those descendants who come after. However, if it provides motivation and the will to do the best one can, in whatever chosen sphere of activity, then that will be a worthwhile by-product of my story.

Is it because I am reaching the closing years of my life and have nothing better to do? This is definitely not the case. I can find many things to do that must be done before I leave this world, hopefully bound for the next. I have not been a devout, religious person although I do believe in Christianity and hope that in many ways I qualify. I believe in a Supreme Being and a life hereafter. I cannot accept that it all stops here. There must be a reason for living and treading the paths of this life.

So why am I spending long hours in putting to paper the exploits of my life? Perhaps the answer will unfold as I proceed through the creation of this document. Only you, the reader, will be able to judge. Judge kindly and honestly, and if you can’t oblige constructively, please don’t publicise your opinion!

I often feel that a similar document written by my grandfather would have provided me, and subsequently my descendants, with a valuable insight into his life and the times during which he lived. Perhaps it would have unlocked some secrets of my own genetic creation and provided some excuse for some of my personality disorders.

I therefore intend this to be primarily for my descendants. To acquaint them with knowledge of one of their ancestor’s trials and tribulations, hopes, desires, successes and failures. Perhaps they will identify with selected parts and use my experiences to assist them in the attainment of their own goals.

I have read recently in some obscure, philosophical literature that every life abounds with a thousand stories. As I have travelled through my story, I have recognised the profound truth of this statement. Within this book are a thousand individual stories that could be told. I haven’t the time.

This autobiography will therefore lead the reader through the 1930s and ’40s in the Adelaide environs. How I coped, as a child and teenager, before television and intelligence transfer. It will take you through the war years, and the disruption children experienced, even though we were so far removed from the ravaged areas of the world.

It will provide an experience of seagoing life during the 1950s, giving an insight to many exciting and dangerous situations, when, during my twenties, I became involved in the rough, tough, and lonely existence of ship-going life.

It will demonstrate, during the following forty years, the passion, anxieties, and political manoeuvring in the industry, while struggling against adversity to climb the slippery executive ladder of success. And finally, reaching the zenith of my career, my dissatisfaction with the pre-ordained hierarchical protective system. With much trepidation, I embarked on the frightening development of my own company, finally succeeding, as one of the leading Australian organisations, in my chosen particular field of business activity.

I will identify my loves, my family, and my children, all providing the strength, support, and stability required to support my often-turbulent career and the future of the family reputation.

Enjoy the reading and travel with me as I return to the exploits, experiences, and journeys of the past seventy years.

Read on.

Both with Hand and Heart

BOOK ONE

The Formative Years

(1932-1956)

Chapter 1

Introduction

A s I reach the twilight of my life, I wonder about the purpose of my existence and what I have achieved during the seventy years I have lived on this earth. Perhaps everyone is beset with thoughts such as these, and therefore it may be a natural thing to reflect on what has been achieved, what might have been, and what impact one has had on the continuing development of mankind.

I have no fear of the end of this road, whenever that may occur, for none of us knows when the end will come, nor indeed has any person ever dodged it, other than the Son of God. So each and every one of us must accept the inevitable.

This book should, and I trust, will, provide an insight into life in the twentieth century.

How my family, loved ones, relatives, friends, associates, and others have influenced my journey from the cradle to now.

How it could have changed for the better or worse.

Get a Life will be a series of memoirs that depict the various steps, milestones, and influences that have guided this journey. The fears, successes, failures, beliefs, mistakes, loves, philosophies, and dreams that have all caused a continuing burning desire to achieve, be successful, and be recognised as a success. The definition of success is inordinately difficult to determine and, I believe, is differently identified by each of us.

Is it to be a good and caring human being? Is it to achieve greatness in the cause of humanity? Is it to earn and hoard large amounts of money? Is it to be a good and caring family man and father? Is it to be a teacher and leader of mankind? My measure of success was to see each of my own children successful in their chosen activity in life and to be better in all respects than I have been. Surely this philosophy will cause the world to continually improve.

My documented journey will lead you through my childhood, adolescence, education and trade learning; sporting involvement and achievements; early loves (difficult to remember); life at sea tramping the world; progress through a management career; family and fatherhood; business heartbreaks and successes; retirement; and then, where to from here.

It is now the year 2003 and I am damned if this is the end. Rather, perhaps it can be another beginning.

Only the future, you, the reader, and my ongoing extended family will determine the magnitude of my success—and I may never know whether there has really been any success at all.

