QR A-Z: Exploring Brisbane with Queensland Rail

With a broken arm and plenty of time on my hands I’ve decided that it’s a great time to explore Brisbane. So my intention is to explore my way through the suburbs, station by station, A – Z. If you’re a senior like me then you’ll quickly discover how cheap a hobby this is.

Day one, Letter A

First Stop – Alderley.

Set on the north side of Brisbane just over 7 km away from the city, Alderley nestles in the green hills between Kedron Brook and Enoggera Creek or by its other name, Breakfast Creek.

The area, once inhabited by the Turrbal peoples still seems to hold the spirit of its people, and as you walk through its many parks you feel it would once have been place of great bounty and natural beauty and as such a popular meeting and corroboree place.

But it is not this heritage that inspired my footsteps it is instead the photo below of Simpsons Knackery held in the Brisbane City Council Archives

Simpson’s Knackery, Grinstead Park

For the moment the story of the knackery can wait for there are at least two walks I would suggest you take in Alderley or if you’re keen and weather permits, one long one. The first will take you up into one of the surrounding hills and have you skirting Bank Street Reserve where you will discover many a stately homes. Unfortunately, many of the gardens currently display a disappointing lack of care, with vestiges of time-worn Cottage Gardens running to neglect.

On the day of my walk I was thrilled to come across a sign about an upcoming street party to be held in the Greenhills Park in nearby Braeside Street. The magnificent views from this park, when I found it, hinted at more than just community gatherings but also larger gatherings, for the Green Hills in 1915 were the site of the Army Training camp for WWI.

I’m blaming the wobbles on the broken arm

On the way up the hills I suggest you take regular pauses to look back at views, sometimes the best view is as you cross the the roads so take care. Look for some of the following houses listed in the Local Heritage Register 103 Banks St., 10 Braeside St., 26 Braeside St. (There are others close-by in Quarry Road and Eagle Streets if you want to add in these detours).

The stroll downhill highlights just how steep these roads are, in fact in Quarry Road you can see the newly created swales to catch the waterflow through the park and I can only assume the strange bridge-like footpath on the other side of the street, outside 40 Quarry Street, is for the same reason.

Modernity soon takes over as you head back to the shopping centre, the blocks begin to be divided and apartments are more apparent. But with modernity comes other highlights, as you continue back to the station, look out for the street at of Terry Summers, stop at the Salvos op-shop, if you are so inclined, and take a well-earned break at Brisbeans Coffee.

So as we take this well earned rest I will share the story of Cardie, and his link with A.E. Simpson and Ben Hall; the strongest elephant, the longest serving Council member, and the first Road Traffic Officer (Constable Bowering James [Ben] Hall. Cardie, the circus elephant, first set foot in Australia at Pinkenba and 25 years later set his last foot down in Alderley. In all my research about Alderley, that included highlights such as having the first horseless vehicle, or locomobile, in Brisbane, and the break ins at the Alderley Railway Station (one on the very night of our story), no story was so inspiring or caught as much attention as that of Cardi.

Easy work for a large elephant

In 1921 Cardie, after a fight with three other elephants, had escaped into the suburbs of Port Melbourne to the backyard of Mr. M. Rabinov, a pawnbroker of Bay street, and had completely wrecked his garden uprooting trees and refusing to move.

An elephant in the garden
https://twistedhistory.net.au/2015/12/10/escaped-elephant-1921/

By the time Wirth’s Circus train arrived at Roma Street Station, in June 1923, Cardie’s exploits were becoming more and more outrageous. Although he and his trainer, Mr Lee, had a great attachment, he had been noted for having mastered all his previous masters. Yet he was also a popular and very, intelligent animal, relied on by all in the circus not only for his great strength (he could pull a number of railway carriages and had once push-started an entire train) and diligence but his memory. For, without prompting he would back up to the lions cage and pull it out after the lion act had finished its performance.

He may also have been large, and adventurous, encouraging three other to pull their stakes from the ground on the day of his escape, but he also was renowned for his sense of fun. He would pull that same stake out at other times, throwing it into the air, then pushing it back into the ground and hammering back into place. He would pick up large chunks of logs and use them as ‘toothpicks’.

