I was born Maxwell George Bruce Bennett on the 20 November 1935 at the Taree Hospital in High Street which in those days had a clock tower with ivy growing on it, which I recall in later years, because that was where I had my tonsils removed by a Dr. Rogers when I was about the age of eight or thereabouts.
After that I caught about every school age infection in succession and was home for three months recuperating.
I am the youngest in the family of five consisting of Les, Eric, Melva, Elwyn and myself. Our parents were Col and Evelyn Bennett, who at the time were working the dairy farm on Hogan’s Road at the end of now named Drury’s Lane.
The Second World War was well underway when it was time to head off to Primary School at Upper Lansdowne, which was opposite the local store run by a “Jock” Laidlaw, being one of three under the banner of “The Central Coast Co-op”. The main one was on the corner of Manning and Albert St Taree, managed by Wal Sneddon, who I believe is Wendy Machin’s Grandfather. The second was at the crossroads in Lansdowne village, managed by a Reg Pollock.
Being a young whipper snapper in those days, I hated school, did not like the teacher at all, a Bill Craig, who was of the opposite religion who probably didn’t like me too much either.
Heading to school meant at least a mile across the farm, and across the Koppin Yarratt creek if it wasn’t in flood. I liked to wake up some mornings after heavy rain to hear the creek roaring, then it meant a day at home, yippee!
This went on for about three years until it was decided that a school change was in order, so I walked out of Upper Lansdowne school one Friday afternoon without telling anyone, and then rode a bike about four miles and six hills each way, to the Central Lansdowne / Koppin Yarratt / ‘Round Back’ school with the Teacher being Alex Rae, on the following Monday morning. This was a five day per week pushbike ride to school, plus another trip each Sunday to attend Sunday School, which was conducted in those days by Roddy McDonald and his wife Margaret, then church in the original wooden Methodist Church at the southern end of Hogans Road, being it in a frost that resembled snow in the winter season, or boiling hot in Summer without anywhere to get a drink of water. At least the bike and myself got a lift home afterwards in Dad’s 1929 Dodge six cylinder tourer with a canvas roof and side curtains. It was a nice blue colour with black mudguards.
Sometime if the six volt battery didn’t get it to start, out would come the crank handle to wind it over by hand, and if that failed, harness up the closest draught horse to give it a tow. That always seemed to work. One horsepower did the trick!
OUR FARM
Our farm ran between Hogan’s road, across Koppin Yarratt creek to the Western boundary at Upper Lansdowne road, and I believe it comprised of some two hundred acres in area. Dairying was the main occupation of a lot of farms back then, but they are a rare commodity these days unfortunately.
A farm life was simply hard yakka back then – all manual labour, very few tractors of any kind in the area, our motive power consisted of four draught horses to pull the plough, or take the milk cans on a slide twice a day to meet the milk truck at the roadside. A pony to saddle to round up the cows for milking or a trip across to the local shop. It had a mind of its own, difficult to get it to go anywhere, but it would come home at a full gallop with me desperately holding on to the saddle to stay on. This same horse turned one day as I was shutting the gate and politely put a front foot on my big toe and relieved me of a toenail! That brought the coo-ees out of me, and got dad’s attention to see what had happened.
Talking of horses, this very young fellow was in the path of a high speed kick donated by a young horse. It collided nicely with my chin, relieving me of many teeth on the bottom jaw. I found myself coming to later and getting up off the grass. This guaranteed that I had a very fat face and a jaw which wouldn’t move for two weeks. Food was by liquid only for the duration.
Surely I must have sustained lifelong concussion damage from that. One of the numerous symptoms that I have researched is probably why I get occasional horrible vertigo. Naturally the horse was unperturbed by what it had just done.
Electricity was years away in the area which meant much chopping of wood by Dad with an axe, for the fuel stove on which Mum relied so heavily for all of those years. This was the only means of cooking or heating water and kerosene lights or candles were used at night. Our main light at night was an Aladdin light on a metal stand. A wick in the kerosene container fed fuel to a ‘mantel’ which glowed white hot, then above that was a fairly long glass flu to take fumes skyward. (I still have the kerosene container here as a keepsake.)
Mozzies were always in good supply during the summer months. A wipe over with a repellent on going to bed was the only way to try to beat them.
DAILY LIFE
Believe we had about forty Jersey cows to be rounded up twice a day for milking. One big thing which was an asset was that we had milking machines.
