Tall Man Short Man

I recently read 'Tall Man" by Chloe Hooper, a great account of the madness which engulfed Palm Island a few years ago. Seargant Hurley, the local policeman at the centre of the incident, is the centre of this book which is well worth a read. It doesn't pick sides but gives an engaging account of the facts as far as can be ascertained.

The Palm Island situation was quintessential Qld but happening so far away on Palm Island in far north Queensland. A lifetime away from life in Brisbane. But, its true, happenings in the deep north do carry an added weight for we who live here. I recently learnt that one of the main Indigenous figures associated with South Brisbane (my home) was born on Palm Island. Pastor Don Brady.

Pastor Brady became a leader in the local Brisbane community and the first indigenous minister to be ordained into the Uniting Church. He ministered with his hands in various forms, having spent some of his early years as a boxer in a touring tent show. He dealt with recalcitrant drunks in a direct and probably unacceptable way by todays standards, but his ways were always informed by compassion and care.

He was defrocked later in his ministering career when he became too "active" in the community for the Church to deal with. When he died he was hailed as a Martin Luther King figure.

Here's an excerpt from his biography. Follow the link for the full text.

"Brady died on 27 January 1984 in South Brisbane and was buried with Uniting Church forms at Mount Gravatt Cemetery. More than 500 people gathered at Musgrave Park to mourn his passing. Praising his leadership, Rev Charles Harris described him as 'The Martin Luthor King of the Aboriginal race.' His peers hailed him as a civil rights advocate who gave Aboriginal people a sense of pride and taught them to fight for their rights."

My Missing Life - My missing great grandfather

One hundred and thirty years after Lorenzo Capelin disembarked in Sydney under a name different to the family name he carried for the rest of his life and which he passed to hundreds of descendants; and ten years of research into this mystery I might have cracked it (see below). There may very well be documentation pertaining to my great grandfather as Lorenzo Perin. I had almost given up hope. I'm checking whether this is a yes or a no. It looks like a positive even though the translation seems to say differently.

Needless to say I have replied with further questions and, as I will be in Brugnera in exactly one week, I hope I can get a clearer picture on the spot.

I'll keep you posted.

My request (thanks to Google translate)

'1 maggio 2013
Commune di Prata di Pordenone, Italia

Spettabile Direzione,
Per una ricerca sulla mia familigia desidero ottenere il certifico di nascita.
Nome: Lorenzo Perin (Supre nome Cappellin)
Data di nascita: 1837
Luogo di : Ghirano
Nome del padre: Giacomo Perin
Nome della madre: Teresa Cattai

Sono in Italia in giugno 2013 per ricerca.
Rimanendo in attesa di Suocortese riscontro, porgo distinti saluti.'

Literal translation (no thanks to Google translate):

'May 1, 2013
Commune Prata di Pordenone, Italy

Dear Management,
For a search on my familigia want to get certify the birth.
Name: Lorenzo Perin (Suprenome Cappellin)
Date of birth: 1837
Place: Ghirano
Father's name: Jacomo Perin
Mother's Name: Teresa Cattai

I'm in Italy in June 2013 for research.
Listening for your reply, Best regards,'

 The reply today:

'In riferimento a Vs. richiesta e-mail del 01.05.2013, si comunica che non
> è possibile trasmettere il certificato di nascita del Suo avo PERIN
> Lorenzo, poichè, come risulta dall'esame dei registri angrafici qui
> conservati, è nato nel Comune di Brugnera il 27.10.1837.
> A disposizione per eventuali chiarimenti, si porgono distinti saluti.
> L'Ufficiale d'Anagrafe deleg.
> Giovanna Romano'

 Translates as:

'In reference to your request e-mail address of 01.05.2013, notice is hereby
given that you can not transmit the birth certificate of his grandfather
PERIN
Lorenzo, since, as is apparent from an examination of records angrafici here
preserved, was born in the municipality of Brugnera on 10/27/1837.
At your disposal for any clarification, you
Best regards.
The Journal of Registry deleg.
Giovanna Romano' 

I think this means I should approach Commune di Brugnera for the next step.

The Promised Land

In six more sleeps I board a flight to Venice to begin my ten days following my great grandfather's footsteps.
I've had some great outcomes already both locally and in Italy.

