The Night Walkabout

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Anyone who knew Frank knew he loved a drink. In fact when the opportunity arose he tended not to stop. It was hard to live with but alcohol bought out all his natural tendencies – everyone loved him because he was so accepting of everyone, quick to laugh, even tempered, easy going and with his very own kind of sense of humour.

When he had a few under his belt Dad was even more gregarious, friendly and funny. Again, it's different when you live with it than when you just see it occasionally, but nothing bought those tenencies out in him more than in large gatherings of family and friends with plenty of food and amber fluid. I remember plenty of family milestones at which he was always in the background dancing, imbibing to excess and playing the fool for everybody.

One in particular was David's 21st birthday, in the Southern Cross Room at the Manchester Rd end of Gymea Trade Union Club one evening in the winter of 1989. I can't remember everyone who was there, but David had invited everyone from TAFE friends of his to the elderly neighbours who'd lived next door to us since long before I can remember.

After any local frivolity there was usually a bit of a convoy back to our place in Gymea, a one minute drive/15 minute walk down the hill from the Tradies, whereupon kids played, teenagers retired to bedrooms and adults consumed their weight in coffee, Seaview Rhine Riesling and beer (all before driving home – this was the 80s).

There was quite a conflagration of figuring out who'd go in whose car as we all left the club, and I can't remember who I ended up with but as we got to our corner we saw a strange sight as we came around the bend. A human figure was perched on the grass, staring straight ahead down towards The Boulevard, sitting with legs straight out in front of him, quite calmly enjoying the night air.

As we got a better look, somedbody (Mum, I think) realised it was Frank. Obviously wanting to enjoy the walk, figuring there were no spare seats in the exodus or just too pie-eyed to think too deeply about it, he steadfastly set off from the club on foot, getting as far the corner of Gabo Place before slipping over and falling just as steadfastly on his arse, probably ruining pants there'd been an argument about three hours before as Mum always used to tell him what to wear (if she hadn't bought his clothes he'd still have been wearing flares and his dark brown long sleeved shirt from 1977).

Now I look back it was probably a bit callous not to stop and make sure he was okay, but we're talking about a memory three decades old and it might be that he just waved or signalled so we moved on – the car was full anyway. He was home a few minutes later, all smiles and quite frankly loving everyone laughing riotously about it – Frank loved anything that made everyone around him happy.

But I'll never forget him in the glow from the streetlight, pastel coloured pants (again, the 80s) and bright white shirt, sitting bolt upright in shock or maybe just stupefication, looking like some kind of oversized novelty garden gnome.

– Drew

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