Positive Paradox

By Kev Richardson

A farewell life story of one turned author in his sixtieth year, every one of his twenty-six WingsePress novels earning Five-Star awards and even more, from recognized reviewers.

How difficult is it to write your own life story?

Every tale needs a satisfactory ending, yet until departed, the end isn't visible. Aren't authors expected to finish their tale with a big bang?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613093566

Book preview

Preface

Attending a class offering hints on public speaking, and that was more years ago than I can name, I was told there were three rules in respect of structure...that any presentation should be in three parts:

Tell your audience what you are going to tell ‘em...

Then you tell ‘em what you came there to tell ‘em...

Then you tell ‘em what you’ve told ‘em!

In other words, briefly outline the major points of your subject; better still, write them on the blackboard, what in today’s language means click your short list up on the screen, then explain it in simple language, then sum up.

The prepared presentation: Outline your thesis as you go, clicking snippets of information up on the screen and leave them there so those wanting to cast their minds back on something, can do so. And when moving to each new matter, point your cue or click your red spot on the applicable heading. This is just to let your audience know that you are sticking to the rules. What it is also doing of course, is keeping their minds on the required course. Isn’t everything that we do built around others leaning to our way of thinking?

At the end, use your cue or roving red spot to point out each headline, summing up the major points. That ensures all the things they came to hear have been covered, except only what is asked at question time.

Whenever on a dais, I used that principle, yes, in the blackboard and cue days, particularly when delivering my address Australia’s Convict Beginnings or as I sometimes called it, The Founding of White Australia. For several years after Australia’s Bicentenary celebrations in 1988, I gave that delivery in every Australian capital city as well as in seven other English language countries around the world. Could you believe that once in an audience, a lady with a very strong Louisiana accent dared ask me how Australians got their strange accent...I recall in summing up my answer, that nobody in the world had an accent, ‘until leaving home!’

I’ve tried to avoid repeating episodes covered in past novels, for so many of my personal experiences were told under the name of that novel’s fictional character, yet there are some for which this work requires a retelling, so I must risk what might seem ‘doubling-up’ to readers with excellent memories.

The essence of this tale is to highlight one of the major realisations in my life...that so many of the hurtful periods I suffered, proved in fact to have been the bases of so many later joyful experiences. The Oxford English Dictionary has a most thought-provoking way of expressing it... Being paradoxically illogical, in a way that negates itself, in a self-contradictory manner.

Such reminiscences have alerted my consciousness to the fact that so many ‘achievements’ in my life proved themselves successful only for having been made possible by sour incidences in earlier years. In other words, I was able to achieve several rewarding things, only because a door to that particular life’s channel had been opened for me by a sad occasion. I shall hint at each as I go, for I have recognised late in life that they are clear indications of positive thinking on sour incidents having worked in my favour.

Patterns of life, I found, can only be established for the best results if approached with a positive attitude, even if one has, on occasions, tongue in cheek when approaching them.

Challenging homework on an upcoming event, however, really pays off.

I shall start with quick looks at hurtful childhood incidences that, in summing up, were indeed backgrounds in macabre sorts of ways, to laying the path to future joys...paradoxical transformations simply established by positive thinking.

Or that is how life, when looking back on it, seemed to have organised itself for me.

Call me Kev or Ric. I’ll even tell how the nickname stemmed from a childhood impasse over which I had no control. On reading this, in case I should still be alive and looking forward to hearing from you, look up my website. It’s easy to remember: www.kev-richardson.com.

BOOK 1

My Domestic and Working Life

1929 – 1989

One

The fact that changes will happen in people’s lives struck me at an early age.

I didn’t set out to learn things in particular until later of course, simply grew up finding that everybody had a place in a thing called ‘family.’ Mine was Mum, Dad and Valerie.

Names came later, but Mum was the one with a nice smell and warm paps that I liked to suck. That was happiness. Dad was he with the deep voice; Val was she who nursed me sometimes, tickling me under the chin. That was then, I guess, all there was to life.

An early consciousness was that everything had its different smell. Yet in the main, one doesn’t notice how gradually everything around you develops change.