You may remember that my two dreams were to stand on the land of my forebears in Italy and to do the same in New Guinea where the boatload of 350 Italians were dumped in 1880.

Last week, thanks to my friend Julian Pepperell and his fishing networks, I had lunch with a young couple from New Britain (PNG). Oliver and his PNG wife live in Kopoko and often travel across the strait between New Britain and new Ireland on fishing ventures chasing big game fish. Oliver was fascinated with the Italian story. He had heard little of it in PNG and is keen to help. Planning for a visit to this most remote of coastlines suddenly took a giant leap forward.

In Italy I have made contact with the man who has spent the greater part of 20 years researching the family name (Perin) from which I am descended. He has offered to give me a copy of his beautifully researched and produced book as a centre piece to the Capelin/Perin family display I am helping put together for the New Italy Museum. I will meet his daughter. I will also meet for the second time in 25 years the young woman (now 48) whom I first met in the Orsago municipio in 1988. Remarkably she still has the thank-you post card that I sent her that many years ago.

Finally I have made contact with a gentleman in Marseille who will escort me around the port and talk to me about Marseille in the late 19th Century. Marseille was the departure point for the 350 Italians when they left their homes in Veneto headed overland to board a boat for Barcelona and the beginning of their ill-fataed voyage.

Fingers crossed I don't catch the flu which is currently festering in my household. I have taken to sleeping in another bedroom from my wife! Is that selfish?

New Italy Old Italy

Paddy and his sister in law

From Woodburn it's a straight run to our destination, a pit stop half way to nowhere along the Pacific Highway. Not 'Nuova Italia' as it would originally have been named, but simply New Italy. It's a collection of mud brick buildings housing a cafe, bookshop and the fading remnants of the Italian Pavilion from Brisbane's Expo '88. There's also a large barn structure with open beams and natural ventilation which houses memorabilia from the original 1885 settlement. By 1920 the last of the Italians had given up on this place, a site distressingly similar to the poor land of Veneto from which they had escaped. While not the utopian dream which had driven their journey, it did offer opportunity rather than the inevitability of poverty.

The descendants have moved to better land or moved away. My grandfather and his brother set up a thriving fruit and vegetable business in Leichhardt in Sydney; a branch of the Spinaze family had moved into sugar in the Pomona area north of Noosa Heads a good 400 kilometres north. Through hard work many purchased dairy farms and sugar holdings along the Richmond River.

One hundred years after the original descendants arrived, a group of descendants, none of whom spoke Italian, few of whom had immediate recollections of the original settlement, nevertheless felt driven to create a museum on the site. In the twenty first century the 'New Italy Carnivale' brings together a curious mix of descendants and locals to share stories and keep alive a memory.

Add caption

I'm travelling with my Uncle Paddy Powell, a name as Irish as the name of the closest regional town, Ballina. That's not uncommon. His mother was a Bazzo. My grandmother was a Kilcoyne. It went both ways. We arrive in time for Mass, the first event on each of these days.About 80 seriously Catholic people sit in a large unpretentious room. Curious life-size plaster cast Venetian peasants and aristocrats stare down at us from a mock balcony above the makeshift altar.

Paddy scans the seats for familiar faces. He's looking for his friend Maureen who has supported him through the hard years of caring for his wife Rita, my aunt. I only recognise two faces in the congregation, both of whom are relatives whom I have only met recently. As my eyes wander among the pews I'm conscious of looking for faces like mine. Angular faces with large noses and pale skin, blue eyed northerners.

There are plenty of ruddy complexions and pale skins but mostly broad Australian farmers faces - the Irish. Among the other there are dark eyes, dark haired, dark skinned southerners - more recent migrant arrivals. I can't see me anywhere.

My search is broken by the priest. He's welcoming us in Italian He's clearly not Italian but he is fluent. a Lismore priest with no Italian would be estranged from half his parishioners. Italian prayers, Italian hyms, Italian responses. Most of us don't have a clue. Two ladies in front of me sing with gusto and depart from the script with their own responses. They are real Italians. I concentrate on picking up a phrase here and there in preparation for my imminent trip to the villages of my descendants in Veneto. Paddy drifts off and causes a mild disruption when he attempts to rescue a skink who has become disoriented and finds itself in the no-mans land of the aisle space. Paddy knows it's about to fill with the feet of the fervent lining up for communion. The ladies in front react with shock as Paddy ushers his new friend from the aisle towards safety under their chairs.