But it was his last act on the 30th June that would prove to be the defining act, the act that set him on the path to meeting Mr Simpson and Constables Hall and Egan. On that fatal night Cardie, now a middle aged Asian elephant, had performed with Wirth’s troupe of 13 other elephants. All had left the ring except for Cardie and the Ringmaster, Welby Cook. Mr Cook drew from his pocket a mouth organ, but when placed Cardie’s his trunk he refused to blow. A disciplinary hook was applied to his trunk and Cardie roaring his disapproval knocked the ringmaster to the ground attempting to kneel on him. If only this had been the first time Cardie had done this, but it wasn’t. He had previously knocked down the circus manager Mr Andersen, leaving him in pain for many months.

With much regret by the following Sunday morning George Wirth had made his decision and contacted the authorities to have Cardie put down. The newspapers reports of the day are heartrending, describing everything from his life, the sad walk to his death and his butchering.

Cardie and his trainer, Mr Victor Lee, walked from Stanley Street across Victoria Bridge and up and down the steep hills leading to Alderley and Simpson’s knackery, (located in the area of Grinstead Park near where the creek divides.) A procession soon built up to watch the extraordinary event, for many it seemed a sombre procession, for Mr Lee and Cardie it was punctuated with whining and sounds such that it “brought tears to the eyes of Mr. Lee.” Brisbane Telegraph

Those of the thousand strong spectators who walked the full distance were to see Cardie staked by his back leg and his front leg chained to a nearby tree. Unable to watch Mr Lee left the scene a full five minutes before Constable Egan put the first 303 into his brain and and Hall the final six into his heart,. The slaughter at the piggery, come knackery, was attended by the leading veterinarian and the director of the Queensland Museum , who were recipients of the skeleton and the skin.

More on the story can be found on Trove or by applying the following hyperlinks. Suffice to say the story from this point is quite sad and rather than dwell its time to head to the eastern side of the station and explore the hills overlooking the city.

Walk #2

Walk #2 not only leads you to the gabled heritage listed Farrington House, and across the ridge but it takes you to the site of the Simpson’s piggery (the photo above was most helpful in spotting the location of. piggery) Strangely Farrington House is not in Farrington Street, but up in David Street and is said to be haunted. Again, the grandeur of the houses on the ridge of Welbeck Street, is outstanding, but even the older and shabby houses down near the station have their surprises. Look out for the “Tiger House” on South Pine Road just before you come to our our last watering hole Cafe Vinyet.

On the day of my walk I met Hector, a young guide dog, being taken for his first visit to the railway station, I had a swing on the tree at Welbeck then ‘snuck’ through the gap between two houses at the end of the street to make my way through to the park, I got to be one of the first diners, who wasn’t friend or family to try out the new Cafe Vinyet with its ‘hole in the wall’.

But of all the things I saw, it was taking time to sit at the park and enjoy the quiet, it was smiling at people in the train and talking to people in the street.

I’m keen to follow up with letter B. For our next walk we are walking from one station with the letter B to another. If you wish to join us, PM me or meet us at Oxley Station at 9.00am Friday 1 November.

10 lessons I have learnt from sitting in bed playing Spider Solitaire instead of getting up.

  1. Work where your space is comfortable. A good workspace equals good output – anytime. Remember, though, to get out and enjoy the day ‘cos it

    Looks like a no win

    Looks like a no win

    a great one, whatever the weather.

  2. A proper breakfast and the housework can wait. No further explanation on that is EVER necessary.
  3. It’s better to be dealt a mixed hand. Without a mixed hand we can’t make the next move, get all evens and you are stumped, get all odds and you just never move on.
  4. Losing a game is not the end of the world.
  5. Everything can be restarted.
  6. It’s OK to quit.
  7. Relaxation is conducive to creativity.
  8. No time is ever wasted.
  9. The only person you’re deceiving when you say, “One last game,” is yourself.
  10. You can work anything out, given time. So NEVER give up on yourself.