One such measurable success and major achievement that surely nobody can refute is the magnificent marriage I have enjoyed with my wife, Ruth, now of forty-seven years’ duration. She has supported me through thick and thin, has been the linchpin between my children and me, and has given encouragement, advice, and sometimes criticism when times have been tough. She has always been my greatest critic. Let me repeat that. She has always been my greatest critic. However, without it, I may never have experienced nor achieved the many things that I have.

Many may say that Ruth and I argue a lot, that I am short of patience and that she may hound me unnecessarily to be more attentive, tidy, and responsible. All of this may also be true, but I challenge any of these critics to match the depth and achievements of our many years of marriage and togetherness.

As I said previously, I have always believed that the success of my children will be the measure of my success. And this may be realized in many ways, not just business success, but also in general success through life. I have always, particularly as they were growing up, driven them to achieve, to plan their future; and I have demanded the level of success of which I believed they were capable. In retrospect, I may have been wrong and should have concentrated on person-skills, guiding them in life’s challenges and perhaps just been around to grow with them. In some measure of justification for my philosophy, I am not good at close togetherness and advising in life’s many challenges. Whilst I have often been called upon to provide counselling to my employees and staff, I have difficulty with my family. Not that this weakness in my character in any way reduces the extreme and unrelenting love I have for my family and every one of my children. They are each equally successful in their chosen field and in life in general.

And so I say to all my readers, don’t do as I have done. Don’t forsake your children in the interests of material success or your own personal career. Much of my time was spent away from the family building a career that provided material benefits for them, all at the expense of family guidance and involvement.

Ruth and I have been very fortunate and have been blest in many ways, not the least of which is through our children and grandchildren.

I have had to live with an unrelenting fire in my belly to succeed in anything and everything I do. It is a self-imposed demand of myself that has been very difficult to achieve and to accept. Failure has never been a consideration other than a continual fear of it. This has particularly adversely affected and hindered the opportunity of a close and demonstrative association with my immediate family, relatives, and friends. It has put into jeopardy any possibility of long-term harmony and happiness. Where did I develop this uncontrollable need for personal bloody-minded success? I have thought long and hard about it and have not found the answer. Sometimes I tell myself that I must atone, in a family sense, for the past failure of my parents’ marriage, although modern times would not only consider what they did as acceptable, but probably as the norm. At the time I was obviously influenced by their unhappiness. Others tell me that my attitude is merely because I am a Leo, having been born just within the Leo time span on 21 August 1932.

Whatever, I have lived with this fanatical intensity that is not always easy and never comfortable.

I know that I have not been easy to live with. My wife, before her, my mother, and many associates will endorse this. However, you will read of my few friends who have accepted me irrespective of my failings.

If there is to be any judgement before I meet my maker, the ultimate judge, by those who have known me or by the readers of this text, I only ask that the whole of me is analysed before that judgement is made.

I have lived through a period of amazing creation and development, and now in my declining years, I have extreme difficulty in the comprehension of, and comfort with, a plethora of information technology, variation of applications, and amazing development beyond reasonable understanding. During the twentieth century, I have seen aircraft developed from a basic, propeller-driven contraption to jet-driven craft that fly faster than sound. Men have landed on the moon. Medical technologies have advanced beyond the understanding of the masses. We are now cloning animals, and who knows, perhaps we will soon be cloning human beings and using this technology to create a master race. As a minimum, this technology may provide spare human organs for ready transplant usage as they are required.

There have been two world wars and many other major and minor acts of aggression during my lifetime. Two of my sons have served their country in war zones. Another has assisted international business, and my daughter has successfully influenced the business scene of rural South Australia. Our food and diet consumption has changed dramatically. Whether this has been for the better or not can only be measured by our waistlines, cholesterol level, heart problems, and other ailments that besiege society. Many would say that the past fifty years has seen a degeneration in diet and eating practices.

I cannot envisage, at any time in the future, when a more intense era of change will occur. But then neither could our forefathers have foreseen these twentieth-century changes.

Our children have had to cope with the drug scene, something that was not existent when I was young, although history may decide that alcohol and tobacco, two habits that were not only condoned but were encouraged in the early to mid twentieth century, are equally as bad. Ruth and I have been very lucky with our children and not any of them have succumbed to the evils and habits of drug involvement (although the boys have all experimented with tobacco smoking and all enjoy the occasional and not so occasional brush with alcohol). I must admit to a liking for beer, red and white wine, and the occasional nip of spirits.

