Stan's Legacy
A Baker's Dozen in Geelong
My fathers impact on his thirteen children (and many others)
My father's face is etched in my mind as clear as a bright spring day in Geelong, the city in southeastern Australia where I was raised with twelve brothers and sisters.
Our home, still lovingly referred to as "55" in Geelong was the envy of the hordes of friends we accumulated. "55" was always a hive of activity; it was the meeting place for the whole neighborhood. It was also full of genuine family love, largely because of Dad and Mum.
I recall his high forehead with the shock of strong, thick gray hair atop his smiling face, so full of character. I will never forget his nerve-shattering, stern look, his infamous querying glance over the top of his dark rimmed glasses, or his easy smile and his quick wit. The sheer presence of a man so many people had great respect for. He was without doubt the most profound influence on my life. If I live to be half the man he was, I will have achieved much. A formidable man in so many respects and yet, a simple man with simple tastes.
I remember Dad's work as a "wharfie"; a stevedore involved in loading and unloading ships servicing the Port of Geelong. He worked hard and was admired by his peers as a man with great integrity and genuine humility. After several years "on the wharf" he won the position of Secretary and later President of the WWF (Waterside Workers Federation). He served his members' interests well, to the point where many considered him their guardian, a fact that resulted in his retrieving several from jail in the wee hours. He advised many on domestic problems and consoled so many widows with just the right words at the right time.
Dad was nicknamed "The Mirror" because he always said, "I'll look into it" when one of his charges raised an issue. He could easily have been "Father" Stan. He had that sort of sincere quality to him, though he was no saint. I guess we put an end to any possible religious calling he may have held, but if ever a man could be said to be saint-like, then Dad would qualify in most respects.
Dad almost always was a fair man, with a genuine concern for his fellow man. Some of his surreptitious acts of kindness over the years only surfaced after he passed away in '81 with colon cancer at the age of sixty-one. Like the time he partially mortgaged our family home, packed to the rafters with kids at the time, to help a struggling wharfie and his family in Tasmania. There were also many times when he instinctively did the simple but caring and thoughtful thing for people he hardly knew; the lift for the lady waiting at the bus stop with heavy groceries to cart home. "Are you sure you are going my way, Stan?" "Of course, no worries, hop in" he cheerily replied when, in fact he was originally headed in the opposite direction!
I remember Dad's' justice as clearly as I remember his face. He had an uncanny way of knowing who was in the wrong, despite the outright lies and preposterous exaggerations we heaped on him in our pathetic attempts to explain away, or justify our frequent sins. Of course he saw through the bumph, and dispensed his justice accordingly. No "trial" or denial was tolerated, when he knew he was right. The amazing thing was that he was almost always right!
I recall one very memorable whack across the ears I collected, when I was about seven years of age. He accused me, tried me, and then dispensed his justice on me for supposedly taking apart and older sisters wristwatch to see how it worked. In truth I had accidentally dropped it on the ground where it shattered. He knew I was inquisitive enough to take it apart and then lie about the supposed accident. I had no chance of convincing him otherwise.
His justice was swift and accurate, even if he wasn't always fast enough to catch the offender, he'd deliver in the end. Like the time I was bravely (stupidly) giving him cheek from the safety of the bottom of our yard, when he was at the top end. I started to run, when he threatened to clout me. I was pretty swift of foot, but Dad was smarter than I gave him credit for. As I sprinted toward the back gate and into the lane to escape his wrath, he stopped, removed his size twelve shoe and threw it with gusto. It collected me behind the ear with a force equivalent to his huge hand, which I had felt before.
I was so stunned I just stood there holding my aching neck, which he promptly clouted again when he caught up with me. Well deserved and I never under-estimated him on that score again.
Dad and Mum had other rebels in the family to contend with as well as me. We were by no means perfect children. We had inherited his spunk. Some of us had mischievous natures sufficient to test any parent, even one with the wisdom of Solomon. He somehow allowed our spirits to thrive, while steering us through those formative years. And he managed to do just that with all thirteen of us.
He was justifiably a very proud man and he made sure we knew he was very proud of us all. Ours was a family that revolved around him, the strong center of the family unit. Still, how he and Mum managed to feed, house, educate, guide, correct and advise us and keep us all on the "straight and narrow", I will never know, but will always appreciate.
Dad's great sense of humor and his smile are forever etched in my mind. Whenever I recall it I can't help but smile myself. He laughed at simple things. His smile lit up his whole being and the world around him with an infectious happiness. I can see him now, sitting back in his chair in the corner of our lounge room, chuckling away at "The Three Stooges" or a "Tom & Jerry" cartoon on TV with a sideways grin at us kids, rocking away on the floor laughing, fit to wet ourselves. I recall him admonishing us for changing TV channels from a cartoon we didn't think he had been watching, laid back with a newspaper spread in front of him. Dad loved a laugh and we laughed along with him.