To Julie,

To Julie,
Love and friendship endureth

Beyond the thousand miles
beyond the span of years
I carry you, always, in my heart.
You were my friend then
and my friend now.
If we sit – we reminisce
snapshots of laughter, black and whites that take us back.
Remember when’s,
of parties, work incidents and accidents,
colleagues shared, the netball games, played and
umpired. The triumphs, the great moments.
We gloss over the hard times
when each supported the other
through family tiffs and tatts
through losses and bad days.
Just as we both do now.
Our lost children are not gone from us,
though dead and underground.
We carry them in our hearts.
We loved them then as we love them now
if not more.
For in our reminisces – our ‘remember when’s’
they are not shaded with the bad days .
But coloured with all the brightness of lives lived
short.
And when we meet again,
Two mothers whose children are underground
We will smile, again, our wonky smiles
Put on, again, some brightness, some lighntess
and reminisce of days gone by
and even if one of us offers the space
we will share our loss and pain,
but not TOO much.
For we both know
as much as we have this common grief
our pain is too great
For another to ever have to share.

Travellin’ Back

To the History Keepers

I walked into my yesterday,

            looking for connection.

It was a museum

            an old historic town.

With landmarks –

            littered with happenings

            and hopenings.

The dreams

            and realities that build

            a destiny.

The opportunities taken

            and untaken

            that lead me to This,

crossroads, where I sit today.

 

I walked into my yesterday

looking for connection.

It was in old photo album,

a passing parade,

of those I have touched

and who touched me,

a family bigger than me.

An album where some

pictures have been removed and

            faces cut out,

violently wrenched from books, but not

from minds.

 

I walked into my yesterday

            looking for connection.

It was a mud map –

            mind map,

            an atlas.

A tracery of cities and towns,

            mountains, rivers and gullies

            where emotions couldn’t be

contained by double yellow lines

and ordered pathways.

 

I walked into my yesterday

            looking for connection.

And found it was an historian –

            a storyteller

who could draw all paths together

            put names to faces

                        pull family trees – genealogies

            into cycles of stories.

Who held the hopes and loves

            sorrows and tragic disconnects

                        of families torn apart

            by differences and circumstances.

Who helped me find the

            connections/ the crossing of

            paths that make

            personal, family and community story

            join at one point.

 

I walked into my yesterday

            and found not disconnect – that I am not alone.

But connection – connection to a greater story.

And caught in that story,

            together,

for one moment.

We shared that one space – connected.

And shed tears

            for what could have been.

 

She crying for the missed friends and

            family of her generation

            and me crying for mine.

 

 

Orphan schools

Orphans by Thomas Kennington

Orphans by Thomas Kennington (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Within a few short years of white settlement of Australia 398 out 958 children were neglected and/or in need of care. Initially Orphan Schools were established to look after these children. Church schools were to later take over the role, and continued, for the next few centuries, caring not only for the orphaned and those at risk but also migrant war children and children of mixed colour.

This poem is for my mother who was to spend years in a church home.

 

Orphan Schools  

You did not know, they started the orphan schools for the likes of you,

Children whose mother could or would not care for them.

You did not know that barely five years after our colonies birth

The children of convict mothers ran the streets unloved, unwashed, unfed.

You did not know that they only thought to feed them, house them fit for work.

Gov. Phillip Gidley King :  Immediate steps (must be) taken to save the youth of this colony from the destructive examples of their abandoned parents and others they unavoidably associate with.

 

You did not know that for some of them the Homes were better than life on the streets.

You did not know when you stood in the gutters, your father’s furniture around your feet,

That your mother could not or would not care for you. You did not know.

You did not know that when the Governor’s job in looking after ‘currency’ children became too great the church stepped in.

Elizabeth Paterson: (They) are to be entirely secluded from other people and brought up in the habit of religion and morality.

 

You were not generations meant for lifting out of gutters, for fitting for society

But generations meant for work – domestic or industrial.

Children spared from guttersnipes and prostitutes and thievery.

You did not know that centuries had passed and still there was a need.

You did not know a mother’s love, a caring touch, a kind word.

But when you became my mother you vowed it would never happen again.

50 Shades

ImageI I wear my 50 shades of grey

from my ‘darkest as sin’ grey

to my purest of whites –

bereft of shame.

