Growing up in Sydney in a family that did not own a motor car limits my selections, so I’ve chosen two early childhood memories and a mid-teenage incident.
 
The first involved a tray bodied truck owned and driven by dad with my elder brother Greg and myself. I’m pretty sure my younger brother was just a wrinkle on dad’s brow, as this is just in the memory box.  We were travelling along Canterbury Rd. Punchbowl – Bankstown when the brakes failed. Dad was able to crash the gears down and turn into a small side street that ended in a creek. Dad gave the order to abandon ship and Greg and I dutifully jumped out without serious injury. The truck stopped in the creek at an oblique angle and that’s the end of the memory. This was the last time ever, that dad drove a vehicle. The prospect of injuring his children and his own fright of the accident, drew simliar emotions from his war time experiences. Reflecting, with lots of unstated knowledge, I’m very sure this triggered the first of what is now called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
 
The second is a clearer memory as a four to five year old and involves a previously cited memoir of neighbour “London.” There was no back fence so London strolled up asked me if I wanted to go for a ride in his car. Mum agreed, so off we went. The vehicle was a dark coloured 1930’s something with running boards and there my knowledge based inventory of motor cars ends. I was the front seat passenger, a privileged position and enjoying the familiar scenery of Josephine St. albeit from my new elevated front seat visage.
 
As we passed Nettleton St. my door flew open and out swung “young Morro” care-free, and flapping merrily in the breeze, much to the mortification of London. The window was down courtesy of 1950’s air conditioning and I remember holding onto the door post and shouting with glee at this novel experience. The legs must have found the running board as the car slowed down and stopped, with “young Morro” safe and sound.
 
When we returned home mum recalls asking if George (aka London) was OK - as he was white as a sheet. Over the years, the incident was mentioned a few times but always with the Albion faced George taking dominance.

Well, “young Morro” is 16 in 1967 and attending the P.M.G.’s Technicians’ Training School at St. Peters Sydney.
 
One lunch break saw me in an old rusted FX Holden sedan driven and owned by Paul Dalby of Cootamundra. My fellow passengers were Theo Dentrinos of Wellington and “Lizard” from Lismore.  Returning, we were driving along a busy road and braking when in slow motion it happened. A parked tray truck had a large concrete cylinder strapped on its tray. The overhang was enormnous and visibly apparent to all of us. This truck illegally started to enter into the traffic, forcing Paul to brake and stop to avoid a collision. Well, the overhang hit and snapped an electricity pole bring the wire down on our vehicle and the truck.
 
I mentioned the slow motion aspect. As the truck hit the pole the apparent danger of the overhead wires coming down became apparent. All four of us managed to lift our feet just before the wires hit Paul’s car. We froze. The sparks and blue electric flashes lit up the scene Guy Fawkes would have been proud of. The pole fell away from us onto a number of parked and fortunately unattended vehicles.
 
The scene remained in limbo for some time, we were not getting out of the car and neither was anyone else or the nearby pedestrians. Shop owners found prudence in keeping their distance from the still arcing and moving overhead wires.
 
We eventually drove off and returned after the lunch break. Paul was able to show the supervising technician the gash blisters on the roof and bonnet of the FX, visible reasons for our tardiness. We were not docked any pay, from memory $18 a fortnight.
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Graeme Morris
June 2023
 

George and Beatie DOHRN

George and “Aunty” Beatie were our backyard neighbours. Our family moved in December 1951, from living in a tent in Bankstown, to the Morris home for the next 55 years in Napoleon St. Herne Bay. The Dohrn’s were domiciled in the next parallel street, Bonaparte St. The suburb was renamed Riverwood in 1959.
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For long as I can remember it was Aunty Beatie and London. Why George was called London, I do not know as he was born in Drummoyne Sydney in 1912. But London he was. There was no back fence, so our back yards became a commune for the two families to have many a social gathering. My elder brother and I were spoilt rotten by Aunty Beatie and we had a plentitude of sneaky biscuits and lollies. Mum would have known, but the genesis of the Morris boys being later accused of being MI6 agents for not passing on family gossip, had fertile roots here.

London and Beatie owned a motor car, a relative rarity then. We were often taken to San Sousi on Botany Bay to have picnic lunches and sometimes after dinner strolls along the waterfront on balmy summer evenings.  London’s car had wide running boards and from memory was an old 1930’s something, but to us it was a carriage fit for the Queen.

One day the sewage was put in. The easement along the back fence was more akin to WW 1 trenches, and it posed a barrier for a short while. I don’t recall, but one suspects Aunty Beatie tossed some goodies over the encumbrance.  But we have the magic of a flushing toilet, built under the roof but still outside – but that’s another story.

Then the back fence arrived, but not to worry, Dad put in a gate, so access was not denied. A few more years passed before Aunty Beatie and London moved to Brisbane for a short while, before purchasing a home on Marine Parade Kingscliffe, about 2 miles in the old money south of the Queensland border. An older two story building it had an uninterrupted view of the Pacific Ocean.