I am not writing this story to market as a piece of literary splendour to the public. I doubt that my life could engender any appreciable public interest. It is not intended to fulfil any personal ego trip although, as mentioned previously, some may say it is. Neither is it intended to bring out any artistic ability, but in some small way to leave an appreciation of the twentieth century, my life in particular, and an awareness of our extended family, past and present. Primarily this is meant for my descendants. As I have walked through the hallways of my life, I have increasingly recognised the potential for many opportunities of individual stories. All of these expanded stories would provide interest and excitement for the reader. However, the need for brevity in this autobiography does not allow me to portray the detail necessary to give a full account of all of my individual experiences. These individual stories would perhaps appeal to the wider community, but that project will have to wait for another day.

I wish I could return and identify my story personally with my descendants. This cannot be.

So let the story start.

Chapter 2

The Beginning

E very story must have a beginning, but not necessarily an end—or rather not the end I’ve got in mind. I am often encumbered with the desire to know the future, to know and be prepared for what may come. I don’t seek or dream of grand good luck, nor do I fear unhappy and poor circumstances. I merely want to be prepared. This isn’t quite true. I yearn for success in every undertaking I address. I dream of riches and like to believe that, one day, I may achieve financial comfort. However, I believe that good luck and success will only be the fruit of hard work and visionary development. I believe, and always have, that the harder I work, the luckier I get. Just think about that for a few moments. At school the high achievers are those who study and time-manage, allocating a disciplined portion of their time to the academic side of schooling. Later, at work and still later in business, success comes to those who work hard and become familiar with their work procedures, thus enabling capable and functional decision-making and effective control activities. One must also have vision and an insatiable yearning to achieve objectives. These may continually change as we achieve and move on.

2.jpg

Just six months old, fresh from Sister Matthews Private Hospital.

I was born to my mother, Daphne May Bates (née Charlesworth), at Sister Matthews Private Hospital just a few yards from our house on the corner of Second Avenue and Lambert Road, Joslin, a suburb east of Adelaide in South Australia. The venue of my birth was a large rambling-style converted house run by a qualified nursing sister, or at least I assume she was qualified. Apparently she was sufficiently qualified and experienced to bring me, my older brother, and my younger sister into the world. The private hospital, or rather merely a suburban house, seemed large in those days, although by modern standards was indeed quite small.

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Grandfather Joshua Bates with me as a baby, 1933.

Doctor John Vercoe was the attending physician. He was one of the old-style bedside doctors who claimed his patients as his extended family. Nothing was too much trouble to him, and he was a member of his patients’ families.

My older brother, Colin, and my younger sister, Alma, were also born there. I can vaguely remember the interior of the hospital, not from being born there, but I remember visiting when my sister was born. I was only three and a half at the time. My brother is five years older than me.

My paternal grandparents, Joshua and Sarah Bates, lived in a house on the corner of Third Avenue and Lambert Road, Joslin, which included a small single-fronted grocery shop facing Third Avenue.

We lived next door in Third Avenue, Joslin, and therefore had to pass my grandparents’ house in order to reach Sister Matthews.

The primary school I attended from January 1937 to December 1944, East Adelaide Primary School, was about three-quarters of a mile from our house, west along Third Avenue. That stretch of road holds many memories.

We were relatively well off compared with most. The Great Depression continued from well before my birth in 1932, to the beginning of the Second World War in 1939. However, even though we managed to enjoy a good lifestyle by the standards in those days, our pennies had to be saved in order to provide the essentials.

I remember many cost-saving exercises. Mum used to cut out cardboard inserts for our shoes when they began to get down to holes in the soles, although this was only an emergency situation to carry over until new shoes could be obtained. I followed Colin, my brother, in the duty of having to cut up the daily newspaper into small tidy pieces and thread them onto a string for use as toilet paper. I can only vaguely remember this, and it probably only occurred during the late thirties and early war years when paper was scarce. There were many other cost-saving exercises, most of which became a normal part of most people’s lives.

Third Avenue was occupied by a variety of people and happenings, all of which live in my memories and share a corner of my young development. The street included several of my friends, with whom I would spend my free time after school and on weekends. It also held some ambush hideouts, used by other school associates who were less than friends. Large and spacious playgrounds, or parks as they would be called today, housed the local Scout group, tennis courts, and general playing areas. Fruit orchards occupying vacant blocks of land provided a regular supply of stolen fruit. ‘Stolen’ is a harsh word, for what really was a challenge, to take the fruit from the trees without being caught, and we never took more than we could eat at the time.

Storm-water drains provided the source of adventure where our gang spent many hours of excitement and investigation as we crawled for miles through the maze of drains. The word ‘gang’ was a kindly word and used to describe a group rather than the modern interpretation, which may send fear and dread through anyone encountering a gang of ne’er-do-well youths, who are seemingly hell bent on causing trouble.