The power being supplied by a single cylinder MacDonald diesel fuelled engine. It didn’t always want to start, then it was a case of everyone available to grab a bucket and start the milking the laborious way, by hand. A bit hard to get a horse to tow the engine around like was done with the car.
Dad always grew corn on a fertile creek flat so as to make chaff and also feed mum’s chooks. Cobs were picked by hand and carried by horse drawn dray to the barn where it not only fed the chooks for many months, but kept the weevils and rats, which inhabited the barn, fed as well.
A Comet brand of windmill was purchased from Hobson’s Hardware in Victoria St. Taree in later years which pumped water from the creek up to a tank on a high pole stand near the house, then to a trough for the cows to drink at the cow bails, and also water for mum’s vegetable garden. Beneath the tank was a shower enclosure, but even on a hot day the water was still far too cold to tolerate for very long. A splash in the creek was better. The idea was a good one though.
After many years of this hard yakka and daily grind, mum and dad decided to sell and build a house in Cundletown and retire.
HIGH SCHOOL
That entailed walking half a mile along a laneway with a heavy wooden port, in all weathers, to be the first to board the bus which was driven by Bob Callaghan, at 7.30am four days a week, 7am each Thursday because of the extra trip to near the end of Coxcomb Road, spend close to two hours each way every day to and from Taree, to be the last out of the bus around six or six thirty each evening or night. An exhausting long day, only to have some cranky High School teacher, who probably lived just around the corner in Taree town, expect a few hours of homework to be done by next day! Any wonder that this fellow burnt out early in life?
Getting off the bus in winter time it was totally, totally dark. I negotiated our road home by feeling the road under the shoes, or an occasional small puddle of water in the wheel tracks reflecting a minute amount of starlight.
One evening everything in me went cold when a rustling sound just to one side was about the last straw. Which way do I run, do I fall into a drain, do I crash into a barbed wire fence? Then I realised that it was only a cow getting up that I had disturbed. Phew!
Add to this, some parts of Hogan’s Road were too slippery when wet, so that Mum and I used to watch through a small gap in the trees to the south, to see if the bus was taking an alternative route via Central Lansdowne Road instead, so that meant grabbing the heavy port and running across the farm to the junction of Upper Lansdowne Road and Coxcomb Road, to get on the bus after it had been to its turn around point, and was heading towards Taree via Lansdowne village. Often between the village and Taree both ways, because the bus being so full, we kids had to stand and hang on, thanks to the state of the dirt road. Not much better these days either in places.
Heading to High School in the mornings, we were dropped off at the front gate in Albert St. but the afternoons we had to grab our heavy ports, maybe a quick mouthful of warm horrible water from a bubbler on the fly, and walk/ run all the way to the bus stop adjacent to Yarad’s shop, hoping to be lucky enough to get a seat. Two and a half years of this and I had to call a halt or drop.
CUNDLETOWN
Our move to River St after the garage section was built to live in was by a local Upper Lansdowne man, Hec. Atkins who had a table top truck, and at the time was the Local Councillor for Manning Shire. We lived in the garage while the house was being built, mainly by my Brother Elwyn, for a few years.
I was due to start a working life after leaving school behind, and found that the local Else’s Garage wanted an apprentice, so I applied and got the job. Being a mechanic is a mostly dirty thankless occupation, and possibly the lowest paid Trade ever, but somebody has to do it. Panel beating and spray painting also became part and parcel of the job. Finished up by achieving three Certificates so that was to one’s credit I suppose. It is called being versatile and being able to do what is required. Gave it away after fifty long years of determination and I am not sorry that I did. I haven’t missed the job one little bit since.
By the way, the mechanics pledge is: “Impossibilities done straight away…miracles take a little longer”! Surprising just how many customers thought we could do the impossible, but we certainly tried.
HARRINGTON LAGOON
Near the end of my teenage years, a makeshift diving board was constructed on the edge of the water near the wall. I was with a few others who were trying it out after lunch when the tide was getting lower. Intending to dive off for a shallow kind of belly flop, but the spring board had other ideas and tipped me off into a perfect vertical spear like plunge, head first.
Apparently the arms folded and the head struck the sandy bottom, coming to an abrupt stop, but the remainder of me was still heading downward. SQUISH was heard in the ears and then realised that my feet were still out in the breeze. This is no good, so, I got myself standing vertical, and carried on.
Years after tolerating much discomfort, an x-ray showed just how close it was to being “curtains” at the time. The squish sound that I heard in the ears was the top vertebrae being squashed down to half its size, and numerous discs receiving some similar damage. Unfortunately not very much can be done now, in fact one chiropractor said recently, “I will not touch that, your neck has ‘had it’!”
