The Me Page

Actually this page has little to do with me. It is a collection black and white photographs of some of the people who had a hand guiding the very young me. My first memories were a trip to Lyrup, where my father worked as a friut picker in his youth, on the Murray river in South Australia. My personnal recollections of that trip were of a river in flood and stepping on a piece of broken glass which was promptly followed by a bull attack. It was also supposedly the time that I caught my first fish. Though I have no recollection, documentary evidence of the momentus event is available.


My mother and I pose at Port Authur near Port Wakefield not far from the top of Saint Vincent's Gulf.

My mother, who was born in Port Ausgusta located at the top of Spencers Gulf, was an only child. My grandpa died when my mother was 10. Grandma married a man who had one daughter named Florence. Together they had another girl whom they named June. So my mother gained a half sister and a step sister. But the three girls were so close they may as well have been triplets. They lived in Wallaroo, a wheat port which services Yorke Penisula, also known at the time for its two jetties unimaginately called the old jetty and the new jetty. The old jetty achieved fame when a ship went through it, cutting it in two. About 15 miles south, till on the coast is the copper mining center of Moonta which is noted for its Cornish buildings. My step grandpa played in the brass band. He was also noted for regularly riding his bicycle from Walleroo to Maitland as distance of 80 miles.

My father's sister, my only true autie, had two boys and a girl who predated me by many years.

So much so, that by the time I arrived and acheive sufficient recognizable form to accompany them to a day at the beach , they where already engaged to be married.

By the time I became consciously aware of their existence ,they had children of their own . So in my young world they assumed the role of uncle and antie and their children became my cousins.

During this period my father had three ladies in his life. My mother, his sister, seen here picnicing, and an old bomb of a car which he called Girdy. The great expedition, or so it seemed to me, was going to Grandma's house. Located in Wallaroo, about 100 miles from Adelaide, the trip, allowing for a stop at Port Wakefield, the town my father was born, took about 3 hours. Today Port Wakefield is a petrol stop rather than a port. Bought for a song, he keeped her running, performing several engine and gearbox rebuilds until he could no longer abtain parts from the wreckers.


It would appear that there was flower power long before hippies in San Fransico. The only person I recognise in this picture is my mother.

I think this picture predates my existence by several years.