In that street lived one of the first girls to be killed in Darwin Post Office by one of the many Japanese bombing raids on that northern city.

A German family also lived in the street, whose son was a King’s Cup Competition shooter. He owned many expensive and finely tuned rifles. When the Second World War was declared, the government sequestrated all rifles held within the community and his were taken. I understand that the weapons were used by our armed forces and, perhaps naturally, were never returned to their former owners. During 1939 or early 1940, the elderly parents were arrested and removed to an internment camp for the duration of the war. Their problem was that they were German immigrants who had moved to Australia many years previously. They were a kind couple of ageing years, who befriended everyone who associated with them. However, the government considered them to be a threat to our war efforts and locked them away. I never saw them again. The son was conscripted into the Australian army. He was a conscientious objector, but nevertheless volunteered to serve overseas as a cook. The last I heard of him he was serving in the Middle East, assisting in the fight against the German army. I never heard of him again, nor did the parents return to their home after the war.

Near to our end of Third Avenue was a steep hill (or at least it seemed steep to me at the time). These days the hill seems to have diminished somewhat. Those of us who were lucky enough to own soapbox carts—and later, bicycles—spent many hours of pleasure speeding up and down this hill.

My memories of pre-school days are limited. Indeed, memories of primary school days are very vague, and only a few outstanding occurrences are brought to mind. Some of these are worth mentioning as I walk through this journey.

My father, William Edward Bates (Bill), owned and operated a large bakery (large for those days) in Melbourne Street, North Adelaide, right across the road from the existing Old Lion Hotel. He was in partnership with his brother Horace. Were this bakery, or at least the real estate, owned today, it would represent a very valuable piece of land. Probably running into several hundred thousand dollars. However, this was not to be, as the partnership ceased in 1940 and the business was sold to Birbeck Brothers who also operated it as a bakery. Birbeck Brothers continued as a bakery, during the war years, and eventually sold out to a large corporation. The land was eventually sold for real estate development.

As a toddler and into my primary school days, I would spend many hours on the horse-drawn bread-delivery cart sitting on the driving seat alongside my dad, immediately behind the horse. Too often for comfort, the horse would lift its tail and either have a copious bowel motion or just pass gross amounts of wind. Either way, the smell was difficult to withstand. I would screw up my nose and bury my head in Dad’s white baker’s coat. I wondered what it did to the bread. It couldn’t have had a major effect because one of my favourite pastimes was to sneak handfuls of hot fresh bread from the ends of the many loaves of bread stored in the cart awaiting delivery. The hot bread was delicious. There must have been many housewives who looked suspiciously at the loaves they were given. Had my dad caught me, he would have given me a good hiding with his trouser belt. This was his source of punishment. It didn’t hurt all that much because the belt wrapped around my legs and reduced the sting that a rigid stick would have caused.

Mum, on the other hand, was the disciplinarian, and she had a flexible cane with knobs every two inches. It was about three feet long. Yes, you guessed it, this hurt like hell, and my brother and I were very cautious not to encourage Mum’s wrath. Whenever I deserved discipline, she would stand at the back door with the door held open calling me to come inside. The dreaded cane would be in her hand at the ready. I knew what was coming. I didn’t dare disobey and I knew that when I squeezed past her to enter the house, she would wield the cane, resulting in a sore, stinging backside. I developed the practice of running at full speed, and as I reached the door and, of course, Mum with her cane, I would jump as high as I could. In this way, I hoped that she would miss me when she swung to hit my backside. Unfortunately, as I grew taller, the possibility of jumping so high that I hit my head became a real threat. I stopped this practice and tried to think of another. Unfortunately, all I could come up with was to not incur Mum’s wrath. I think Mum also realized that I was getting taller, because she changed her method of catching me for trying her patience, or for being downright naughty.

The story goes that when I was a baby, I would crumble my food in my hand and pick at it like a bird. Mum said I was like a dicky bird. and from there on, she called me Dicky, even to her dying days.

We had a round vertical freshwater tank on a wooden stand in the yard of our house just outside the back door. The rain would drain from the house roof through the gutters and into the tank. This water was used for drinking. It was also handy for other uses when water was scarce through times of drought. It was on this stand that I used to sit and call out to my grandfather, ‘I’m on my perch, Grandpa.’ I would repeat this for as long as it took for him to hear me from his grocer shop. When he could get free from his customers, he would bring me a little bag of sweets. There was a small access gate between my grandparents’ yard and our house. This made it easy for me to visit them and for Grandfather to come to us. I don’t recall Grandma visiting us very often, if at all.