Outside the numbers have begun to swell. Paddy is a bit overwhelmed. It's his first visit without Rita. "I think I'll just have a little wander around and see if I can find some familiar faces" he says. "Will you be okay Paddy?" I have a sense that I am Paddy's guardian for the day. And away he went, wobbling through the crowd on his twenty year old metal knees.I'd noticed that Paddy had a tendency to sway when stationary. I figured it was like the steering on an old car. There was a fair bit of play in the joints and he was forced to constantly rebalance himself.

I take the opportunity to reconnoitre the displays in the museum. I've taken on the task of organising a family  cabinet in which we'll tell our story. It's a great idea. With challenges. One hundred and thirty years after their arrival and with our original family being a blend of three families  - two mothers, two fathers, only one of each surviving and finally ending up as the family of Lorenzo with ten surviving children and carrying two family names means we have some serious gaps.

An hour later I find Paddy in animated conversation with fellow Richmond Valley locals. He's seated at a heavy wooden table alongside my new found second cousins, one of whom I've never met. In the background a slightly overweight Italian singer in his late forties is channelling Dean Martin and charming the ladies with his versions of 'Volare' and 'O Sol a Mio'. He's dressed in a cobalt blue jacket which, at one point, he casts aside, exposing his broad chest and his luxuriant growth of Sicilian hair - all part of his seduction of the audience. Having exhausted his Italian repertoire he launches into a set of Elvis numbers.

Paddy's in his late 80s and he's been on his feet for five hours now and he's beginning to fade. He's had his obligatory plate of  spaghetti bolognese and a glass of rough red. He's ready to go. As we prepare to exit, my second cousin is in animated conversion with his brother. He's convinced that the photo I've given him of his grandmother is definitely not her. I offer him as much information as I can and then decide to leave him to it. "You'd better take that up with Linda (another cousin in his line who has supplied the photo)" I say as I back away. "Let me know what you all decide."

I'd hoped to complete the family cabinet by the end of the year but with ten descendant lines these small details will become the sticking points.

Crying in the front seat

I'm sitting by myself in the seat in the front of the bus. We're crossing the Victoria Bridge, as this bus does every day, and every Monday I'm on board on my way to work.

The trip from Hill End only takes 20 minutes and half of that is filled by conversations with my wife. We have our Monday conversation. "What have you got on today? Busy?" "Could be. The phones usually go mad after the weekend. Everyone's had too much time to think." My wife is a counsellor.

"Sorry about what I said yesterday. I was a bit stressed out. I love you. You know that." I like the adage that one should never let the sun go down on your anger. My version is apologies and reconciliation on the morning bus. At least we're not doing it by mobile phone. Hurling our affections and apologies the length of the vehicle.

She's gone at the half way mark and I pull out my book. I've only got eight pages to go and I'm in a state of suspense. My emotions are on high alert. The woman's lost her child and is in deep mourning. So am I. Her partner's in gaol, charged with kidnapping and perhaps murder. He's written a letter to her to ask for forgiveness, while explaining why he's had to do what he did. She's despatched the letter to the bottom of a drawer. She wants him to suffer. They've lost their daughter forever, but will never be anywhere where she won't be a presence.The river glides below us, a chocholate milkshake flowing silently to the bay.

I read, and as the climax approaches I feel my eyes mist up and then I'm crying. Not sobbing like a drunk, but feeling like a parent. Feeling the loss. Understanding the terrifying choices that any parent faced with loss of a child would feel, and despairing at the thought that they will also lose each other as a result of this horrible situation for which they can blame no one but themselves.

The bus turns into Adelaide Street and crosses the last intersection before my stop. I've still got three pages to read. I could stay on the bus to the Valley and be late for work but I don't, I slip my marker into the book and swipe my GO Card on the machine and step onto the pavement. I usually get a coffee from the outlet at the base of my building but I'm not prepared to sit and sob in front of my favourite barista. I head for the closest coffee shop and order a flat white. There's an almighty din in the background, echoing through the gaps between the multi-story buildings. The BWF are protesting in Ann Street singing songs of protest, telling Premier Newman where he should shove his October public holiday and demanding back their Monday May Day holiday.

