"THANKS FOR SAVING MY LIFE DES.'

18. ‘THANKS FOR SAVING MY LIFE DES” (1993)

From the very first time a group of us young Brothers conned Fr. Con Duffy in 1951 summer holidays and went a sailing down Tarban Creek, I’ve been a devotee of the sport. Trouble was I was rarely near the water or had friends with yachts. But on the few rare occasions when opportunity beckoned I followed.

The results were generally less than impressive. I recall the time when Bernie Otter, a great Dundas stalwart, with his son Michael and me as his crew entered the Saturday competition from Drummoyne Sailing club. Unfortunately, it was a chancy, squally, spiteful day to sail. Disastrously there was a large oils lick which uncurled from over Berry Bay way and evilly tentacled across the harbour-river. Both would be our undoing.

We watched while other crews struggled to get their mainsail up and proceed a little before the jib was set in the blustery conditions. There were so anxious moments before they set and started on the course. Our time came and we pushed our boat out from the small beach, jumped in as Captain Long John Bernie organised his crew. We had barely cleared the sheltered beach when a vicious squall targeted us in the middle of a delicate manoeuvre. We struggled and swore but the wind won and over we toppled…..right in the middle of this evil oil slick.

Dispirited and humbled we spent the rest of the afternoon scouring and washing that mainsail. Later, we claimed insurance from the oil company but that did not make up for such a disaster.

It might have been a year or so later that there was great commotion among the highly moralistic folk of east Sydney. It appears that daring young fraulelins were flouting the law by going topless. As usual, since it was an ongoing comedy, the constabulary were to be summoned to protect the young and unwary. Now this battle had caused international headlines way back in 1ht 1940s when the bikini revolution was launched on Bondi Beach. The beach inspect or the time, Mr Lawson, would not take a backward step and neither would the rebels. Eventually, progress was not to be thwarted and sales of bikins rocketed and sleazy looking types with cameras with telescopic lens were seen lurking along the promenade. The later chapter in the conflict was to be played out on a discreet little harbour beach just five minutes along from Watsons Bay. Lady Jane Beach was the focus of the three million Sydney residents. Getting anything like a ringside seat would be difficult. But not beyond my mate, Bernie.

"Why don't we sail down the harbour and snchor off the beach and watch the fire works, Des?"

"Great idea. Why miss out on the fun."

And so we skimmed down the harbour in a light nor-easter.

Actually, there did seem to be a fair bit of activity on the harbour and it wasn't the racing season.

We soon found out why. By the time we arrived down near the heads, we found we were crammed in by hundreds of other voyeur craft! We must have been about back in row ten. And even with binocculars there was very little to report. Again, though, it was the law who retreated.

The next race I competed in was under Captain ‘Blackbeard’ Dick O’Connor in the US.  In 92 I’d been able to link up with the O’Connors after some 10 years. Paul Dunstan and I had the unforgettable experience of a family, white Xmas back in 83 and I’d maintained connections. The fact that Rita’s brother, Alan or Br Ivor, one of life’s clowns was a good friend made for a strong friendship. So it was that Dick press ganged me as crew and we lined up on the small lake, which sprinkle that part of New Jersey like so many sapphire chips among those green hills. It was lots of fun but we didn’t measure up competitively. I was enjoying it all, but not being as agile and effective as his leading hand. Dick got an awful fright when he realised that we were being overtaken by a one armed veteran and come in dead last when we leapt into action and beat our near nemesis by a short half bow.

Later, after the race, it was most relaxing sitting around a large round table drinking and chatting with my yankee mates when crisis struck. Rita had been most caring and plied us with hamburgers which went so well with the beer. Suddenly Dick pushed back his chair, struggled to his feet and started coughing. Obviously there’s a chunk of gristle blocking his throat and he’s trying to clear it. He kept coughing and started to colour up, going from pink to red to purple. By now, everybody is alarmed as they realised it was getting desperate. I’m stunned, expecting any one of them to jump up and apply the Heinemann technique which features in every restaurant in New York this was expressly legislated by Mayor Kock who nearly expired in such a situation. Nobody moved. Dick’s colour moved deeper.

“In a bound” I’m up, clutching the victim from behind and thumping his midriff area. I then noted that Rita returned, and taking in the situation, had rushed off.  It’s strange the thoughts that race through your mind in a desperate situation. I recall a certain annoyance with her ‘flight’. I was expecting some immediate response as I thumped Dick but there was no response. A quick prayer in panic and I moved my fists lower. After two wacks he coughed up the killer gristle. For a minute he was slumped over the table and fighting for breath before he sat down. A wave of relief swept over me.