Chapter 3

Pre-School

G randfather owned a motor vehicle. I forgot the type, but it was a large saloon with a step for entry. It was only used on weekends, and during the week rested in a garage situated at the rear of the property. He didn’t drive, or if he did, he elected not to and relied on Dad to drive the car when necessary. I don’t know whether he couldn’t drive, had never learned, or whether he felt he was too old. He was 64 years of age when I was born. Reasonably regularly on weekends Dad would take us all out in this car for a drive. All of us were included, Dad, Grandpa, Grandma, Mum, and we three children. Other than these times, the car would sit in Grandpa’s garage not being used.

During one such drive, I was standing up in the backseat behind my dad who was driving. I was amusing myself with a rubber band that I had picked up from somewhere. Discovering that the rubber band stretched and recovered with some force when released, I experimented with this phenomenon behind Dad’s ear. The resultant hefty sting caused him to yell with pain, stop the car, and give me another lesson with his belt. Needless to say, I didn’t play with rubber bands again while out in the car.

For transport, Dad owned a motorbike and sidecar. We would all journey forth jammed into the sidecar for the Sunday drive or transport to some place of business.

Occasionally on a Saturday night, we all would attend the Payneham Institute for the movies. Black-and-white, of course, although from what I can remember, they were talkies. This outing would incur a walk to the pictures, about one mile, and another mile back, of course, but it was worth it. As I grew older, I was allowed to sit with the other boys down at the front of the cinema, or in the spits as the front seats were called. Each week the proprietor of the cinema was kept busy trying, sometimes unsuccessfully, to keep the youngsters quiet. I can remember on one occasion being thrown out with several other boys for being continually too rowdy and boisterous. I had to wait outside in the dimly lit and cold Payneham Road for Mum and Dad to emerge and recover me when the movies were finished. I didn’t get the belt, but Dad was not impressed and I shivered with fear of the discipline I would be given upon arriving home. I can’t help thinking that these days there would be no way any child would be permitted to wait outside at that time of night. It would be too dangerous with the perverts and paedophiles who seemingly abound in our city. In fact, recently, during the year 2000, there was a woman murdered and hidden in the bushes right outside, and next door to, the institute where the movies were shown. The institute has been closed to movies for many years and has been converted to a Masonic temple.

There was no television in those days. Neither did we have a telephone or refrigerator or many other conveniences that have become essentials in modern times. We had a wireless, one only, the forerunner to the modern-day radio. It was in a large cabinet and stood in pride of place, in our dining room.

We had a meat safe to keep the meat edible. It was an open box covered with fly wire and hung above the ground from the rear veranda ceiling. We also had an icebox. We would buy a block of ice from the ice delivery man to maintain cold storage in which Mum kept food and drinks. In the winter, when we didn’t need ice, we would buy wood from the same delivery person for our cooking stove and lounge-room fire. If we didn’t take ice in the summer, we would not get any wood in the winter and vice versa. This restriction would be illegal these days, but in those times, it was a sure way for the ice and wood vendor to maintain a steady, balanced business.

Dad had a friend called Tony who was a market gardener. Tony had migrated from Italy in the early 1930s. Every time he visited us, he would bring a pocketful of sweets for us children. He was a good bloke and would joke about the recent migrants of the time being referred to as new Australians while he, who had been here for years, was still an old ‘Dago’. This was his term, not ours, although many referred to Italians as Dagos without any thought of racial bias. We were cruel to our migrants in those days.

The advent of luxuries was rare, and anyone who produced sweets, such as Tony gave us, was immediately accepted as a good sport.

Guy Fawkes Day was always a big day for us. It was a celebration of the day that an Englishman called Guy Fawkes attempted to destroy the English Parliament by using explosives. The night of Guy Fawkes Day was also known as Cracker Night. Most people would have some form of celebration. Some would have a small private party with their own bonfire, whilst others would attend a community evening where a large bonfire would burn an effigy of Guy Fawkes. In the evening, we would all gather and explode our firecrackers. For a time, the day was shifted from November 5 to April, to reduce the bushfire danger. In later years, it has been outlawed altogether as a dangerous practice. Many serious accidents occurred causing bodily harm, mostly involving children. However, it was accepted as a source of great excitement by the children, and dare I say fathers, of my day. It was an occasion of fun, and when I was a father of small children myself, I enjoyed it immensely.

The day called for some preparation. Firstly we had to save enough money to buy fireworks and money was scarce, for these were the Depression days of the 1930s. My brother and I would dress up as tramps, blacken our faces, and do our best to disguise ourselves. Mum said it would be better if our neighbours did not recognise us as part of her family. I think she was joking.