It will not let me sleep at all some nights, but I am alive and kicking, so that is the main thing.
AIRCRAFT CRASH
In later years at the Garage, Harvey Else had the airport fuel supply contract and various aircraft required fuel at times. One day the job fell to me to add fuel to the tanks of a DC3. John Lavender drove the tanker down from the Mobil depot in Taree. Being more agile, this fellow climbed onto the massive wing with the heavy hose in hand, attached the earth clip to prevent any static electricity sparks near the fuel intake, and proceeded to add fuel to the enormous tanks. People inside the aircraft had a birds eye of what was happening just through the windows.
It was a thirsty beast, four hundred gallons later, and I didn’t see any change in the fuel level in the tanks, of which there were at least two inter-connected. Enough fuel to get to Sydney would be the main concern.
I had a few flights locally, once in a DC3 of East-West airline, a joy flight out over the sea wall at Harrington, back between Middle and South Brother mountain. A number in light aircraft flights, once over Newcastle from Broadmeadow airport, a few locally, and one over to Old Bar in an Auster for a swim after work, and a trip to Port Macquarie to photograph a caravan park from the air with the late Trevor Weeks and his wife Beth.
But the one that I thank my lucky stars for missing out on happened during lunch hour at the garage. An aircraft required fuel so Harvey said to me, “Want to come for a run up to the airport?” “OK” I says. I sat and read a paper while Harvey refuelled a Ryan, VH-WEB, who he knew the pilot of. This guy offered Harvey a circuit, so Harvey asked me if I would like to climb in. Because I had a vehicle to spray with paint as soon as we returned to the workshop, and not wanting to run the risk of getting “A bit green around the gills,” I declined the offer, fortunately!
I heard the aircraft over the Chatham area, and next time I looked shortly after, they were approaching over Dumaresq Island, very low, and the motor only ‘windmilling’ “Better give it some revs fellows or you won’t make it to the end of the strip”, I thought to myself.
Suddenly there was a turn left and it disappeared behind the foliage on the Dawson River bank. Perhaps they are going to put it down on the water, then a loud KER-RUMP was heard. They have flown into the Dawson Bridge I thought, and waited to hopefully not see a plume of smoke from the area. No smoke fortunately. So I called out to the Airport controller who didn’t answer but who evidently realised what the noise had been about, and took off in his truck with me following. By the time we got across the bridge, a crowd was gathering, then we soon discovered the crumpled aircraft in a paddock on a section of farmland on the point of Manning and Dawson Rivers, in an upside down position, a photo of which is in Harvey Else’s excellent book entitled Helicopter Pilot—on the edge, comprised of an enormous amount of his life in massive detail in over five hundred pages. The only fellow that I know of who has landed his helicopter within the Security fence of the Pine Gap Security Base, and took off again before the armed guards came running.
An ambulance had made its way across a paddock as far as possible to help extract the occupants who were hanging upside down by their safety belts.
The owner of the aircraft was unfortunately deceased, in the front seat where I would have been seated had I taken up the offer of a circuit. Harvey had sustained a number of injuries and was unconscious for an extended period of time.. Back problems consequently always remained with him after that.
What caused the crash? At the inquiry, it was discovered that the original owner had lost the fuel cap whilst doing aerobatics, and someone gave him a replacement off a speed boat. Unfortunately, it apparently didn’t have an air vent hole which after a time, prevented fuel from leaving the near full tank.
A catastrophe caused by one missing small air vent! Maybe only one millimetre in size or less.
Years later, after the aircraft had been repaired, Harvey happened to meet up with the new owner who asked if he would like to take it for a ‘spin’? No thanks was the reply, too many bad memories!
‘SALLIES’ AT Koppin Yarratt
Do not know why the area had the name of Koppin Yarratt all those years ago, but I always preferred Central Lansdowne, as it is what I grew up with.
The ‘Sallies’ had their hall on top of the first hill heading north on Hogan’s Road, the first of six that I had to contend with on the push bike ride after leaving Central Lansdowne school each day.
Dad used to conduct their meetings each month, in which only a hand full of stalwarts, namely mostly those related to Unicomb’s or Minett’s who lived not far away.
The lighting system consisted of a six volt battery connected to two overhead copper wires and two plywood reflectors painted white with a six volt headlight globe at the centre. One globe was able to be turned off when not needed to extend the life of the battery charge.