I wear my 50 shades of grey

openly,

a crown,

upon my head.

A life lived strand by strand.

Proudly letting each undyed hair

proclaim its experience.

I ask an old friend,

“Old friend have you read it?-

This Fifty Shade of Grey?”

“Have I read it?

Why would I?

We lived it, you and I.”

I nod my wise

old

greying-head in agreement.

Yes! We lived it!

But I know.

You!

You looking at us

see old ladies,

grey-haired

and slowing down.

But let me tell you

My 50 shades of grey

were actually experienced.

Not vicariously salivated over

in the pages of a musty old book.

The Ode Less Travelled

Yes the title of this poem is very long. I wrote it at Kenmore Librarywhen while I enjoyed the space as the Poet-in Residence. Oh! By the way I will be performing some of these poems at the library on Friday, 27th 10:30am. Would love to see you there if you can make it.

Cover of "The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocki...

Cover via Amazon

Ode To “The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking The Poet Within” A Library Book By Stephen Fry That Offered To The Reader More Than Was Asked For;

Or

Don’t You Hate It When Some Inconsiderate Person Writes In Library Books Before You

How did this book,

that’s passed through many patrons hands,

befound itself

yet

so befouled with morning coffee rings

and crumbs

most foul?

 

And yet,

in chapter,

verse and word

it’s very message to the heart, bestirred.

 

And lifted one to greater thoughts,

and greater deeds

and begged one

take ‘the path less tree-ed.”

 

And as I read

with new-found heart

the skills I heeded

for my passions art

and mark my verse

with poets foot.

I found another

marked the pages

of this

very book.

 

But Moving Finger

having Writ

I MUST erase each word of it

For I too,

long to try

the erudition

of

Sir Stephen Fry.

Kenmore Library Poet in Residence

Ginger Bread House

Ginger Bread House (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Earlier this year I took up a post as Poet in Residence at a local library. Sounds pretty great, was a great place to think and write, very inspiring and I came up with lots, and lots of material.  Some of which I will be sharing at session at the Kenmore Library on Friday 29th July. But it was busman’s holiday.  Urban Dictionary says a busman’s holiday is one

 in which you spend most of your time doing the same or something very similar to your normal work.
Comes from the late 1800’s, where a man who drives a bus for a living goes on a long bus journey on their holiday.
A professional musician spends take time off and spends most of it practising music.
By day I masquerade as a  librarian, so as wonderful and as prolific as the exercise was of being a Poet-In Residence I am only now getting around finishing my write ups, and I keep coming across little gems. Continue reading

Home is where…

My Home among the Gumtrees

I’ve just been back home. Home to the place of my childhood, back to my own bed. And somehow that same mattress is not the same anymore. It’s lumpy,  the springs are shot, and there are saggy bits, a bit like me perhaps.

But it is still the same mattress that I slept on nearly forty years ago, with the same thread bare woollen blanket – now topped with a doona. I slept on it the way you would expect, tired and worn the first night after rushing down to assist with some care for my aged mother, content to have the familiarity surrounding me and cocooned in the familiar night sounds a big city can bring.

The second night was not so comfy – this was not my home, it contained some of my heart, my memories and family and friends whom I could share it with but it was not all home. But then where is ALL home when you have moved so much?

Sometimes home is Tully and the joyful memories of bringing up my two sons. Tully is resting place for Jonathon, my eldest boy, who died two weeks before he turned eight. My heart regularly flies back to there, for most of the memories there are warm me and often sustain me when I am fearing that my parenting wasn’t enough, when I wasn’t enough.

Sometimes home is my past.  Whilst in Sydney I caught up with my good friend Kerry McKenzie, as well as being a marriage celebrant her passion is officiating at funerals. Kerry and I both not only share spiritual beliefs about life and death but we know each others youthful madnesses. When I share my poetry with Kerry she not only gets it, she truly celebrates my sense of home, my ability to bear witness to my life openly, the safe space my poetry invites others into to explore their own way of  “coming back home”.

For me home is when we can accept all of who we have been and all we are. When we can be comfortable in our own skin, warts and all. Maya Angelou expresses it little better she says

I believe that one can never leave home. I believe that one carries the shadows, the dreams, the fears and the dragons of home under one’s skin, at the extreme corners of one’s eyes and possibly in the gristle of the earlobe.”

Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Serendipitously, just as I’m exploring, writing and pondering the meaning of home, I get asked to perform some poetry and run a storytelling workshop at the Home Festival. Here is one of the poems I’ll be performing. Life’s funny like that!

Home

Scattered across this country

is home.

It is the place of my birth.

Home.

Home of my childhood-dreams & memories

& learning & small friends.

There is the small corner

of classrooms, childhood bedrooms, mushrooms and fairy-rings

playgrounds, slippery dips & merry-go-rounds.

That is home.

It is the shire of my shy adolescents,

the halls, the high schools,

the dance-floors & milk-bars,

English: Fairy Circle on a suburban lawn. Fore...

English: Fairy Circle
on a suburban lawn. Forest Lake, south of Brisbane in Queensland
Русский: Ведьмин круг (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

the late nights of prowling and searching.

It is the country-small town of my boyfriend,

the first inkling of greater family,

the new insights of other ways to be,

of other families making a life.,

Of farms & dams & small town gossip,

of balls and gatherings,

weddings, and funerals.

New memories & new friendships.

It is the far flung town where children grew

& thrived, of kindergartens & schools

& sport & libraries & P&C’s & fetes

& money raising.

It is the town where the heart grows beyond the gossip,

beyond the self to love

and care for others.

It is the city of heartbreak as children

split away, find their own friends,

stretch their own limits,

push new boundaries.

Alone.

It is the ghost town of alone, of space,

of inner searching, of wanting to find,

but not understanding of what one is searching for.

It is the highway, the byway,

the road map that leads back

reunites – draws all together

yet still

points ahead,

leads on.

It is the place where the heart lies

nursing all places,

all loves

all of self.

Home.

What does home mean to you?

Silence is a habit that hurts

Hiding my dream has become a life-long habit. I keep it silent, hold it too my breast. But as childrens’ author E.L.Konigsberg would say:

“Silence is a habit that hurts.”

I’m not sure if the silence started with the very traumatic death of my seven year old son, or its aftermath when my husband (now ex-husband) spent the next few years calling me a murderer. (His way of punishing me for being the driver of the car which rolled over). I actually think the silence started much earlier, for although I could outwardly remain strong through a marriage littered with physical and emotional violence, my belief in my dreams diminished. I became inured to being put down and having to hold back my dreams.

 

The result has been that although I have got by, I don’t focus, I jump from project to project never settling to focus on any one thing. This is obvious if you look at my website, you’d probably end up asking, is she a librarian, a performance poet, an author, a workshop facilitator or a storyteller?

Well recently I declared one of my dreams, in a very public way. I put in an entry for an Ultimate Motorhome Holiday. Putting in the entry was fine, posting it on my blog was OK. But posting it on Facebook  now although not a mistake has drawn comment. It’s not secret anymore. It’s not a maybe any more. People will expect it too take shape, to hear my plans.

 

And that is exactly what is happening. Friends are asking about my plans for my dream holiday. To be honest CP is the problem, he is now dampening my spirit about being able to afford it, about where HE wants to go etc. This is the man who was more than willing to have a big party (and pay for it) now is being difficult to pin down to what he wants to do for a holiday. I definitely want to visit all the family and friends I left behind as my life moved and changed. I dream of driving the Great Ocean Road again. When my children were young we (the ex and I) traversed it without one word spoken. Five days in a car with two adults not speaking, not taking time to really see the sights. And now its time.

 

At sixty I not only believe I deserve this, but I have also put into place something that will lead to my BIG DREAM.

 

So now you want to know what the BIG DREAM is. For a long time I have yearned to run workshops. I know I’m running them now. But this is my audition for my retirement plan. To travel across Australia, like my parents did in a van. To run workshops that help people find some resolution with their past, write a blog (ditto), perform my poetry shows and tell stories to children. There I’ve said it!

 

AND I’ve arranged a workshop at Hurstville Library  for this holiday. So can I make the rest of the dream come true? Only time will tell, everything starts one step at a time.