Colin would put me in the wheelbarrow and together we would visit our neighbours, knock on their door, and sing them a song of Guy Fawkes. This was basically begging for money, but everyone took it in good heart. The song went like this:

Guy, Guy, Guy,

String him up high,

Stick him on a lamp-post and there let him die.

And so it went on.

We were only permitted to venture within our own close precinct, and so our collection was limited. Mum usually supplemented this collection with some money to ensure we had enough to buy a limited quantity of fireworks.

Other children would dress in disguise and beg for cracker money throughout the community.

The next activity was to select the fireworks. This meant an exciting and sometimes quarrelsome visit to the cracker shop. Sym Choon’s in Adelaide City was the central point for fireworks, but we usually settled for a local shop. Spinning wheels were popular, as were throwdowns, skyrockets, and jumping jacks. Bangers were a favourite with the boys as they made a lot of noise, and any spare ones could be used to light, put into the neighbour’s letter box, and wait for the exaggerated explosion. Many is the letter box that disintegrated with the force of the explosion.

Once we had made our purchases, we had to prepare our stuffed figure representing Guy Fawkes. A lot of effort went into this creation with a face painted onto the figure and fireworks stuck into it at strategic points around the body. We mainly used a wheat bag or similar and stuffed the body with paper or straw. It would be mounted as a central point of the bonfire.

Then we collected huge quantities of brush, sticks, tree branches, and other suitable timber, and built a bonfire around the stuffed figure. We were careful and responsible in that a clear area was selected, if not at home, then in an open park. In later years, the local church, scouts, football club, or other like groups organised the figure and bonfire.

At a predetermined time, the fire was lit and the crackers set off. Usually the girls fled screaming into the house or some protected building, while we boys would fall about laughing at their fright. We all had a great night.

As I said, in later years, these practices have been outlawed, but in our defence, times and variations of entertainment in those days were rare.

This was an exciting event and one we all looked forward to with a great deal of planning, which included weird plans to scare the girls with our crackers. Throwdowns were great for frightening the girls, as we would surreptitiously creep up on them and throw down a banger at their feet. The resultant explosion would hopefully frighten them witless.

Chapter 4

Brush with the Law

A nother popular pastime amongst the boys was bird-nesting. Vast areas of scrub were always available, and we would search for bird nests, steal any eggs, and prepare these for saving and cataloguing (although we didn’t know the meaning of the word cataloguing ). The preparation involved pricking a fine hole in both ends of the egg and blowing through one end to force the egg solution out of the other end.

The more affluent of us owned Daisy Airguns, which would shoot a small lead pellet. Birds were our target and we would save and mount the wings of the birds we shot.

Another popular pastime was crawling through the storm-water drains that abound in the St Peters, Joslin, Royston Park, and Payneham areas. The drains were approximately four feet wide and eighteen inches high, with outlets of about twelve inches by eighteen inches at each side of a road where the gutter met the drain.

We would travel miles in these drains, identifying orchards where we could raid the fruit and return to the drain before the owners could catch us. There we would sit in the dark confines of the drain and eat our spoils. Hygiene was non-existent, and our hands were black with the drain residue and other foul deposits. We could not take the fruit home for Mother would have been horrified and use her dreaded cane.

If children did the same thing today, parents would be very upset and demand a closing of the drains.

The roads in those days were relatively safe. Although there were motor vehicles, they were not as prolific as they are today, nor were they as quiet. One could hear the vehicles coming from a long way off. The roads, particularly in the suburbs, were used for playgrounds and pastimes such as war games, cricket matches, football, and any other interest we could create. It was quite common to have what we called soapbox races down any steep hill in the vicinity. The soapbox carts consisted of an open wooden crate with a long flat stabilising board fixed to it, at each end of which was a pair of wheels. These wheels would be made of any available and suitable material we could find. The more affluent children would have small spoked wheels recovered from an old baby perambulator or similar. Others, less fortunate, would fashion round wheels out of suitably sized wooden blocks. The front wheels would be mounted on a crossbeam attached to the main frame by a centrally located bolt, thus allowing the wheel axle to swivel. This would be controlled by a piece of rope attached to each end of the axle. And so we would have a vehicle in which we could speed down a hill, guiding it around obstacles. Alas, there were no brakes other than planting our feet on the road and trying to skid to a halt. This was usually unsatisfactory and many a tumble resulted in torn and bleeding knees—not to mention the worn-out shoes. To build these contraptions, we used to scrounge suitable materials from any available source. Our fathers’ workshops and sheds came in handy for this exercise.

