Isn’t Brisbane a terribly small town?
This 22 year old garage worker who put his life on the line for his country is my Grandfather, my mother’s father and a man who loved me dearly as a child and made be tomato soup and bought be tricycles and batman capes.
Until now the day he died a premature death from his war injuries was the saddest of my life, and I vividly recall crying all the way of the then 12 hour drive from Newcastle to Brisbane after my parents received the shock news that my Pa had passed away as we were en route to visit Dad’s sister in Bondi.
The day of his death is about to be superseded in sadness by that of my mother, who lies in front of me as I write gasping for breath in a palliative care unit, her brave struggle against a cancer that was meant to kill her seven years ago soon to be over, and blessed mercy it is indeed, for no high-quality human being should have to endure the suffering that my Mum is contemporaneously being subjected to.
It would perhaps be easier if she simply rolled over and died, but Bunger boys are born of Bunger girls, and we folk from Geebung don’t give up the ghost easily, especially when defeat means that we become ghosts ourselves, and so like her father in the war record pictured above Mum bravely fights on, and will do so until her final breath, however much sooner of later that heart-wrenching gasp may be.
I will write about Mum and her courage later, and it will be paean to the magnificence of the true Australian spirit, and a condemnation of the cowardice of those who may reside in the Sunburnt Country but are not of us, the craven cock-crowers who lack the fortitude to stand up and fight for what’s good and what’s right, and embrace children not to protect them, but simply to sate their perverted pedophiliac desires.
Such scandalous scumbags are not worthy to be mentioned in the same breath as my Mum, and I will not sully her last day on this earth with their mention.
Instead I will simply show you an image that illustrates that how thin the divide is between good and evil.
To understand it you must recall that Gregory Stephen Masters, the pervert who stole my youth and damn near destroyed my life lived in Parish Street, Spring Hill, with his backyard jacuzzi and his bottles of Jack Daniels that he would ply upon hairless young boys so that he could touch their balls and suck their scrotums in order to sate his demonic and satanic sexual desires.
You must also remember that Masters plied his pervert’s trade for decades as a teacher at Brisbane Grammar, and that his faux-Christian brother in arms and fellow pedophile Kevin ‘Skippy’ Lynch plied his in the same place, and before that just up the terrace at the ‘Christian’ Brothers school named Gregory Terrace.
The moral of this tale is that in among a field of filth there often lie decent men and women, and that all that is needed to end the outrage that ruins so many young lives is a just a bit of true Aussie guts and courage.
Henry Mason Walker of Wedd Street, Spring Hill possessed it in spades.
So did his daughter, my beloved suffering mother.
Geebung boys know where they come from, and innately understand where they are heading if they ever falter and forget their past.
I’m a Bunger boy, and boy I’m proud of it, and I love and respect my mother beyond compare.
Lest We Forget.
I never will Mum.