Frank Turney

As most of you who knew/know both my parents know, my mother has always been the fiery one. There were three brothers who were notorious bullies that lived up the hill from us on Manchester Rd (now I look back they were probably a bit feral, their parents probably unemployed alcoholic bogans). Once, when Mum got it out of me that the middle brother had told me one day he could push me into the traffic but he wasn't going to because I was his friend, she marched up to the crossing of The Boulevarde in front of Gymea North primary school, accosted him with her finger in his face and threatened some kind of violence. These days you'd go to jail for it, but by God it worked. I stood off to the side, mortified but secretly in awe of her bravery... and he never even so much as spoke to me again. The point is, Dad didn't get involved in confrontations on our behalf very much. It wasn't because he was confrontation-averse (although he was such a placid personality I suspect tha...

Anyone who knew me when I was in single digits knows what a wuss I was with so many things. I had so many crippling phobias (storms, cockroaches, roller coasters, snakes, etc) I wonder now I look back how I could even function. But among the most terrible was my fear of fireworks. I still remember one of the few times a family member came to collect me early from school – always an adventure for a little kid – when my brother was sent in to get me in fourth class while Mum and Dad waited outside in the car so we could all go to the Sydney Easter show. It must have been a battle getting Dad to take the afternoon off work but he did it, and off we went to the grand back entrance (probably Lang Rd, Moore Park), where Dad had some dodgy mate he knew from the automotive trade who opened some cruddy back gate so we could get in for free. For most of my young life I thought the entrance to the Easter Show was a swinging metal gate about eight feet high. I remember discord in my paren...

It was a weekend night. Bob and Bev were there at Gabo Place as they often were after a night at the Fountain Inn, but I remember a lot more people being around than usual. Maybe Elaine, Lynda and Janelle were down from Queensland, but there was a slightly more party-like atmosphere in the house. Everyone was gathered in the kitchen and had already been attacked by a cockroach. It sprang out of one of the cupboards and the f%$ker actually flew ! I never knew they could until that night. Aunty Bev screamed like Mum always used to at moths and lanced out of the way. I think I hightailed it. Whether it was the same cockroach or not we'll never know, but the flyspray was out on the kitchen table later in case it showed up again and it did, scurrying across the table. Dad was sitting closest, so when Mum yelled 'get it with the Mortein, Frank!' he picked up the can and, in his own inimitable style, slammed it down to crush the unsuspecting bug flat.

As it's the silly season, I thought I'd share some stories about Frank and his efforts to play Santa Claus. Ironically I wasn't there to witness either of them, although they've become Turney family lore to the extent I wish I had. The first one was the time Mum and Dad somehow set up a ping pong table (from Santa) in the garage. I can't imagine how my parents so much as even got it out of the box without a near-fatal knifing, let alone set up and ready to use. That one I actually do remember happening. We used to keep boxes of soft drink cans in the garage and bring them up to the kitchen fridge in handfuls to use. I can't remember if I was asleep or not, but I was disturbed by whatever almighty clatter rang out. I remember staggering through the kitchen and opening the back door to see what was going on. It must have alerted them because Mum (probably after some hurried and choice invective about the noise Dad was making) had a ready excuse – she came...

Now I look back on my father's life during the time I've been in the world (from ages 33 to 79), I realise I've never known a man with so little vanity. He was a bit of a classic iconoclastic Aussie bloke who probably would have gone everywhere in thongs and shorts if he could. There's a photo of he and Mum in the lounge room of Gabo Place when we were all on our way out to the Fountain Inn. If I remember it correctly he's wearing these slacks with slightly flared legs and a tiny brown check pattern and a shirt that used to be his going out uniform, a snugly fitting, long sleeve cotton shirt made of soft cotton that was a delectable dark brown colour with muted orange buttons. David used to call it his 'body shirt'. When we were teenagers and used to wear the same thing over and over and he'd say 'when's the operation?' every time the opportunity called for it – like all his jokes. It meant we were wearing something so often it was lik...

There were plenty of constants in Frank's life. One was that nothing made him angry, and the other was that he had a stock set of responses. When he and Mum were having an argument and she said 'p$#s off' he responded (every time) with 'I'll have a whiskey then'. When she told him to get nicked he said (every single time) with 'I have been'. When we were trying to play cricket in the backyard and Amigo kept hanging around wanting to chase and steal the tennis balls (he could fit about five in is mouth, it was like trying to open a vice getting them out and if you did they felt like they'd spent twoyears on the floor of an ocean) and Dad happened to be down near the clothesline or the house we'd say 'can you call the dog Dad?', he'd yell (every single time) 'Dad! Dad!'. He loved the kind of gags that were funny the first three or four times but he stuck with them for way too long. It drove you insane to be on the recei...

Most of you know I have two grandchildren in my life. Amelia just turned six months old so she's like a very cute small animal who smiles at me occasionally and needs lot of care and food but we're not relating to each other as humans so much yet. But since I came back from America last time Lucas and I have become pretty inseparable. He loves coming to our house to the extent that sometimes when I drop him off or say goodbye he cries, which is heartbreaking. He stays over once a week. I pick him up from school and walk home with him, make his lunch the next morning, read to him in bed, tuck him in, and take him to his tae kwon do lesson once a week. We play lots of video games together, watch movies, sometimes we have 'boys nights', when we stay up as late as we want, make microwave popcorn, have whatever he wants for dinner and do whatever we (ie, he) wants to do. I don't know how close he is with any of the kids in his class and he's grown up an only...