Of course, we had our chores, from washing and drying dishes to cleaning school shoes and collecting eggs from the chook-pen in the yard, to chopping great piles of wood and building the fires to warm our bones on those cold Victorian winter mornings. There were many times when Dad would drag my brothers and I out of bed early on Saturday mornings to hitch up the trailer and head for his mates place in the bush about 20 miles from Geelong to collect firewood.
The wood-collection ritual always scared the living daylights out of me. I wasn't too keen on spiders to say the least and the wood we collected was riddled with them. When one such hairy monster ran frantically down a log hanging out of our open fireplace to escape immolation, it was even more frightening. My younger sisters used to shriek (as only little girls can) fit to pierce our eardrums, but it made us all laugh.
One time after we had collected enough wood to sag the old wooden trailer's axle, Dad decided we should collect mushrooms for dinner in the surrounding paddocks. Mum did wonderful things with fresh mushrooms and we didn't mind the chore. It was a beautiful day and I was glad to be clear of the tarantulas I knew were itching to crawl into the back seat of the car to get at me, so off I set into a paddock among the sheep to collect my share of "mushies".
I was about ten at the time. In the middle of a huge paddock covered in lush, green grass. I was bending down to pick a fine specimen of a mushroom when Dad called loudly from the fence, "Ronald."
I merely turned my head in his direction without standing and was promptly head-butted by a charging ram!
I was laid flat out flat on my stomach with my face firmly pushed into a still warm "cow pattie" when he came running over to make sure I had survived the onslaught. When I came to and he saw I would survive, his concern was over-ridden by tears of laughter as he hugged me hard. Eventually my own tears dried and my head stopped aching. I was more peeved at that the stupid ram hadn't felt a thing. He just stood there watching us belligerently while he chewed grass and kangaroos lolled in the far corner of the paddock.
To my embarrassment I heard dad relate that story many times to his mates, but it was worth the embarrassment because it always brought on more of his infectious laughter.
Dad's relationships with various Catholic priests over the years was always a source of great fun for us. The priests used to call at our modest house at "55", usually on Friday nights, with a packet of fish and chips wrapped in newspaper under one arm and a few bottles of beer under the other. They would spend the evening joking with Dad & Mum and teasing us kids, telling jokes. Memorable times indeed.
Of course, the inevitable Irish sing-along would ensue. Dads' rendition of "Irish Eyes" kept us enthralled and had the priests reminiscing about Eyre, where many had originated. We were so proud that our Dad had such a great voice and with priests as friends to boot. We were in awe that he was held in such respect by these men of the cloth and we were always entertained with the humorous stories and friendly banter.
We also learned priests were very human. I sometimes thought perhaps they envied Dad his family. It was clear they respected Dad for the way he conducted himself and his life. One night one of the priests told Mum (a converted Methodist) there was a place reserved for her in heaven because she had borne so many wonderful children "into God's church" (we were all christened Catholics). She laughed and said, "Right. You won't be seeing 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 Dad's close relationship with and reliance on, his good mates. Often, late on Saturday mornings after taking Mum into town for her weekly shopping with a few kids in tow, Dad would slip into the Corio Hotel. Our sole mission on these outings was to try to con Mum into buying sweets and other such luxuries. We usually failed. She couldn't afford it and as it was, we used to accumulate three trolleys of groceries. It always seemed to take forever to get through the checkouts.
Dad would stride into the bar of the Corio to cheery calls of "G'day Stan" 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 (fifty cents today) each way was a big bet for him.
Meanwhile Mum would sit outside in the old car with us younger kids, sipping a lemon-squash, which Dad would bring out to her. She was often knitting for the next baby, which was never far away. The bar was not a place women were allowed to enter in those days and besides, mum thought some of Dad's mates a bit rough. They were wharfies after all.
When I had grown a little, Dad would sometimes take me into the bar with him and make me sit up on a high stool with a lemonade and with strict instructions to be quiet and to only "speak when you are spoken to". I thought this was great! I was in the men's place, the bar, with my Dad. I was so proud to be there, often overhearing a crude joke uttered by his mates, "Jugger" "Bluey" or "Slim." Dad would give me a quick, admonishing glare if he caught me laughing. After all, I wasn't supposed to understand at all, was I? Around lunchtime we would head home to a sausage on bread, smothered in tomato sauce and then off to the footy. Ah, Saturdays when I was young in Geelong will always be times I will remember with great pleasure.
