Just to prove I wasn't always a bitter and twisted middle-aged cynic, this is a photo of me in the 'good old days'. That is my red-headed terror of a little brother Danny, on my left. It was taken at what was then, about 1968, the premises for the Albany Light Opera Company, which is now Dylans on the Terrace in Albany. I will check that but regardless, it was one of those double-storied shop-fronted businesses along that strip.I always remember my childhood as being quite miserable because of the lack of domestic bliss in the home. I know my father did his best but just wasn't father or (according to my mother) husband material. This photo was taken when the family unit was still together, before the move to Perth and the big split in 1969, when I was separated from my mother, my brother and (to my relief at the time) my father.
As a consequence of ageing though, I have started to remember that there were some good times scattered in amongst the stress, misery and nightmares. Despite the legacy of dysfunction that the family dynamics left me with, I have realised there is much to be grateful for.
My parents were both creative people. We joined the Albany Light Opera Company as a family where my mother directed, painted sets, made props, costumes, acted and sang. My father also did some stage time (cast as the bad-arse characters which I think may have been down to my mother) There was an upright piano where I would plonk out one-fingered melodies of the songs I heard being rehearsed. I still know the lyrics to many songs from the Gilbert and Sullivan productions ALOC performed.
When we were getting in the way and told to amuse ouselves, 'us kids' would go upstairs where costumes were stored in huge cardboard boxes and haul stuff out to dress up in. We had a ball (I think my brother still has a penchant for the occasional cross-dressing session - I have seen a photo of him as an adult in a slinky red pencil skirt and red lippie) We spent many weekends there, often late into the night in which case we would be put to bed in our Holden station wagon that was parked in the lane-way alongside the ALOC premises.
One of my fondest memories is a surreal vision of my father lying in the glow of our home fireplace while my mother carefully applied plaster to his glad-wrapped chest. It was the closest thing to domestic bliss we ever got to. She was making breast-plate armour for a production. I have seen photos of him dressed as a Roman soldier wielding a sword and he looked quite impressive. To this day I still work with plaster as a sculptural medium.
The creative environment kept the marriage bearable for a while, at least until my mother could execute her escape. It was a relief to move to a more stable family environment with my maternal grandmother, grandfather and aunty who was only a year older than me. Unfortunately I had to leave behind the creative jungle for a life in the cultural suburban desert of Rockingham - until I could execute my own escape.