Being born in the late 1920s had me aware in early years of my parents struggling through the world’s great depression. Australia was considered ‘distant’ by the rest of the world, although I realised how distant only when in later life, I began travelling abroad.

In early days, except for the one percent of the population comprising government personalities and the few businessmen in an agricultural community, Australians didn’t travel abroad at all. Few could afford the time and cost of a month’s sailing on a passenger steamer to reach England, our nearest major business centre in the world and from where our ancestors hailed.

Australian industry in those days was mainly mining and making steel for England’s mills. We were otherwise a community growing mostly wheat and bananas or raising sheep for exporting wool, or grazing cattle as food. In those days, we were landlocked...only people like Amelia Earhart and Australia’s own ‘Smithy’ (Sir Charles Kingsford Smith), flew things called aeroplanes...a decidedly risky hobby!

Ninety-nine percent of Aussies when growing up, simply never knew about such things as ‘foreign countries.’ We were indeed an island. We didn’t realise that in the 1930s we were one of the most insular peoples in the world. When World War Two began in 1939 we had a population of only seven million people, mostly ‘on the land.’

Australia’s Aborigines are believed to be one of the oldest peoples in the world and ‘Whiteman,’ as Europeans were initially termed by them in their own several languages, arrived only in 1788 when Britain declared it a prison for petty crime convicts...a white nation of ninety percent illiterates.

English prisons were then bursting at the seams. America’s War of Independence ensured that Britain suffered more than severe embarrassment...it could no longer ship its surplus petty convicts to the Americas under the guise of ‘bonded servants.’

Where can we send them? was the cry. It had already been established that if sent to Egypt or the Sudan, English people would likely die of thirst, if to South Africa, of jungle diseases, and Canada’s future was still to be established in respect of France’s claims.

What about this Botany Bay that Jamie Cook discovered in the south Pacific? one bright character asked. He watered his ship at what he named Botany Bay on its east coast, and reported several rivers emptying into the Pacific Ocean. That was twenty years ago and we’ve never followed it up.

The authorities claimed they couldn’t wait another twelve to fifteen months to learn more from an advance inspection party. Cook had already noted that along that entire coast, natives abounded, which meant the country grew foodstuffs.

On that meagre information, an order for despatching seven hundred and fifty convicts was submitted to the king, who signed it. Adding military as guards and a handful of administrators, made the number being despatched, a thousand, none with knowledge of what awaited them other than food, water and maybe hostile natives.

When the last convict put feet ashore in Perth, Western Australia in 1868, eighty years after the first, the total of convicts landed was in the vicinity of one hundred and sixty-two thousand. The exact number differs on several surviving records.

The first contingent of whites was termed The First Fleet. Eleven ships made the journey, stopping for food and water at Tenerife, Rio de Janeiro, and Cape Town, the latter for a month to purchase cattle, goats, horses, sheep, rabbits, vegetable seeds and seedlings.

The journey to Botany Bay took eight months but on arrival, no fresh water could be found. The appointed Governor Phillip began sailing north, seeking the mouth of a river. After just a half day’s sail, he discovered the spectacular Sydney Harbour, one of the biggest in the world. Small rivers ran into it ensuring fresh water. No obvious food was growing, but there were many natives, proving that food of some description was to be found. Certainly an abundance of strange animals seemed available...provided the resident natives were prepared to share.

On the beach with the largest stream flowing into it, the British flag was raised, the site named Sydney and the entire territory proclaimed New South Wales. Today that beach is smothered by the city terminal of harbour ferries. On its eastern headland today is the famous Sydney Opera House and on its western, the southern pylon of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

That longest single-span bridge in the world took eight years to build and I was three years of age when it opened in 1932.

And I was among the half-million people who that day walked across it! my father would later keep reminding me.

Sydney to me, however, was not then the metropolis it has become. To me, it was simply, ‘home.’

