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to crawl into the back seat of the car to getat me, so off I set into a paddock among the grazing sheep. I was about ten at the time, in the middle of a huge paddockcovered in lush, green grass. I had been bending to pick a finespecimen of a mushroom when Dad called me loudly from the fence,“Ronald”. I merely turned my head in his direction without standing, andwas promptly head-butted by a charging ram! I was laid flat out flat on my stomach, with my face in a stillwarm “cow pattie” when he came running over to make sure I hadsurvived the onslaught. When I came to and he saw I wouldsurvive, his concern was over-ridden by tears of laughter as hehugged me hard. Eventually my tears dried and my head stoppedaching. I was more peeved at the apparent fact that the ramhadn’t felt a thing. To my embarrassment I heard him relate that story many times tohis mates, but it was worth the embarrassment because it alwaysbrought on more of his infectious laughter. Dads’ relationships with various Catholic priests over the yearswas always a source of fun for us. Various priests used to callat our modest house at “55” on Friday nights with a packet offish and chips wrapped in newspaper under one arm, and a fewbottles of beer under the other. They would spend the eveningjoking with Dad & Mum and teasing us kids, we all aughed a loton those nights. Of course, the inevitable Irish singalong would ensue. Dads’rendition of “Irish Eyes” kept us enthralled and had the priestsreminiscing about Eyre. We were so proud that our Dad had such agreat voice and priests as friends to boot, he was held in suchrespect by these men of the cloth. We also leaned priests werevery human. I sometimes thought that perhaps they envied Dad hisfamily, and I know they respected the man for the way heconducted himself and his life. The night one of the priests told Mum (a converted Methodist)that there was a place reserved for her in heaven because shehad borne so many children “into Gods’ church” (we were allchristened Catholics) she laughed and said “right, you won’t beseeing me at church anymore then” Dad laughed fit to cry. Mum, true to her word, didn’t turn up at church much after that,only for weddings and funerals. I also recall Dads’ close relationship with, and reliance on,his good mates. Often, late on Saturday mornings after takingMum into town for her weekly shopping with a few of us kids intow, Dad would slip into the Corio Hotel. Our sole mission onthese outings was to try to con Mum into buying sweets and othersuch luxuries. We usually failed. She couldn’t afford it and asit was we used to accumulate three trolleys of groceries thatseemed to take forever to get through the checkouts. After the shopping was finally over Dad would stride into thebar of the Corio Hotel to cheery calls of “G’Day Stan” It washis custom to have a beer with his mates and discuss how the“Cats” (Geelong Football Club) might fare that afternoon.Sometimes he would read up on the latest betting on the horses,a mild hobby for a man who could hardly afford such luxuries.Five bob each way was a big bet for him. Dad loved his footy and I loved going with him, standing in theouter at Kardinia Park (the Cats’ home ground) cheering, cursingmildly at the umpires, laughing lots and admiring the greatskills in the fast moving game of Aussie rules footy. Through rain, hail or shine, he’d be there on the wing and we’dbe there with him, it was great. That feeling of comradiere,especially when the Cats won, was just plain magic. We couldn’tget enough of it. It was after a match that he “lost” me (or did I lose myself?)in Melbourne at the mighty MCG (Melbourne Cricket Ground). Whenthe game was over and thousands of fans streamed from the “G”,he thought I had left the stadium for the 45 mile trip home toGeelong with my brother-in-law, who was equally sure I was withDad. I had been so distracted with the Cats’ win than I had wanderednonchalantly from the ground without a thought about who I wasto go home with. When I realized I was alone, albeit amongthousands of footy fans scurrying to their cars, I froze. I frantically searched for the car in the huge car-parks andwhen I couldn’t find dad or my brother-in-law I waited until thecar parks were almost empty before I realized they had gone. I wandered the streets of Melbourne, lost and lonely in the “bigsmoke” at the age of eleven. I ended up walking into a policestation to shyly announce my situation. I was scared. The policecalled home and told mum what had happened. When dad finallyarrived home, ready to put his feet up after the long drive andhave a beer, mum told him he had to turn around to come back toMelbourne and get me. Three hours later Dad arrived to collect me. He was grateful Iwas safe. He hugged me hard and tossed my blond hair with agruff “don’t do that again, son, you had us worried for awhile”. He then bundled me into the back of the car to sleepsoundly after my adventure, while he drove all the way homeagain and carried me to my bed. Dads’ cars were also well worth remembering They were never new,or anywhere near new. We really could have done with a bus, butcars had to do. The first one I