One night the keys on the little bellows driven organ which my sister Melva used to play by pumping the feet at the same time as playing, began to move by themselves apparently. “Probably a mouse or rat had made its home in there and enjoyed the music”. Nothing more was said of the matter until the next meeting when Dad was getting things ready and opened the lid to the keyboard, only to be met by the unblinking gaze of a sizeable shiny red bellied black snake. Guess it was despatched outside after sustaining a few cracked ribs and a slight general reshaping, to become fodder for the local crows and kookaburras next morning.
When we sold the farm and moved to Cundletown, the establishment was closed and sold off. The block with a clump of sizeable trees at the back now is occupied by a private householder.
PHOTOGRAPHY
Guess I always had an interest in how cameras could capture an image and store it. My first camera after starting my job was called a box camera because of its general shape. It used a roll of the sensitive to light film which was backed by black light proof paper. Eight shots per roll was the norm. When full it was left at a chemist for developing and printing so as to see the final result.
At the time there were photo processing kits available so I got into processing my own work, and sometime others, in mum’s laundry at night. A lot of it was done by feel as no light was allowed at certain times otherwise the open film could be ruined. The kit contained a small torch to which either an amber or red filter could be attached. The open film was less sensitive to red light, and the photographic paper was less sensitive to amber. Even so, weak light or none at all were best.
I used three old soup plates for the chemicals, positioned on the open lid of a writing desk. The temperature dictated how long that the film was see–sawed vertically in the developer solution, usually two to three minutes at 70ºF, then washed in clean water, then into what was known as fixer, which dissolved any remaining emulsion off so that area became clear, and then let the exposure light when making prints, to turn black when the paper was developed later. Hence it was called a reversal process.
I did this for many years, also purchasing an enlarger later on to enlarge images to various sizes, both for myself and other people.
If I had a newsworthy shot; I contributed a number over time to the local paper who used to pay me 10 shillings (One Dollar) per column width.
Numerous times I may attend some function at night, return home, and head for the ‘darkroom’ and have a photo ready for Mrs Chick, who lived a couple of doors away, next morning so she could leave them at the Times office, because she was working at the Taree Primary School then which was nearby.
About this time colour film became available mostly of the 35mm size, which was then turned into slides and then shone onto a screen by a projector for all to see. The film allowed twenty shots which was then posted off to Kodak in Melbourne for processing. The round trip was usually around two weeks for the finished product to arrive home in a small yellow plastic box.
There must be many many hundreds of slides in my collection, which normally cost two shillings per shot. Maybe a museum will find some use for them in time to come.
NATIONAL SERVICE
I, like many other lads of my age who had attained the age of eighteen years and had finished their apprenticeships, were required to become a member of the National Service Scheme which was compulsory at the time.
Ingleburn was the site of the 13th Infantry Training Battalion.
So after doing the various medicals, I was drafted into the Australian Army. A group of us boarded the steam train at Taree station one evening where we were allotted a carriage for the night trip to Sydney Central station on the 5 January 1955, from where we were bussed to Addison Road, Marrickville for a quick snack and then our swearing in, after that we were soldiers! I obtained the soldier number of 2/739494. Private Bennett, Sir!
I remember while we were there, a Qantas Super Constellation was doing circuits from Mascot and each time those massive four engines flew overhead, everything around vibrated.
Next was a Double Decker bus trip to Ingleburn’s Balikpapan Barracks, later changed to Bardia Barracks, where the first thing was to be issued with all of our clothes and equipment for the next three months. We were housed in wooden huts which had been built for World War Two. Comfortable but basic. Lights out at ten o’clock, reveille and roll call at 6 am. Breakfast was served up at the mess building, then It was form up for our training for the day. We seemed to be for ever forming a queue for this or for that.
Our instructor was an ex WW2 digger, a Corporal Trembath, who was firm but kind. He put us through hours of drill, much marching and rehearsals for the weekly Wednesday morning Battalion Parade in front of the Colonial who would inspect each line of troops. Being hot and humid weather early in the year, sometimes there would be a clatter nearby and down would go a soldier complete with 0.303 rifle and bayonet. The medico’s from the R.A.P. (Regimental Aid Post) were waiting in the wings and would stretcher the fellow off to some shade to recover.
Then there was a trip to the Anzac Rifle range on occasions where we honed our skills with the rifle or machine guns. Real bullets, we would take turns behind a mound at the targets and indicate back to the other troops just where the shot hit the target. Bit of a thrill with bullets going overhead and slamming into the other mound behind. I put many in there myself.
Then it was a march back to the camp which I believe was about ten miles. Only a short trudge!