The bridge saves North Shore people much time, Mother would tell me, for we lived in the north shore suburb of Naremburn. The name ‘North Shore,’ I was to learn, designated all suburbs on the north side of the harbour. Downtown Sydney was built on the southern shore. No longer did North Shore residents have to depart their trams or trains on harbour edge to board ferries to take them across for work or shopping. Trams and trains each had double lines on the bridge descending into tunnels beneath the city proper. Pedestrian walkways were either side of the bridge, which boasted six traffic lanes. Nowadays however, not only were the two lanes for trams made additional motorways, but there is a multi-lane tunnel under the harbour to ease traffic problems. I recently came across a record stating that the weight of steel in Sydney Harbour Bridge when built was fifty-two thousand tons...back when a ton was 2,240 lb weight.

~ * ~

I started preschool at age four and the girls’ school being adjacent, Valerie, two and a half years my senior, escorted me the two long blocks there and back each day.

I loved school. Having lots of boys to romp with was a wonderful experience and in class we were taught to make paper darts for throwing at each other. School was all good fun.

One afternoon however, Val was to find me in tears.

For the first time in my life I had been faced with something I couldn’t handle.

I just need to quickly get home so I can tell Mum, I stammered.

Tell her what?

I was simply too embarrassed to tell Val.

I can’t tell you, only Mum. And once home, I was in tears again.

When the curious Valerie had been despatched, I blurted out...The big boys in the toilet peed all over my legs and shoes. I was too frightened to pee. I wet my pants later.

I cannot now recall Father’s reaction on arriving home from work (across the bridge), but I do recall my mother insisting on accompanying me to pre-school the next day. Mum asked if I had told the teacher, a young woman.

No. I had been too embarrassed. I do recall that I worried too, that had I told her, I might be in even more trouble from boys in the big school which shared the large toilet with the preschool. I was to learn later that my father had insisted Mother talk not with the teacher she had met when enrolling me, but the main boys’ school headmaster.

Always go to the top, he was later to keep instructing me when in any sort of problem. People at a lower level are too inclined to overlook things rather than risk finding themselves in an argument.

It was advice that I followed for the rest of my life.

Mother had grown up learning, during the depression in particular, to shut eyes at everything except what she believed were her rights. I was to discover later how her strength in that sort of incident had become so determined. She had been the eldest in a large family with a drunken father and had been able to attend school for only two years in her entire life. She had to look after boarders when her mother seemed almost always ill in pregnancy. My mum’s major learning was to insist on her rights!

The headmaster knew about the problem. It’s the depression, ma’am, he explained. Too many families in this depression cannot afford shoes for their sons and the boys tend to take it out on those who obviously come from families with a working father.

Yes, my husband works, but has had to accept a pay cut and I have to be careful with costs. But I grew up without shoes and have sworn that my children would never have to do that. Do you want me to go to the education department and complain there?

I recall being taken to a classroom in the ‘big-boy’ school and asked to point out the guilty boy. I couldn’t remember the boy in particular. There seemed several who it might have been. When I balked, my mother insisted I must have looked at the boy who was doing it, so I pointed to one.

He denied it of course. I never found out what happened from there on in the matter, except that it never happened again.

So going to the man at the top when in a tight situation, I learned, is obviously the right thing to do.

I recall my parents over dinner that night explaining that I did quite the right thing by appealing for family help when experiencing something I didn’t understand.

Without realising it, boy, Dad explained, you did exactly that. You wouldn’t tell Val; you insisted on it being Mum. That’s why Mum and I are here. You need to remember that when finding yourself with any further problem.

So I slowly returned to enjoying the company of several boys my age, even reaching the stage of being allowed, four of us from the same street, going to school unescorted, so long as we stayed together. We had only one major road to cross, with tramlines, right on the corner of the school, so teachers were always on duty for that crossing.

Six months later, on turning five, I qualified for the big-boys’ school.

By then, I was not only enjoying lessons, but had made some strong friends to spend time with after school and during weekends, at either their homes or mine.

During that time, Mum’s nearest sister, Myrtle, had had a break-up in her marriage. She decided she no longer wanted either husband or son. She simply walked out on husband Tom and son Stanley, Stan two years older than Valerie.