Dad loved his footy and I loved going with him, standing in the outer side of Kardinia Park (the Cats' home ground) cheering, cursing mildly at the umpires, laughing lots and admiring the great skills my heroes in the fast moving game of Aussie rules footy.
Through rain, hail or shine, he'd be there on the wing and we'd be there with him; it was great. The feeling of camaraderie, especially when the Cats won, was just plain magic. We watched the TV replays that night and then again on Sunday morning. We couldn't get enough of it. It was after one such match he "lost" me (or did I lose myself?) in Melbourne at the mighty MCG (Melbourne Cricket Ground). When the game was over and thousands of fans streamed from the "G", he thought I had left the stadium for the 45 mile trip home to Geelong with my brother-in-law, who was equally sure I was with Dad.
I had been so distracted with the Cats' win I had wandered nonchalantly from the ground without a thought about who I was to go home with. When I realized I was alone, albeit among thousands of footy fans scurrying to their cars, I completely froze. I frantically searched for the car in the huge car-parks and when I couldn't find dad or my brother-in-law I waited until the car parks were almost empty before the realization hit me that they had gone. I was totally alone in a huge city where I knew no-one.
I wandered the streets of Melbourne, lost and lonely in the "big smoke" at the age of eleven. I ended up walking into a police station to shyly announce my situation. I was scared. To this day I do not know what gave me to good sense to go to the cops. After hearing my story with some bemusement, the police officer on duty called home and told Mum what had happened. When Dad finally arrived home, ready to put his feet up after the long drive and have a beer, Mum told him he had to turn around to drive all the way back to Melbourne to get me. The next train between Melbourne and Geelong was hours away and Mum insisted he should come for me. It didn't take much convincing him.
The policeman took me on his beat with him that night, showed me his gun (a "real" gun) and even shouted me into a movie "Birdman of Alcatraz" while he finished his rounds. Three hours later Dad arrived to collect me. He was obviously grateful I was safe and he thanked the police for looking after me. He hugged me hard and tossed my blond hair with a gruff, "Don't do that again, son. You had us all worried for a while." He then bundled me into the back of the car to sleep soundly after my adventure, while he drove all the way home again and carried me to my bed.
Dad's cars were also well worth remembering They were never new or anywhere near new, but he drove them with care as a means to move "the mob" around. We really could have done with a bus, but cars had to do. The first one I recall was an old, rust-red Ford (or was it a Bedford?) "ute". It had a cabin with a rear tray attachment over which Dad had crafted a plywood cover. In the tray on either side was a hard board seat where us kids would cling uncomfortably on those early outings. On longer trips, he would throw a mattress and rug in the back and we could snuggle down while the wind whistled around our ears as we rattled along.
This was how we used to travel to those great footy matches in Melbourne, stopping at Werribee (half way) on the way home for fish, chips and huge potato-cakes on bitterly cold winter Saturday nights. If the Cats had won, we'd be in great spirits, singing and laughing until our cheeks ached. Playing "Dutch ovens" and blaming each other for the amazingly horrible odors trapped under the blankets in the back of that little ute. When we arrived home we would all be asleep and Dad would carry us all, one by one, to our beds. We usually doubled up with a brother or sister as there were only three bedrooms in the house, but we were always warm and safe.
To my mind, the most memorable car Dad ever owned was a grand old gray Humber Super Snipe, with sweeping, graceful lines and such fancy gadgets as turning signal arms that emerged from the side of the car when he indicated he was turning. I used to think of it as our Rolls Royce, as I sat regally up there in that huge back seat while Dad cruised along the streets, waving to the many people he knew. I lost count of all the cars he had, but he always looked after them and never seemed to mind never owning a new one. I guess material things meant little to someone who had so much inside.
His voice was strong and clear and with a strong Irish heritage, the Irish songs he used to sing at family functions were special. "Irish Eyes" was always called for and often "Danny Boy" and "I'll Take You Home Again Kathleen" They used to bring a tear to even our young eyes because they were sung with such feeling.
Often called on to make speeches at such functions, he never failed to say the right things because he what he said, he truly felt in his heart. He offered advice to newlyweds and went to so many funerals, we lost count. He always had the right words of consolation and encouragement to a bereaved widow. His own great humanity always shone through. How many times did I hear people say to him afterwards, "Well said Stan."
His unshakable belief in God and the Catholic Church and his demands we attend church every Sunday are also etched in my mind. He never did forget though, we were kids after all and we strayed from time to time.