We were given some leave at weekends to head to a Cafe in Liverpool for scrambled eggs on toast for a change, or two or three times we had time to return home for a day. We sighted from the train the massive damage around Maitland after the 1955 flood. Even mud covered the rail lines.
Nearing the end of our three months of training, all the skills that we had obtained were put to the test by a long route march on one hot sunny summers day. After lunch we donned everything, packs of all kind were on our back and front, hanging from the belt were water bottle and bayonet, rifle slung over the shoulder, and to top it off pieces of a machine gun were shared around. We left the Barracks and headed west toward Campbelltown before turning south, mile after mile, trudge, trudge, with our hob nail boots heading for the hills in the distance. Each hour we turned off the track, lay down on the ground and put the feet up on anything available to ease the load on them for ten minutes. Then with the load that we were carrying, it was almost impossible to get up on our feet again. By the time that we were nearing our destination it was completely dark, so if a jeep came along we shaded our eyes so as to retain as much night vision as possible.
Our meals were brought out from the camp before we gave into gravity and had a well earned sleep in the bush.
Next morning it was down to a small stream with a cake of soap in hand.
On other occasions we had a small waterfall to stand beneath, which eventually became a trickle. We were ‘invaded’ one evening by a Platoon from the Holsworthy camp who were also in the area. There were flares to illuminate the area and much firing of blanks.
Days later we headed in their direction through the scrub, and no level ground, much like the teeth on a saw, down into a gully, up the other side, across the top, and then down again. On the way home via another route, it was pitch black, in a single file, couldn’t see a thing, so we just listened to the fellows boots in front to get an idea what to expect, soft earth or a stone that the boot slid down etc.
Believe we spent two weeks in the ‘donga’ before it was homeward bound. On the way we camped on the ground again and in the dark. A good sleep until this fellow and others woke by getting pretty wet and an ear being filled with rainwater. Somehow someone got a fire going which dried us out a bit, but after all it was only good clean rainwater. The rest of our gear will dry on the way.
Our final day at Ingleburn was the 6 April 1955, after which we were destined to head to Canungra Jungle Training camp on the border with Queensland, but as luck would have it, the War in Malaya had been fought and won. So the Taree Army Barracks, firstly housed at the Showground, then Muldoon St. was our headquarters for the next two years of the Citizen Military Forces, (CMF) for alternate Thursday evenings, and weekends, plus a two week Bivouac at Pokolbin or Singleton or Mount Royal at the Barrington Mountain, where it snowed one evening. Chilly!
Following those two years it was onto the Army Reserve for five years to be called upon if required.
Later on the Vietnam conflict began but mostly our group missed out on that one fortunately.
Who wasn’t totally disgusted at the antics of some who call themselves Politicians, by the way returning Vets were shamed and ridiculed for doing what they were ordered to do. Unbelievable! It must have been bordering on Treason!! Plain and simple. Many times it has been said that if Politicians had to go to war – there would be no wars! How true?
CHRYSTAL SETS to AMATEUR RADIO
I was always interested in how radios worked right back to my earlier days as a young boy on the farm at Upper Lansdowne.
ABC news from Sydney on 2FC as to how the 2nd World War was progressing, then at night a number of radio serials were broadcast from various radio stations around the state, if there wasn’t too much static from storms.
A number of serials come to mind such as Martin’s Corner, Mrs. Obbs, Dad and Dave. These went for four or five nights of the week, then we had to wait until Monday night to find out what happened in the last few seconds of the last exciting episode.
During the day at around mid day, 2TM Tamworth had a ‘Hill Billy’ program featuring Buddy Williams, Tex Morton and maybe a lad named Slim Dusty.
Believe my favourite would have to be Wilf Carter followed by Slim Dusty a close second.
Nighttime shows like Jack Davey, Bob Dyer and the ever popular Australian Amateur Hour hosted by Mr Terry Dear were never to be missed. Chad Morgan brought the house down with his rendition of ‘The Sheik from Scrubby Creek’ and easily won the contest that night and Terry Dear laughed all the way through.
The broadcast receiver back in those days was a wooden cabinet about near to a meter high, with a shelf at the back which contained the working parts. The volume and tuning were accessed by knobs at the front of the cabinet.
On the bottom rear were the vibrator (which I believe converted the DC of the six volt battery to AC.)
The large aerial / antenna consisted of a long length of copper wire suspended from two high poles, and in this case were running roughly north and south. Believe Harvey Ivers, who had a shop in Manning St Taree at the time, about where 14 Manning St is today, came out to the farm to set it all up for us. He was the technical man with a radio shop. Service.