Dad and Uncle Tom had been close friends for years and Mum and Myrtle reached argument over Myrtle denying Stanley motherly love. Yet Myrtle was unmoved. She would live alone, taking in sewing to earn her keep. She moved into a boarding house. Mum and Dad had no hesitation in taking in Stanley. Uncle Tom would board with his brother’s family in nearby Cammeray. I never learned all the detail, except that I was to have Stan as a brother rather than cousin.

I think Mum was never to speak another word to Myrtle for the rest of their lives.

~ * ~

Six months later was the first real major disappointment in my life...The depression having somewhat subsided, business was picking up and my father was given a significant promotion. We were needing an extra bedroom anyway. It wasn’t Stan’s joining the family that unsettled my life, for I found him good company, but that as we grew, we needed a bigger house and now Dad could afford it. They found a place they liked in the neighbouring suburb of Willoughby. In those days, I was to later discover, only the rich could afford their own houses. The vast majority rented.

I was desperately saddened at having to move school, losing all the mates I’d found.

Does this sort of thing happen all along a person’s life? I wondered, or is this an exception? Just as I am getting used to things around me, life starts making changes. I’m simply told to give everything up...my home, school and mates.

No matter how I tried looking at things, nothing altered the fact that with all around me starting to fall into some strange pattern, I was simply told that life must start afresh. The only things stable for me was having Mum, Dad, Valerie and Stan. Everything else was to be like starting life anew.

Even the wonderful sense of security I have about this house is gone. I wonder if it will mean starting a whole new life in which I mightn’t be so happy?

I had discovered the long word ‘disappointment.’

~ * ~

When you are older, you will come to understand that everyone’s life gets changed as the world changes, I was instructed by Dad when he sensed how I felt. And the world keeps changing because every soul in our world learns new things as they get older. You learned how to use your feet more carefully so you stopped falling over so often. You learned to like different foods as you got older. You learned to find your own way to school instead of being led by elders. You learned not to pee on other boys’ shoes. You learned how life began teaching you new things every day.

These were the sorts of platitudes my parents and even my teacher were explaining. I worked out that school itself was a means of giving me more things to consider, reason out the ‘why’ word that Mum reckoned I was ever on about.

When we moved into our Willoughby house, they set me to listing up things to be done.

We cannot think of everything, boy, I was told. The entire family must work as a team. We need to add all thoughts together, so you start making your list. That’s called planning. Get Stan to help you if you must, for he had to do it when moving here. Here is an example...We will need to build a fence in the garden so we can get the dog you’ve always wanted. Work out how we should go about building that.

I was, of course, excited about getting a dog, and made to feel pretty important when asked to make a list of what things needed doing.

It certainly is a nice house and yes, I guess we now needed a ‘boy’ bedroom and ‘girl’ bedroom and a room Dad called his ‘study.’

So I was expecting to be given some pretty testy assignments.

At my new school, to which Val and I could walk together, for they were again adjacent, I started having sessions with the new mates I was to find myself amongst. I also had found that one needed mates; they always proved useful in a nice sort of way...like Dad was always ready to answer questions.

I’d long ago realised how he had already given things forethought.

When alone in bed tonight, you just do two mental sums, he told me over another dinner. Add up all the reasons you’ve been told why we must move and store that number in your memory. Then add up all the things you have to do to make your life happy again. I am sure you will find the second adds up to many more than the first. Start with the fact that the Willoughby school is bigger than Naremburn, offering more friends to mate with. Another is that with the larger garden here, we can get the dog. You just add to that list. Tell me at breakfast how many of those things you found to compare.

I recall then asking Mum if I could go to bed straight after dinner!

We moved to Lea Avenue, Willoughby and one of the first good points for my list was that the back paling fence had a mature raspberry vine smothering it. And we had mature apple, red plum and peach trees with fruit just there for the picking. We would need a ladder.

Dad had me help design and buy the materials for building a wire fence for the dog, and to erect it. We talked about the sort of dog and ended up with a puppy-sized jet black Labrador bitch and agreed on the name ‘Gypsy.’