My coffee arrives just in time for the last page. There's a death and a reconciliation and hope and, shit, I'm so moved I drink my coffee without sugar, the first time I've done that in years. Some writers just hit the right notes. And this is her first book. I am inspired by this wonderful storytelling and it makes me want to keep writing my novel. Or give up in the face of my mediocrity. And then I'm in the lift to level 10 and I walk in and say "Morning".


The book: "The Light Between Oceans" by M L Stedman. The setting: SouthernWestern Australia , Janus Rock 300 miles west of Albany. A lighthouse.

Time Exposure

Sharon Zwi, Sydney photographer, has an exhibition opening 22May presenting 60 portraits/asemblages of friends and people of note - Eva Cox, Justice Michael Kirby,  John Coetzee etc.

She asked for 25 phtos from earliest image to current. This is mine.

The exhibition:
"Time Exposures - 60 Life Portraits"
Exhibition Space, Level 2, Fisher Library

Camperdown Campus, University of Sydney 

May 22 to 29 June.

Paddy and the Richmond

"Oh, it'll be on for sure. They're setting up the tarpaulins as we speak"

It's pissing down here in Brisbane. Has been for four days straight. When I check the satellite image for Ballina a sea of blue with occasional yellow and red spots twinkle at me from my screen. This weather pattern extends 250 kms from here to the mid north coast of New South Wales. My distant cousin John, the convenor of the New Italy Carnevale, is an optimist.

I'd cancelled the  trip three of us had planned to fish the Richmond River on the advice of Uncle Paddy, my north coast fishing guru. "We had 4 inches of rain here the other night Steve. True! I've got a moat around my house. Too much fresh in the river Steve. Be a bloody waste of time." That was three days ago and it's still raining.

I'm facing a solo trek and a choice: drive 250 ks and waste my time or take a chance on the Carnevale. Paddy calls at 2pm. "What do you reckon Steve? I won't be goin' if its raining mate. The doc says I need to keep me bung eye dry." "I'll be there at 5" I say. Paddy has offered me a bed for the night. He's 86 and lives alone. He wasn't up to having three guests but he reckons he can cope with one. I sense he's a little hesitant. He's been full time carer for my aunty Rita for the past three years and since she passed away he's slowly recovering from the loss of Rita and the loss of  four years of his life. He's sick of looking after people.

I don't turn my wiper blades off for two and a half hours. At times the road ahead looks like I'm driving into a snow drift. I can't see past the bonnet. Occasionally it eases, seducing me into a false sense of hope and then smacks me again like a mini cyclone slapping the side of the car. This is ridiculous.

Remarkably it's not raining when I take the turnoff to Titenbar and head for Wollongbar. Avocado orchards line the back road as I enter and emerge from what's left of the original rainforest. They called it the "BIG SCRUB" in the old days and the locals cleared it by hand. Hundreds and hundreds of acres. They're very proud of that achievement. Now its prime dairy and orchard country. It's like driving through English country side. It's deep green all year round.

Paddy is there to meet me at the door. "G'day Stevo" He's got me in the second bedroom. I insult him by offering to sleep in my sleeping bag and insult him again by offering to take him out to dinner at the local tavern. " I've got some steak for you. Do you eat steak? I've had it marinating in my special mix for three days." We sit and chat or rather he talks and I nod and ask questions. He's old school country is Paddy. Builder, duck shooter, pig shooter, fisherman. He's famous in the district for his knowledge. The story he loves to tell is the day he was getting ready to clean his favourite rifle on the back veranda and spotted a cat crossing the lane nearby and he let him have it. One shot. It was instinct. And a hatred of cats. The neighbour never could figure out where puss disappeared to.