It was a more subdued group around that table, as conversation took some time to pick up. Then Chuck across the way said

” Say, Des, where did you learn to do that?” My answer left them a little dumbstruck.

“To tell the truth, I learnt that technique last night when my friend Damien gave me a demonstration”!

By then of course, Rita had returned with a nurse in tow. Maybe, I wasn't needed after all.

We’d lost our appetite for more relaxing at the clubhouse and Dick really needed some time to just rest, as the shock was still penetrating.  And so we drove back home. I declined to come in for a cuppa as I needed to get back across the Hudson. Dick was pretty quiet but as we parted he said

“Des, thanks for saving my life”.

In true self deprecation or humility I demurred with

“Dick, I’m so glad to have been able to help. But really how do you feel now?”

“I’m a bit bruised….I think you might have busted a few ribs.”

TRAMPING WITH CHAMP

17. TRAMPING WITH CHAMP (1983)

Over the years I’ve been aware of the growing influence......spell that the land has on me. In fact, it’s a veritable conversation, a dialogue with the spirit of the land that drones away in my head as I experience the richness of our Australian landscape.



So different from Mittagong- Marcellin country.

  It’s been a long journey, probably starting as an adolescent, growing up in Mittagong and gradually falling in love with the countryside, the seasons, the birds, bush walks, the moon rising and more.  Just how much importance it assumed in my spirituality was explicitly expressed after some thirteen years ‘deprivation’, while working in the islands.

And so in 1988, after tirteen years teaching in Solomon Islands and Papua New Guinea, there was a homecoming and reunion on my return. From then, I practically “haunted” this spiritual heartland around Mittagong.  Every retreat, many visits and then several years, using every opportunity to green the landscape with eucalypts was part of  a continuing love affair. More dramatically, my passion for this “birthright” of land, fuelled my protest to oppose the sale of sixty sacred acres in the mid nineties. Thankfully, with some strong allies, I was able to outmanoeuvre the opposition and ward off disaster!

This same power of the land and its spirit pushed me into a wonderful pilgrimage around Champagnat country, south of Lyons, back in 1983 when our renewal group of Brothers spent two weeks in our cradle , while residing in Marcellin’s own masterpiece of construction, the “Hermitage”.As a Marist his story was part of the warp and woof of our spirituality. While his story was certainly inspiring he did seem a little forbidding. How account for a struggling country boy, a drop out at that, having the fire and dynamism to found a congregation of teaching Brothers wo now are active in near eighty countries? 



LaValla where Marcellin spent mot of his life working

 For me Marcellin himself had undergone a rejuventation, even rehabilitation as I came to encounter the ‘real ’man. The Marcellin who walked out of the pages of Jean Baptiste’s  classic biography from the 1860s was a little “bipolar” for me. On one side, he was that dynamic, attractive and even humorous character. On the other he appeared ascetic, severe, demanding and somewhat unappealing. But since Vatican 2 ,when the  Church Fathers, the Bishops urged us to go back to our sources, there had been a certain rehabilitation and the excesses of hagiography were being scraped away to reveal a certain masterpiece beneath. This whole process had gathered a certain momentum and very different literature was emerging where the human qualities asserted themselves. His family rounded off so many of his attractive qualities and we understood them and him in their own times. We were lucky to sit at the feet of Brother Balko, who was a front runner in research. More so, we captured the fire of Br Gabriel Michel who, as a man of the same soil and country, clearly exuded so much of the Marcellin spirit and story. It was a great rediscovery and being among the fields, and hills and tumbling creeks gave it extra dimension. And then to be living in his own monument, with his bedroom just down the passage and with his spirit wafting around, there blossomed a great deputing of relationship and understanding.



Moving up the range

 The coach tours around, to Marhles,  La Valla, to Le Puy, St. Chamond, Bourg Argental were very enlightening and uplifting as again I touched the man and his story.  But I really needed to tramp the countryside with Marcellin, to marvel at the blossoms, the bird song and the sweeping views. It was a real urge within, a fire. And so I made plans to spend the whole day in his company as I covered so many of the places  in that wide valley, still marked with his presence as a young curate and later as the founder of village schools. My friend Paul had also caught the fire but we agreed to go separately and meet at some holy meeting place. Where? Well, after a certain discernment we agreed that a 3 pm meeting at the tavern in Le Bessat would be ideal. From that lofty place we could then plunge down the mountain back home, through La Valla and onto the Hermitage in good spirits.