Stan joining us added lots of points in my estimation of him when assuring me that if I had bigger kids picking on me at this school, I should just let him know as he knew a way to keep Aunty Ame (i.e: my mum) out of it. He held up a closed fist in front of my eyes and gave me a smile and wink.

~ * ~

Too soon after being transferred to the ‘big-boy’ school and feeling on top of the world that I’d made good mates, I was told another move had to take place.

We’ve no choice in this one, Dad said by way of duty to Val and me at the dinner table one night, and by way of apology to Stan.

Things have been going so well for me at work, he told us, that I have been promoted to manager for the state of Queensland. We must move to Brisbane.

After a long minute of horror that I was again to be torn from everything I liked about the way my life had been building, I felt Ego holding up a palm in front of my eyes. I had learned at Sunday School that inside my mind lived two ‘influences,’ one an alter-ego that should be considered a trusted friend, ever trying to influence me to take good or correct paths in life...an angel of God. The other was the devil that tried leading one along bad or immoral paths.

When anything bothered my mind and I sought a worthwhile opinion on it, I had come to feel that Dad’s opinion was pretty near right. I queried him on the angel and devil tale...

"I don’t know about an angel of God, lad, for there are many religions in the world and only some believe in God, yet these two elements do exist in every person from their moment of birth. What we call animals have their standards of right and wrong, as does mankind. Yes, you indeed have an alter-ego. Let’s call him Ego for short and he is influencing your every thought and action. Him we call Devil is only on the negative side. Every one of us is influenced by one or the other. We each have to consider before taking action which has the most positive appeal. Ego is the positive course, and Devil negative. That’s about the easiest way of describing it, lad. Positive thinking brings us joy more often than disappointment. Negative thinking brings mostly sadness and regret. When an idea comes into your mind, just quickly ask yourself if it is Ego talking to you, or Devil."

But Brisbane? According to Dad’s big book that he calls Atlas, Sydney to Brisbane is a thousand miles by a ‘circuitous’ road.

When I asked about circuitous, Dad explained that the direct coastal route north had several wide rivers, too wide to have to build so many big bridges.

And most rivers are so fast-flowing that large enough car ferries cannot be built. Maybe one day, boy, when there are more people in this country and more motor cars, we will hopefully see ferries, but six or seven big bridges? I reckon by the time you are my age, you might see that happening. Meanwhile we have to drive over the Great Dividing Range just north of Sydney, to the western plains. Then the long road north to the mountains along the Queensland border, then across the Dividing Range again, to the coast. The only sealed roads are inside the larger towns. Most roads from here to Brisbane are impassable in the wet. So there are no buses.

So what was called the Pacific Highway wasn’t a through road at all and most of the inland roads, unsealed and rocky.

The train line has that same problem, lad, and also has to take the inland route. There are plans to add sleeping carriages to trains but I think they are talking of another year or so. Until then, it’s sit up all through the night. There is a dining car for dinner and breakfast, but one has that uncomfortable night. I’ll fortunately have plenty of paperwork to do en-route, for I’ve fifteen hours to fill. Most people still like the ocean liners.

Will we be on an ocean liner?

You, Val and Mum and Gypsy will be, but I have to go by train. I go next week. You three have to pack up everything and see to quitting the house, have all the furniture shipped to Brisbane and things like that. You and Val will have to help your mum.

And Stan? I was by then used to Stan being a normal part of the family.

Stan leaves us on the weekend. Uncle Tom is taking him to share his room at Cammeray. Uncle Tom is a carpenter by trade and will build an extension to that house.

Dad explained how Gypsy would have a cage in the ship’s luggage area, but I could take her for walks on a leash. You might even be allowed to help prepare her food in the galley, boy, and feed her. It will be two nights and you should arrive after breakfast on the third day. Ask your mum if she can organise you helping out come Gypsy’s feed-time.

You’ve told me to always go to the top man. I’ll just ask the captain.

Dad laughed. "I doubt you’ll get to meet the captain, lad. Westralia is our biggest coastal liner. But you can ask around once out of the harbour and into the open ocean."

A couple of Dad’s brothers had motor-cars they used in their businesses, and after Dad had gone, helped