Contact was kept up by letters and Christmas Cards. It wasn’t till I was 15 that I went to visit them in Kingscliffe, an area still not on developer’s radar, a backwater with a bowling club come restaurant and a small grocery come milk bar and hardware store.
 
It was delightful to visit and spend time with these caring couple. It dawned on me that the Morris boys were the vicarious children that Beatie did not have – and that was OK by me.
Aware that Beatie had darker skin than most, I was mildly surprised to learn that Beatie was an aboriginal. It did not matter one iota and, as the years rolled by, I came to the conclusion that racism is taught to youngsters, but not in the Morris home. Meeting Beatie’s mob was so natural and normal.  The skill of how to catch sea worms in the waves sliding back over the sand was passed on to me. My catch was “donated” to the common bucket. The worms were then on sold to fisherman. This resulted in an invitation to a Sunday morning feast with the mob, a sign of acceptance. It was a holiday I’ll never forget.

Sadly, Beatie passed on in her 50’s and my children never met her. London was always pleased to see the family and maintained our friendship with that quietly affable old school manner.  My elder brother called to see London when he was in his 80’s. He was hesitant and asked who he was. Greg said, “If I call you London will that make any difference?” And it did. “The Dohrn’s” have a special niche in the lives of the Morris Families.
 
Graeme Morris
April 2023.

​Bob sets require an explanation to the younger readers, so one picture, a thousand words. Below is an advertisement that shows the toy. The mouse holes were numbered and one scored points by passing a ball through the gap, or double points by cannoning off the black. There rules are various and flexible and the largely depend on the distance the ball has to travel to multiply one’s score.

1959 and as an 8 years old, I’m left alone in the house for a while with the strict instructions not to get the bob set out, but to play in the yard. Mum and my brothers leave…….and who’s to know if I played bobs or not? One is not going to dob oneself in! Herein lies the story, the difference between tacit disobedience and reality.

The bobs were set up in the lounge room, with the back board near the gas fire. Normally played in the hallway, but a 90 turn, shortened the course for a “long” game, so the lounge room it was. On the tiled gas front stood a sentential vase, just another decorative object in the home. Things were going swimmingly with me competing in the “world championships.”

An eight year old does not do a risk assessment. Actions versus consequences, probability and actuality. What are odds? What are odds indeed! Well, the inevitable happened after a lusty shot, the wooden ball aerially departing the safety rails and over the mouse holes directly into and smashing mum’s vase. The vase was beyond redemption and so was I. Packing the bobs away and placing the vase shards in the unaffected base, all I could do was wait my fate.
 
What happened when mum returned is etched in my memory and is one of those moments when wishing the clock could be turned back.

Mum was beside herself with grief and her emotional response was something I had never witnessed or seen in a parent. Two years earlier, mum gave birth to my sister, Jennifer, who did not live out the day due to a hole in the heart. Of all the sympathy cards, mum’s Aunty Susannah Tregenza [nee Beauvais 1886-1966] sent her the vase. This vase had a very special place in mum’s memories and grieving process – and I unlocked the tender grief all over again. It was her most precious object.

I could have sat on sixpence and dangled my legs over the side.

Well, the bobs disappeared forever, but I’ve no memory of how mum recollected her composure in the passing days. Redemption came in 1976 when our only daughter was born and named Jennifer. When we took Jenni to see mum and dad for the first time, mum gave me a hug and thanked me for honouring her own only daughter. She said with a wry smile that it made up for breaking the vase, the only time it was ever mentioned.

 
Graeme Morris
March 2023

Bobby's Girl was a one hit wonder.

Graeme

The Morris Family Tree recently ticked over 8,000 relatives and one cameo appearance of a second cousin, twice removed, caught my fancy.  At its core is altruism.

Sarah Elizabeth WALKER, known as Craigie, Birrdhawa Country, in the nascent country of Australia in 1904.  Craigie, boasting a school and nothing else, is a farming area 22km from Bombala.  Juxta-positioned near the Black - Allen Line, and on the Monaro Highway, the main route from NSW to Victoria.

Her paternal grandfather was a convict and the only picture of her mother, coming from strong Wesleyan stock, is of her touching a bible.  One strongly suspects her mother's influence, coupled with the mores of the day, made religion a central part of Sarah's life.

Her father, from Sydney, leased land at Craigie and the propinquity theory of marriage holds true, meeting and marrying her mother Clara in 1893 in Bombala.  Whatever the circumstances, Sarah found herself in Sydney as a house maid, later meeting and marrying Ernest DANIELS in 1924.

From 1928, Sarah resided at 16 McFarland Road, Merrylands, now a conurbanised suburb, 25Km west of Sydney.  They had one child, James, born in 1926.  Ernest, a chiar maker, died in 1943 and Sadie did not remarry.

