Frank Turney

I think I've mentioned once or twice before how placid a man Frank was. In fact I only ever remember him exercising his right as a parent to smack me exactly once. I'd somehow got it in my mind to drop a handful of dirt from the backyard into our old above ground pool and pretend I was on The Curiosity Show by sticking the garden hose down to the bottom and whooshing the dirt around everywhere. I don't even remember if he yelled (he never did) when he found me doing it, I just remember how shocked I was that he'd smack me. I don't remember him even being in the picture when I jumped up and down on the roof of the Capella, threw pegs in the toilet, tore newspapers up all over the lounge room of my aunty and uncle's house or wrote 'Drew i am' on my class photo from about third class – it was Mum's wrath I faced in all those transgressions. But it's also entirely possible he couldn't have cared less. In sullying the pool – and this would have a

I can't remember when my Dad started wearing glasses full time. He doesn't have them in photos from when I was a kid or in my teens, so I'm guessing it was some time around his 50s. But he had a very particular way of wearing them that was uniquely Frank. Whether it was because he never got ones that fit him properly or he didn't like the way they felt either on his ears or too tightly across the bridge of his nose, he always had the tips of the arms perched on top of his ears instead of curled over them. It's a detail I and everyone else around us might never have noticed, except that my mother's repeated refrain when she snapped 'put your glasses on your face' was as familiar to me as his face was – including the glasses. It's possible now I look back he did it because he knew how to (and enjoyed) pushing her buttons. I sometimes have no idea how they stayed married as long as they did, but I wouldn't be here otherwise I suppose, and as with ev

Now it's Christmas again that means one thing - swimming in a pool. Of everything I missed when I first moved out of home at 19 (there was probably a lot I didn't realised I missed until years later, like my mother's cooking), the biggest one was the pool. Our pool at Gabo Place was fairly legendary among my family and friends. When I look back now I'm in complete awe that Jan and Frank landscaped that rock wall around the outside all by themselves (did they do all the brick paving too? I can't remember). It would have been quite a job for any thirtysomething suburban couple back in the early 80s when they did it, but if you remember anything about my parents you'll know they didn't do anything harmoniously. I'm surprised someone didn't end up with their foot crushed by one of those huge river stones. As Brad said at Dad's funeral, the Turneys wanted to come to the Gabo Place pool even though they lived a stone's throw from Coogee beach. When

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