Glenda, one of my three older sisters, strayed, lied to him and paid the price. She decided to skip mass one cold Sunday morning. Later, at our ritual Sunday roast lunch, she pretended she had been at Mass, thinking Dad would never know. I should have warned her about under-estimating Dad, but, hey, she was a sister after all. Attempting to deceive Dad was quite a gamble on Glenda's part because he almost always took up the collection at the church. I'm sure he took the opportunity to count his own flock to make sure we were there.
Anyway, as a result of her lunacy, Glenda hadn't been inside St Margaret's Church to witness a complete electricity failure during the service and see Fr Rafter dismiss the congregation early. Early dismissal was a totally unheard-of occurrence as the good Fr always made the most of his captive audience.
Poor Glenda bombed out badly when Dad, cunningly suspecting she hadn't been to mass at all, asked her if anything unusual had happened at Mass that morning. The rest of us knew what was coming. I gulped! "No, just the usual dreary sermon, nothing exciting," she coyly replied. Gotcha! We cringed. Some of us even giggled behind our hands. Dad sounded her out thoroughly, more for lying to him than actually missing Mass. The look on Glenda's face when she realized Dad knew, was classic horror. He also enjoyed her discomfort and then laughed at her cheek.
Christmas was always something special at "55". I recall catching Dad up late one Christmas Eve re-painting my older brothers' red bike so they could give it to me as my "new" blue one for Christmas. The dozens of gifts covering the whole (albeit small) lounge room floor on Christmas Day always amazed and delighted us, as did the look of sheer joy on Dad's and Mum's faces as they shared our delight.
Material things meant something to us. We were kids. We had peers who received many more new "things" than we did, but we never felt deprived in that home. There never was such a thing as a disappointing Christmas. Dad and Mum saw to that. How they did it will remain a mystery to me.
Our house was always alive with activity, with friends coming and going, pets who just loved all the attention they received, music of all types almost constantly playing, chores to be done and lots of laughter. Our home was a great place to grow up. Dad used to enjoy the interaction with our mates too and they respected him and looked up to him both physically and as a man.
I recall the night Dad found a close friend of mine, an only child, sleeping under my bed just to be a part of our family a little longer. Dad didn't send him home, he just made me move over to make room for him. I didn't mind at all, but my older brother, who was in the same bed, wasn't overjoyed at the prospect of yet another bed partner!
I still marvel at Dad's strength and utter faith that things would always work out for the best. Though he never showed it, there must have been so many times when there was little or no money to pay the bills. When the school accounts came due, or when we kids just had to have the latest gizmos that were pushed at us via the ads on the black and white TV we loved. When we needed clothing and all the sporting gear growing kids must have, or when the baker used to deliver (literally) dozens of loaves of bread on long weekends. They always came up with the money, somehow.
His strength was our strength, his solid belief was our rock and his unfailing human spirit was totally infectious.
Many years later when Carol, my sister nearest to me in age lost her husband (Colin) to a heart valve malfunction in his early thirties, Dad was there for her. Colin was another brother to us. Dad was strong and though he hurt as well, he was reassuring and positive. He was always there for us and he always shared our pain.
Though I would rather not, I also remember his suffering with that cruel disease. His dignity and concern for Mum and all the children and the sad look on his face as he lay for months in hospital beds, clearly saying, "I love you" with every fading twinkle of his eyes.
When I looked into those wonderfully warm eyes, I couldn't for the life of me understand why God would let such a man suffer. But I also knew if ever a man deserved eternal rest with his God in heaven, it was Dad.
I don't remember too much about his funeral. I walked in a stupor ahead of his hearse with my brothers, all the way from the church to his final resting place in the cemetery. Hundreds of people came to pay their respects.
I knew then the great legacy he left behind was not just for us.
We had an Irish wake after his funeral, of course. It was an irreverent celebration of his life and appreciation for the peace he was now in, as well as a release valve for us after weeks of watching him fade away from us.
He was gone, unbelievable but true, though never from our hearts and our lives, which are so very much the richer because he was such a huge part of it. 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 love again.
Though all thirteen kids never lived at "55" at one time, due to age differences and because our eldest sister left home long before the younger ones were born, we remain a close family today. Dad and Mum taught us to share everything and our sharing continues.
Though a few of us now live away from Geelong the majority still live there.
We all very proudly call ourselves Stan & Elsie Welsh's children.
As author and pastor Charles Swindoll once wrote, "Each day of our lives we make deposits in the memory banks of our children."
Dad and Mum left so many wonderful deposits in our minds, our souls and on our lives.
Their legacy to us is a debt we will never ever forget, we were privileged to have them as parents.
Ron A. Welsh