The only information about her life in Merrylands is gleaned from a plaque honouring her.  She and her husband were active and well respected in the community, a meaningless statement with no sources or activities cited.  She was renowned for her fine needlewrk beading and her love of writing, including poety and religious verse.

Sadie dies on 4th November 1981 at 16 McFarland Road, Merrylands and leaves no other mark of her life until the reading of her will.

Sadie bequeaths 16 McFarland Road, now in the middle of the shopping precinct, to Holroyd Municipal Council to be used as an open space for the elderly.  James, her son, does not receive his cadastral inheritance.  One would need to be Sherlock Holmes to fathom the reasons, so it remains tacit.

The bequest's reasons probably has its genesis in the tenuous religious thead previously mentioned.  Did Sadie in her older years have the foresight to see a need for the elderly, and now for all comers?  Perhaps.  The land was developed as an open space in 1985 and refurbished in 2011 to a functional rest area, 'Sarah Daniels Court'.  

Today 16 McFarland Road is opposite the vast Stocklands Shoping Complex and 220m from Merrylands Railway Station and Bus Terminus.  Well done, Sadie.

Graeme Morris
​October 2022

By ANZAC Day, the chilled wind would blow from the Blue Mountains across Sydney. It was the official end of summer for us Morris boys, as we had to wear shoes and stay neat and tidy for the ANZAC service at the new Riverwood Bowling Club, recently built from the sale of Webb’s chicken farm.

An enormous body of men would appear from Belmore Rd and turn into our view and traverse bodily down Josephine St. to the Club. For a small boy, one had to tolerate the barking of orders of Mr. Nagle (dad said he still thought he was a still a Warrant Officer) and the Shakespearian rantings of a preacher. The best part, and still is, the melodic, memory inducing sounds of the Last Post. This is always special, and I still see these childhood scenes every 25th April.

The best part for a small boy was the free, yep, I said free, raspberry cordial and as much cake as you liked – the coveted prize of Anzac Day. It was worth the inconvenience of wearing shoes and not playing in the creek till lunch time.

My Dad never marched and only received his medals when I was about 10. In his mind, wearing the Return from Active Service Badge was all you needed. But he was surreptitiously pleased when his eldest sister applied for them on his behalf – a common occurrence as the Commonwealth put newspaper advertisements seeking to distribute unclaimed medals. Only once did I ever go to the Sydney March with dad, and then only from the side lines. Years later he told me the real reason – to watch and listen to the massed pipes and drums that would assembly and play after the march proper.

There was no build-up of family traditions but rather my tradition of playing music in the marches. The origins lay in a drum and bugle band at school as part of the school cadets. We would practise nearly every lunch time (wasn’t allowed to practise at home) and our repertoire expanded. I still have one tune, M.B.F. as “ear – music” but to this day don’t know what the acronym stands for. May be Military Bugle Fanfare? I digress.
 
We played in the Sydney marches, probably for four years, and always way down towards the end. These thoughts about our musical status and relevance never occupied our schoolboy minds. We were just tickled pink for the honour of participating. In the early 1960’s there were still legions of WW I men and even a few Boer War veterans, usually in jeeps riding up front. I can still hear the rhythmic uniformed clink of their medals, a mezza forte sound when the bands weren’t playing.
 
I learned to play the Bb Bass, the biggest of the brass instruments. When I joined the Victoria Police Force in 1970 I was accepted into the Police Brass Band, the unofficial band for the State of Victoria. You guessed it, I started playing in ANZAC days once again. There were incredibly long marches, starting from the top end of Swanson St. to the Shrine of Remembrance.
 
The 1971 march stands out. Australia’s involvement in the Vietnam War, with conscription and the expanding vocal public opposition, manifested itself with the painting of PEACE on the pillars of the Shrine of Remembrance during the early hours of this ANZAC Day.  Seeing the huge white letters, each on the five pillars filled me with an uneasiness that I could not immediately explain. As the 100 or so police marching behind the band came to the official dais, Gough Whitlam, then leader of the opposition, gave a supercilious smirk to an off sider. It unsettled me because “the police” were cast as the enemy to conscription, when I, approaching 20 was against it. It was the first time, and certainly not the last, I realised coppers were cast as villains, far removed from the ideal of dedication to keeping the public safe. I eventually got over this.
 
Transferring to Wodonga in 1973 I joined Wodonga Citizens band.  I remain a member to this day, but have been on the inactive list for the last 5 years. I’ve played in every Wodonga Anzac Day march from 1973 to 2018. This includes doubling up with the Albury march later on, splitting the band and playing at Yackandandah, Tangambalanga, Wodonga or Bright and Wodonga. My tradition is playing in 47 consecutive Anzac marches and tipping over 50 with the school band.
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Graeme Morris
​April 2022