After selling the farm, we moved to Cundletown where I somehow became interested in Crystal Sets. One was duly purchased by post and became a bedside feature complete with head phones.
A length of copper wire was obtained from an old coil per favour of the motor vehicle industry, and duly strung across the front yard. An earth wire was also needed to improve reception.
There wasn’t a great deal of selectivity with crystal sets, but at night after any local stations closed, which dominated the airwaves, stations like 3AW Melbourne or 4BC Brisbane came romping in.
Chrystal sets needed no power of their own to work, the incoming signal provided that, so there was no need to turn them off.
Shortwave listening was another interest of mine. Many high power broadcast stations were on one frequency or another during the day or night including our very own Radio Australia, Voice of America, Radio Japan, Holland, Germany and of course the BBC from the UK were just some of those available.
I assembled a short wave radio kit and spent many hours listening to what other stations around the world had to say.
This fired up my interest in Amateur Radio then I could not only listen to other Amateurs, but become one of them myself.
Like a lot of others, I thought it would be next to impossible to learn the Theory and pass morse code, as was the requirement back in those days, like 14 words per minute, send and receive. With some encouragement I joined a night class at Chatham High led by an amateur himself, John Pinson. Geoff Hunziker from the Taree Post Office was also a great help.
After having some grounding in electronics, it began to all fall into place.
Morse code was like learning another language, this time a sound language.
The code for letters and numbers gradually began to sink in, and after about 12 months of listening, I received my first pass of five words per minute send and receive, together with a pass in Theory and Regulations.
In due course the much awaited ‘big brown envelope’ arrived from the Dept. of Communications and I was permitted to set up my very own Ham Radio Station with the Licenced call sign of VK2PMZ.
Later I upgraded to VHF and used the Two Meter Band around 146 Mhz, and the callsign of VK 2KFO after getting a pass of ten words per minute.
The next upgrade gave me unlimited use of all Amateur bands with the call sign of VK2BMG.
A number of wire type dipoles were constructed for the various frequency Bands from low frequency 3.5Mhz up to 28Mhz, then smaller aluminium Yagi’s for VHF. The 3.5Mhz, known as 80 meters is a good nighttime band, 7Mhz 40 Meters is excellent for local communication, 14Mhz for contacts via the inosphere over thousands of kilometres, also known as ‘skip’.
For anyone interested in Amateur Radio, the sky is the virtual limit. There are many aspects of it like being able to bounce signals off the moon to being able to experiment with whatever aspect that you may desire which are too numerous to mention here.
But like too many good things, together with work and the usual daily chores, I found myself with more than I could handle, then it was a matter of shedding something, so the least essential had to go. But I still have an interest in it but that is where it stops these days.
OUR HOUSE
We bought this block of land in Chatham from Bruce Cowan when he was in Real Estate for a modest price of £400 in 1961 – compare that to today’s prices.
My brother Elwyn was invited to do the building because everything he did had to be spot on, and it has served us well ever since.
We worked hard on low wages for many years to pay off the loan of about £12,000 which was provided by the Commonwealth Bank through what used to be the Central Coast Co-op back in those days. We were able to still pay it off in about half of the allowed time. We are still living in the same house at the same address at the present time. We are definitely one of the “locals” these days.
A number of other couples in the local area also took out a loan while the money was available.
OUR WEDDING
At Elses’s Garage, the previous Secretary / bowser girl / typist was leaving so her cousin from a dairy farm on Oxley Island accepted the job. Her name was Beryl Cadden, a relative of the local Drury family.
Of course the rest is History. We fairly often visited either one of the local movie theatres or the drive-in if a good movie was on. TV was only available in the cities in those days, and only black and white.
Later it was decided to tie the knot and the local Taree Methodist Church in Albert St was the venue with the Rev WG (Bill) Hardy being the Minister in the year of 1962.
We had two boys, Darren, then Bradley, who both are not afraid to knuckle down and get done what ever needs to be done. Good lads. Excellent workers.
At this time of writing we are Great Grandparents. Where has time gone?
OUR RETIREMENT
We are both retired now and have been so for a number of years enjoying life the best we can for as long as we can. Why not?
Hope all readers gain some info from this somewhat brief account of life in our area during the last eighty nine years or so.
Congratulations to the Upper Lansdowne Hall Committee on the Centenary of the Upper Lansdowne Memorial Hall.
Max Bennett. Taree. 1 April 2025