When I was old enough to become interested in this sport, I began to yearn for my own soapbox. The yearning became almost unbearable, and I would have given or done anything to own one. I would sit for hours watching the other kids race down any road that had an incline, and the steeper this incline was, the greater the risk and the better the fun. I knew better than to ask Mum for any money to buy one, and I don’t think there was any shop that sold them anyway. My brother Colin, who was very clever with his hands even at that stage, would not help. This refusal was mainly because I was his little brother who should be seen and not heard, and also because he had a fetish, and still does, that I should be sufficiently industrious to build my own. Little did he know that I didn’t have the confidence or the ability to build my own. Even now this philosophy still applies between him and me. I have the knowledge, but not the confidence when it comes to venturing into the dark, secret world of practical, physical work.

This burning desire for a soapbox brought about my first skirmish with the law. A friend, Brian, who lived further along the street from our house, and I decided to build a soapbox or go-cart each, but had no available materials that would suit such a purpose. It occurred to us that we needed a wooden fruit case, and there were plenty of these at the jam factory about two miles from our house. So after school, off we went to investigate any opportunities that would enable us to get the wooden crates we needed. There they were, neatly stacked and high enough for us to see them over the rear boundary fence of the factory. They were brand-new, clean, and white and just the right size for our plans. How could we resist the temptation to take a couple for our own use? Perhaps they were intentionally put there for the neighbourhood boys. So over the fence we went and grabbed two of them. We threw them over the fence and followed them by throwing ourselves over the fence to avoid being seen and caught. Who knew what the penalty would be if we were caught? These days some would say that we were young and didn’t know what we were doing, or that we were underprivileged and couldn’t really be blamed for our action. We well and truly knew what we were doing, that it was wrong, and that we would get a hell of a hiding if we were caught. All of this was forgotten in the excitement of what our go-carts would mean to our profile and prestige among our peers. But if we could have used the modern-day excuse, we certainly would have done so.

Trudging home that evening with the box slung across my shoulders, almost completely covering my head and upper body, I passed the home of a family friend just a few blocks down the hill from my home. Jean, the daughter of the household, who was quite a lot older than I, asked what did I have there. I boldly told her with not a little pride that I had got it from the jam factory and that it was to be my go-cart. How was I to know that her father was a foreman at the factory and that there had been a sudden splurge of worker’s meals stolen from their lunch room in recent times? I managed to get the box home and into Dad’s shed without anyone of my family noticing. Luckily I wasn’t late for tea or I would have got it from Mum. No one queried why I was puffing, a natural result caused by the recent exertion and excitement of obtaining a major component for my cart. I slept restlessly, dreaming about the construction of the cart and, more particularly, how I would beat all comers when it was finished.

The next day I hurried home from school to begin the construction, which had been planned during the day with my friend, right down to the smallest detail.

I arrived home only to find, surprisingly, that Dad was home. It was unusual that he should be home at that hour. His face was solemn and I could see that something was dreadfully wrong. He didn’t greet me other than to say that someone was in our formal sitting room and wanted to see me. A feeling of dread began to consume me. I was rarely permitted into this part of the house—and never unless I was all dressed up. At those times I had to behave because we had visitors. So up the passage to the sitting room I went to see who wanted me, knowing in my heart that something dreadful was wrong. I didn’t connect this summons with my beautiful soapbox waiting for me in the shed, only a little miffed that this strange meeting was delaying my getting started on the construction so eagerly anticipated.

Upon entering the lounge, my heart hit the floor. I suddenly felt weak and nauseous. My knees buckled and I thought I would fall. There, sitting in one of the lounge chairs always reserved for the most important visitor, was the largest policeman I had ever seen. He seemed enormous and was dressed in full police uniform, displaying three white stripes on the sleeves of his coat. Sergeant Dangerfield, who was in charge of the St Peters Police Station, looked very solemn. Crikey, what had I done? I instinctively knew that I had been sprung and my single-minded desire for a soapbox had resulted in big trouble for me.

He proceeded to question me about the box, demanding that I tell him how I had got it. In quiet, fearful, and stammering sentences, I detailed my expedition of the previous day. He lectured me at length about the risks in stealing and what would become of me if I ever did something like this again. I was shaking with fear and was sure that I was about to spend the rest of my life in jail. Even my tears of shame, and perhaps fear, didn’t soften his hard, strong, and severe face. He never once asked me who my accomplice was, nor did I offer this information, although I got the feeling he knew. It seemed many hours that I was subjected to his tirade, but in truth, it must have been only a few minutes. However, it was sufficiently long to make a lifelong impression on me.

