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Stan was part of my early life in Australia after WW2. A friend and colleague during the years 1951 to 1957. I could not find enough words to describe his character. A hard worker, with an outgoing personality, friendly, easy to get on with, always ready to help anyone in need, and much more. If there was anything that had to be done, in an emergency or otherwise, Stan was always upfront. I was to learn later that before emigrating he was a deep-sea fisherman on a trawler in the North Sea, a very hard and demanding life, and he fitted the picture of lean and wiry 

 

I could write a book about Stan, but I'll recount some of the highlights during my association with him 70 years ago, which remain vivid in my memory to this day at age 93.

 

As a newly married couple my wife and I emigrated to Melbourne Australia in late 1949 and stayed with our sponsors for a year, then moved to an old colonial house that had been converted into four apartments

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My meeting with Stan

 

I purchased a Morris tourer car and had it completely overhauled, but its performance was pathetic. Very little acceleration etc. I was out on the street in front of our apartment with the hood lifted scratching my head wondering what to do next, when a car pulled up alongside and guess who got out yes Stan "Having trouble mate? " I explained my dilemma. "

 "I rent a room in the house next door with my wife pull in under the tree and I'll have a look" What transpired was typical of Stan, he completely pulled the engine apart and fixed the problem, and the car drove like a dream. I was thinking this is going to cost me a bomb. What do I owe you Stan? He passed it off with a gesture "No charge" are you sure "Yes." "Well I'm in electronics if you have any problems with your radio, phone, or electric's let me know."

 

He invites me to bush walk.

 

A few days later he called in to see me. " I bush walk at the weekends, not every weekend would you like to come?" At the latter end of WW2 when my ship docked in Australia or New Zealand I would bush walk then, but always by myself. He was such a friendly, outgoing person I did not hesitate to accept. What transpired was several years of excursions into bush country. All mini life stories some of which I will relate, that unfortunately for Stan ended in tragedy.

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Insights to walks in the bush. /Kanga

 

My first walk with Stan was to the 'You Yang' mountains, about a 2-hour drive from Melbourne, but wherever we were going the same scenario took place. We would get up around 3am usually on a Saturday, to be at our destination at sunrise, which in this case was a magnificent site seen from the top of the mountain. It is now a Regional Park. We would always walk until mid afternoon before returning home.

Stan occasionally invited another person and in this case a fellow with the slang name "Kanga". I can only describe his very nature as totally self deprecating. He had no teeth and a big smile, so he looked just like a clown. No matter how many insults were thrown at him it always ended in humour. So, a laugh a minute.

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He lived about 20 kilometers away on the north side of the city. Stan and I were getting into the car at about 3.30am when who should come walking down the driveway. You guessed it Kanga. Stan launched a tirade " You silly b,,,,,,,,er, I said we would pick you up." It had no effect. His clown smile appeared. " I thought I would save you the bother" He must have walked all night. 

 

On another occasion we arranged to pick him up at 4am. It was still dark and teeming with rain. As we approached the house it looked as though someone had left some garbage outside, but no it was Kanga sitting on the kerb in the pouring rain with his coat pulled over his head. Stan launched a tirade of insults regarding letting him into the car dripping wet, which only brought on that big clown smile. " I didn't want to miss you he said"

 

Having said all that when conditions on the walks deteriorated or became dangerous, we would always blame Kanga and he could be relied on to keep our spirits up.

One early morning arrival at our destination stay's vividly in my memory to this day. Stan could not pronounce his ew's. We got out of the car and stood looking across an open area to see nature at it's best with the sun shining through the trees. Stan broke the silence. "What a Bootiful Voo"

 

 Visit's to Mount Evelyn

 

My wife Dorothy became friends with Stan's wife Hilda. Her father Harry was retired and lived in a cabin, in Mt Evelyn bush country. It was amongst other cabins each occupied by an old man. They were self sufficient, growing crops, trapping wildlife, rabbits etc., cutting timber, for which they were paid by the amount cut, and fossicking for gold in the shallow fast flowing waters of the river. I would see them with a small medicine bottle, and a pair of tweezers to pick out the gold and take it to the bank in Mt Evelyn to be weighed and changed for cash. On occasion we would stay over night, and Harry would invite some of the others to his cabin and I would sit and listen to their stories.

 

There was an abandoned gold mine in the vicinity which was flooded with water. A company had decided to pump out the water and re-activate the mine. It was operating 24 hours every day. When Harry or his colleagues were away from their normal habitat in the bush, they would listen for the pump to get their direction back to the cabins.

 

It was early evening during the week when Stan knocked on my door. " They can't find Harry he's lost in the bush will you come with me?"

It was dark when we arrived, and there were 10 or 15 others with lanterns and torches looking for him. We eventually found him. He had fallen into a 30 ft deep ravine. How could this have happened. You guessed it. The company had turned off the pump at the mine. We took him down to the local hospital. He died 2 days later, and my visits to Mt Evelyn ended.

 

Hilda's suicide

 

To use a phrase Stan was a workaholic. He was in charge of the mechanics for a large transport company in the city. Occasionally, when he was preparing to go home, a lorry that was required for the next day needed repair so he would stay on sometimes until midnight.

 

Stan and Hilda eventually built a house in Reservoir a northern suburb of Melbourne, and moved there with their two children, a girl and boy. I was doing a TV service call in the area and decided to drop in and see her. I remember sitting with her at the kitchen window that looked into the back garden, when she dropped a bombshell. " Stan is seeing another woman" I was dumbfounded." I think you're wrong Hilda" " No he sometimes doesn't get home until very late" I mentioned his workaholic habit but she wouldn't have it.

 

Two weeks later I was working in the garden and Stan appeared. Hilda had committed suicide. Apparently by drinking a bottle of Lysol from the kitchen cupboard. We looked after his children whilst he was getting his life back together. Soon afterwards he moved to Adelaide, and my relationship with Stan ended.

 

My many bush walks in Australia with Stan were adventures, and ready in my mind for writing.

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