recall was an old, rust-red Ford“ute”. It had a cabin with a rear tray attachment over which Dadcrafted a plywood cover. In the tray on either side was a hardboard seat where us kids would cling uncomfortably on thoseearly outings. On longer trips, he would throw a mattress andrug in the back and we could snuggle down while the windwhistled around our ears as we rattled along. This was how we used to travel to those great footy matches inMelbourne, stopping at Werribee (half way) on the way home forfish, chips and huge potato-cakes on bitterly cold winterSaturday nights. If the Cats had won, we’d be in great spirits,singing and laughing until our cheeks ached. Playing “Dutchovens” and blaming each other for the amazingly horrible odorstrapped in the back of that little van. When we arrived home wewould all be asleep and Dad would carry us all, one by one, toour beds. We usually doubled up with a brother or sister asthere were only three bedrooms in the house, but we were alwayswarm and safe in that house. His unshakable belief in God and the Catholic Church, and hisdemands that we attend church every Sunday are also etched in mymind. He never did forget though, that we were kids after all,and that we strayed from time to time. Christmas at home was always something special. I recall Dad uplate re-painting my brother Graemes’ red bike so they could giveit to me as my “new” blue one for Christmas. The dozens of giftscovering the whole (albeit small) lounge room floor on ChristmasDay and the look of sheer joy on Dad and Mums’ faces as theyshared our delight. Material things meant something to us. We were kids. We hadpeers who received many more new “things” than we did, but wenever felt deprived in that home. There never was such a thingas a disappointing Christmas, Dad and Mum saw to that. How theydid it will remain a mystery to me. Our house was always alive with activity, with friends comingand going, pets who just loved all the attention they received,music of all types almost constantly playing, chores to be doneand lots of laughter. A great place to grow up. Dad used toenjoy the inter-action with our mates too and they respected himas someone to look up to, both physically and as a man. I still marvel at Dads’ strength and utter faith that thingswould always work out for the best. Though he never showed it,there must have been many times when there was little or nomoney to pay the bills. When the school accounts came due, whenwe kids just had to have the latest gizmos’ that were pushed atus via the ads on the black and white TV we loved. When weneeded clothing and all the sporting gear growing kids musthave, or when the baker used to deliver (literally) dozens ofloaves of bread on long weekends. They always came up with themoney, somehow. His strength was our strength, his solid beliefwas our rock, his unfailing human spirit was totally infectious. Though I would rather not, I also remember his suffering withthat cruel disease. His dignity and concern for Mum and us, andthe sad look on his face as he lay for months in hospital bedswith a fading twinkle in his eyes. I don’t remember too much about his funeral. I walked in astupor ahead of his hearse with Les, Graeme, Kevin, David,Darren and Paul, my brothers, all the way from the church to hisfinal resting place in the cemetery. Hundreds of people came topay their respects. I knew then that the great legacy he left behind was not justfor us. We had an Irish wake after his funeral of course. It wasan irreverent celebration of his life and the peace he was nowin, as well as a release valve for us after weeks of watchinghim fade away from us. He was gone, though never from our hearts and our lives, whichare so very much the richer because he was such a huge part ofit. Mum lived for several years after but she was never the same.Dad was her rock more than he was ours. She now shares his loveagain. Though the thirteen of us kids never lived at “55” at one time,due to age differences and the fact that Joan, our eldestsister, had left home long before the younger ones were born, weremain a close family today. Dad and Mum taught us to shareeverything and that sharing continues. As Charles Swindoll once wrote "Each day of our lives we makedeposits in the memory banks of our children." Dad and Mum left so many wonderful deposits in our minds, oursouls and on our lives. Their legacy to us is a debt we will never ever forget, we wereprivileged to have them as parents. By Ron A.Welsh Note: This is a condensed version of this articledue to the word limitation. The full article is on my website athttp://www.rawpowerwriting.com/article.asp?id=12 About the author:About the Author Ron Welsh, Brisbane, Australia based freelancecommercial writer. Ron is the 6th of 13 children born and raisedin Southern Australia. He has lived in 10 countries andconducted business in over 50. His articles have been publishedin Freebird, www.freebird-zine.comContact:mailto:rawpowerwriting@gmail.com Visit:www.rawpowerwriting.com Tip: A log home (or log house) is technically the same thing as a log cabin, a house typically made from logs that have not been milled into ...
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