Finally, and with a very stern warning, he finished with the instruction to return the box the following evening to the factory and, in particular, the foreman, the father of my friend down the street. I didn’t mention that he was also a member of our church. I had really stuffed up.

At various stages throughout everyone’s life, we are subject to temptation, and some of us unfortunately succumb with often drastic results, sometimes leading to a life of crime. Whenever temptation has happened to me during my life, I clearly see the sergeant sitting in the lounge chair, sternly lecturing me about the need for honesty.

What a lesson my dad and the sergeant gave me. If only we could have this type of guidance in these so-called enlightened, modern times. I am sure there would be less crime and many persons saved from a life of criminal activity.

Mum and Dad never mentioned the incident, and to all intents and purposes, it never happened. But it remained in the forefront of my mind for the rest of my life.

I had several dealings with the sergeant after that visit, but for the most part, they were all less stressful and more positive.

I was only about 8 years of age at the time.

Chapter 5

Religion and the Relatives

M y grandfather was a great man and I loved him to the day he died. He was a reasonably large man, or seemed to be from my small-boy status, with flowing white hair. He always wore heavy dark trousers (with braces to hold them up, assisted by a belt), heavy shoes or boots, and a waistcoat. He rarely refused us when we asked him to have a kick of the football out on the street. Grandma was a quiet small person who gave the impression of supporting Grandpa in all things. She was a reasonable artist, and some of her paintings were hung in their home. I never saw her actually painting, but a couple of her works were on the wall for all to see. One of my sincere regrets is that I didn’t have the opportunity to acquire one of these paintings when she died. She was always kind to me, although I don’t remember too much about her, other than the stories I heard about her giving Mum a hard time. She apparently retained a strong influence on Dad, and this played no small part in causing what was to happen in later years.

Both of my grandparents were very strong for the church and would attend church twice each Sunday, morning and night. With Junior Endeavor and Sunday School, my Sundays were very busy. I liked nothing better than to sit in church with Grandpa after Junior Endeavor and Sunday School. They had their special seat that had hearing aids installed, so assisting my grandparents in hearing every word of the sermon. Although I often wondered if they were completely honest and used the hearing aids only to pretend they were listening when, in fact, they would doze. I found the sermons boring but would sit straight and upright copying my grandfather. Then there was the collection, and Grandfather had a pre-issued envelope into which he would have placed his offering before going to church. He would allow me to place the envelope into the offering plate, a duty that I carried out with much pride.

Then there was our Sunday School anniversary, when all the children would sit on elevated platforms in the front of the church and sing songs of praise that had been practised to perfection for many weeks. The girls wore white dresses and white shoes, and the boys, grey trousers, white shirts, and ties, the colour I can’t remember. We boys would try to sit next to our particular favourite girlfriend of the time. These celebrations extended for two Sundays, with teas and other functions in between.

Our annual Sunday School picnic was an event never to be missed and was usually held within a short bus-trip distance from Adelaide. We had running races, novelty races, drinks, food, sweets, prizes, and many other events all designed to give the children a grand time. We usually finished up sunburnt and violently ill through eating and drinking too much rubbish food and refreshments.

As I will explain later, I continued to be involved in church activities and remained active within the church for some years during my adolescence and late teen years.

Now about my extended family.

Grandparents.

I can only discuss my paternal grandparents (Bates) as I never knew my maternal grandparents (Charlesworth). They both died well before I was born.

Grandfather, Joshua Bates, migrated with his parents to Australia at the age of 2 years. This must have been about the year 1868. He came from Wales in the United Kingdom. I don’t know anything of his family, although I used to hear him talk of an Uncle Johnny who I think was his older brother. One day, given time, I would like to search and discover the family tree details.

His family lived in Wallaroo, and I don’t know whether his father, my great-grandfather, was a miner or a bread baker. Obviously he was one or the other.

Grandfather used to tell me the story about his brother Johnny and himself when they were both little boys. One day they walked down to the Wallaroo jetty and pooled their total pocket money, a halfpenny each, to make one penny, the cost of an oyster. Grandfather agreed to this business proposition providing he could have the first bite. His brother agreed and the contract proceeded. In a flash of a second, disaster struck. Upon taking the first bite of the juicy large oyster, the whole oyster slipped down Grandfather’s throat and nothing was left for his brother Johnny. Grandfather was chased all the way home, with his brother Johnny kicking his bottom at almost every step. Some eighty years later, Grandfather still got a ‘kick’ out of telling the story and would