Paddy is one of the gentlest people I know. He's a natural hunter gatherer. And he has developed that tendency of the lone householder to become a little fussy about how things are done. "No, Steve. Wait!" he stops me mid action as I go to make a cup of tea. I've filled the kettle from the tap. He empties it down the sink and fills it again from the jug on the side table. "Rainwater." Over the next 12 hours I notice him and his routines. And his generosity. I get offered the reclining seat in front of the TV to watch Black Caviar make it 25 wins from 25 starts.  Everything in the kitchen is spotless and arranged very carefully. When it comes to washing up he sets the water in the sink and adds the detergent. He won't let me clean the electric frypan. I haven't done the inservice training. I'm chastised for bringing bacon and eggs for breakfast. But all this lovingly and gently. "I like a clean house. I always clean up straight away so I don't have to come back and do it later" he tells me. It's touching and surprising in this man of guns and fish gut. The marinated beef is beautiful by the way, just as he'd promised.

"If its fine tomorrow I'll come" he says as we head off to bed at 8:30. "I'm an early to bed man, Steve. You stay and watch TV if you want." But I take Paddy's cue and crawl into the freshly made bed. "I hate electric blankets. Rita used to love 'em. I love getting into cold sheets and that slow warming feeling" he says by way of good night.

I'm awake at 6:30 next morning. I can't see the day for the heavy blinds. I decide I can go another 45 minutes before the breakfast I've promised. At 7am Paddy is standing at the foot of my bed. I know he's there. I can feel his presence but I pretend to be asleep. "You wouldn't believe it Steve. You should see the day outside." No, 'Excuse me Steve are you awake?' He reminds me of my mother. One up all up was her motto.

It's true, its a clear day. "Lets head off early" says Paddy. "Get there for mass." Jesus!
"Want to take the back road?" Paddy asks as we descend the Wardell road towards the flats. I recognise the landscape along here from childhood visits with my cousins. Lagoons full of wild duck. Concrete fords over constantly running streams. And the old Meerschaum Vale hall where my father danced and drank and grew into a man.

"We'll go the Bagotville Road." We go from two lane to one lane, from slick bitumen to neglected potholed and patched shortcut. At every turn Paddy has a story. "Jeez, that lagoon used to be black with Magpie geese in the old days. We'd always get a feed." We round a bend and a wide expanse of water stretches before us curving to the south in the distance. It's one of the loveliest stretches of river I can recall. A line of giant figs line the bank. Entwined with strangler vines climbing to escape the regular floods. "The flood of 54 came half way up those telegraph poles. He points out a level well above anything imaginable. "This section here is real deep," Paddy tells me, as we cruise past lines and fields of scrappy cane on our right. "Got some bloody good jewfish and perch on that bend. Full of catfish now."

And so the commentary continues. Each bend has a fish story. Each homestead has a family story. This is where he grew up. This is why he's brought me this way. He expects me to recognise the landmarks. But in all the years of my childhood my father never took us down this road. "Me and Percy built that house. Fay still lives in that one." His father got out of cane early and ran a dairy herd. "That heap of crumbling timber and iron was the old dairy" It looks like someone has taken a sledgehammer to it. It leans over like a drunk and threatens to fall face first into the sodden earth.

I see beautiful green valley and nostalgic river oaks. Paddy sees lives lived and lost. "That cane there is rubbish. No fertilizer. Now that deeper green paddock that's more like it. Some of em have given it away. The prices are just too low."

As we approach Wardell and our destination he tells me the story of his brother who died rescuing his daughter from downed power lines in the paddocks we've just past. They're boggy and the access lanes running beside each cane field are full of this weeks downpour. She was 16. A real handfull. Constantly in trouble with school and the local cops. She was wild. It was weather similar to the week just gone and she was riding home from school on her bike and didn't see the power lines lying across the ditch. She's plunged in. And zap. But miraculously she got caught but not killed. He hears her calls for help and rushes out and grabs the nearest thing he can see to free her from the lines. He grabs a length of timber from the ditch and wades towards her. The timber is wet and as soon as he makes contact with her he's the one who gets whacked. Somehow he's the conductor and she's earthed and it's him who is gone. Instantly.

Paddy tells the story soberly. "How old was he?" I ask. "62." Crikey. My age. He must have had children late. "Second marriage" Paddy adds. "And the daughter? Did she go on to live a settled life? Did she get a wake up call?"

"Nope. Still the same."

"Plenty of flathead and bream under this bridge" Paddy tells me as we arch over the Richmond and enter Woodburn.