Maddog Tales

Tommy, I have always thought of him this way rather than Granddad, never figured prominently in my life. A flash Harry in his younger days, he attracted a young woman whom he married. Unfortunately, his snappy dress did not reflect his income and the marriage floundered. Tommy left her, returning to his childhood sweetheart, my Grandmother. The family stories are vague about the details but it is unlikely that he bothered or could afford a legal divorce. He adopted a new family name leaving his father’s family name to history and his first wife. Dad and his brothers knew nothing of the family secret until their early adulthood. Each of his sons had to formally change their names but my Dad did not like the name as endowed by his father. So, an ‘o’ became ‘e’ and a childhood of wondering way we spell our name differently began for me and my siblings.

Happy or proud tales about Tommy do not readily come to mind and Dad was never very close to his father throughout my childhood. A tough father, a little too fond of the drink, Tommy gave his sons the short end of his temper. Dad always talked about one happy memory, a Christmas tradition of sorts that gave him a connection with his father. Tommy offered the boys a beer with Christmas dinner that Dad happily accepted, sharing a moment of camaraderie. His brothers declined the offer, fearing another walloping when Tommy drunk his quota. Dad enjoyed that beer seemingly more than any other event in his relationship with his father, and never received punishment for sharing a little Christmas cheer.

My own memories focus on two events, a beach barbeque and a visit to Tommy’s home late in his life. Once a seaside holiday resort for Brisbane’s working class families, Shorncliffe in the seventies had declined into a somewhat squalid outer suburb of the metropolitan sprawl. On a rare visit by our grandparents, we made our way down to a shoreline park to fish and enjoy a barbeque. The waves lapped at the base of the concrete seawall that extended along the shore holding  back the erosive action of the sea. The grass under our feet, coarse and sparse like a loosely woven rattan rug, burned brown under the hostile Queensland sunshine. A large Moreton Bay fig tree provided us shade, its large branches spreading across the sky, a living pergola to escape the day’s heat. The figs carpeted the ground and squished under our feet as we played our games, and climbed in its low hanging limbs.

Dad fished from the seawall with his bamboo surf rod, its long stiff construction designed for the rigors of surf fishing, looked over sized for the sheltered waters of Shorncliffe. His efforts rewarded not with fish but a large mud crab forced to swallow the bait and hook whole after loosing its claws. A Queensland delicacy normally too expensive for Dad’s meagre salary, the muddie became a fantastic dinner treat later that week.

We enjoyed a great day but what I remember is an unexpected glimpse into Dad’s childhood. Just around the corner, there stood a run down fibro house, its paint faded and yard overgrown with grass and weeds so high that they hid the low wooden stumps it sat on. An unremarkable place but Mum looked at it and said, ‘Your Dad used to live over there in that house.’ I tried to imagine Dad and his brothers running around that little yard and playing along shore like we did that day. Did he climb the Moreton Bay fig and felt the soft fruit ooze up between his toes?

Did Tommy sit on the steps with a beer cradled in his hands after work? He didn’t appear nostalgic or even aware of his former home’s but I never think he looked back or even too far forward during his life.

A few years later we visited Dad’s parents at their south side home, possibly the last time I saw my Grandma but a gift from Tommy turned that visit into a lasting memory. Under the house sat an Austin A30 sedan and unable to drive due to failing eyesight Tommy gave the little car to my brother Ross and me. Our ‘first’ car gave us a lot of pleasure, days spent sitting in its cracked red leather seats pretending to drive. Occasionally allowed to back it up and then ease it forward back into the space below our bedroom window.

It is the only present I remember receiving from Dad’s parents who never figured prominently in our Christmas or birthday celebrations. Ross and I never did drive it on the road, and Dad eventually sold it after I joined the Air Force. However, it gave me a rare happy memory of my Grandfather, a seemingly out of character act like the beer he shared with his son at Christmas.

Tags: Brisbane, Family, Grandparents, Memoir, memories, Siblings