With a full pack, which included some books, maps and a healthy lunch I set out from the Hermitage around 9 am. First, it was along the Gier river which was gurgling quite merrily and could have told so many stories of those sterling times when that bunch of young 'monks', inspired by this unstoppable young priest practically tore down a mountain to plant this little paradise in the valley. Since his time of course a dam reared up the valley, threatening instant destruction and tragedy if it cracked!  Frighteningly, just below the dam wall was a horror residence. A large ramshackle house with some strange dwellers, it was secured with a two metre high fence. Raging along the fence were a pack of black Dobermans who struck fear with their strange barking, glaring eyes and slavering mouths.  Even the Gendarmeie would have their problems penetrating this den of vice. I was relieved to climb up to the road and stride along the lake. It was a delight to walk along a beautiful stretch of water, with some spring blossom lighting up the hills on the other side. I was bracing for a stiff climb.

I desisted taking a left, over a significant bridge and up to the “cradle of the institute”, La Valla,  as we’d already made a pilgrimage there. That bridge had a story to tell.  Here a quite momentous meeting took place. Having sought out his first “target” to lead the first bunch of young men in his project, Marcellin, chatting with Jean-Marie Granjon after Mass, had organised a critical meeting on that bridge, not far away from Chomeol where Jean-Marie worked. In some ways it was symbolic, as in “burning your bridges”. With that empowering encouragement from the young firebrand priest, Jean-Marie rose to the challenge. He would throw in his lot with Marcellin.



Les Maisonettes- home of Br. Francois family

 It was significant to me in quite another way. In the summer of 1993 when I spent a month there I had walked up from L’Hermitage and needed a little spell before I tackled the steeper climb into LaValla. About to sit down on the bridge, I took a quick glance to check, as I would do in the bush in Australia, where snakes are numerous and deadly. I spotted a viper snuggled in between the layers of rocks. I decamped. Later, I shared my experience with a local brother, who regaled me with a tragic story. Apparently, a visiting priest was bitten by such a viper. In great panic he had raced back for help. (He wasn’t acquainted with the need to be more passive to stop the venom from pumping through the veins and arteries). Sadly, he died. Thanks Mary for protecting me!!!

I had a real spring in my step by now and was fair burning up the unpaved road. A steep valley plunged down to the Ban river before rearing up to the village, where Marcelling gathered his first community and trained them as catechists and teachers. I imaged him tumbling down with a young Brother in tow as he set out to care for the sick. I recalled the story of Jean Berne whose mother died tragically and the young boy was “adopted” by Marcellin.



With Seamus my Irish mate

  Shortly enough I was passing by Les Maisonettes which was another sacred spot, the home of the Rivats, Young Gabriel, only nine, joined the young Brothers, became a “son” of Marcellin, and  later his ‘right arm’ and the first Superior General. About an hour later, road ended near Laval as the range took a steep pitch. Maybe two hours had passed. I found tracks leading up to Barbaranche, a saddle on top. It was a strenuous pull up along the tracks and negotiating a few fences. While sunny, it was not hot and a breeze helped cool the brow. It was heart-pumping stuff but finally I made it onto a level paddock and decided to take a break. I turned about and was lifted by a glorious view down the valley, with scattered farms, patches of woods and villages in the valleys. And then over the town of  St. Chamond and to ranges and a great sweep of the country. I selected a cosy spot, out of the breeze and with untrammelled views. I enjoyed that lunch so much, relishing these thick sandwiches, pouring myself some red wine into a glass that I insisted on bringing, while musing and playing out some stories and scenes from our heritage. Way over, I spotted small town-village of Valfluery. It’s a place of Marian pilgrimage with its medieval statue of Mother and Child. I recalled that Mrs. Rivat, with three sons fighting in the Napoleonic wars, had tramped all the way, with her young Francois, to consecrate him to Mary and pray her sons return safely.

                                                                                                                         

After that climb it would be so easy from there on. A little siesta in the sun would be acceptable! Saddling up again with a lighter pack and chomping on an apple I set out to find the road to Le Bessat.  No problem. It would be a clear run along the top of the range. Not really. I all but got devoured by some “hound of the Baskervilles.

There were some scattered farm houses and up to my right with commanding views down the valley, a few wealthy people had built their “MacChateaux”. Passing one of them my blood curdled as I heard this furious backing and down this long, white drive a huge German Shepherd dog was racing, ready to attack and eliminate any would-be interloper. The situation was grave, even life threatening! No heroics sprang to mind. I didn’t even reach for my trusty Swiss knife. I suddenly, panic- frighted PRAYED. I swear the mastiff was within centimetres when I blurted “Marcellin save me!” It worked, miraculously. Like St Francis and the wolf, this hound stopped in its tracks, looked perplexed for a moment, stood uncertain and then turned and loped back to its kennel and a food bowl with at least a box of Chum. My devotion to the founder took a leap.

It was well after 3pm when I arrived at the tavern. I was ready for a beer or two and a good chat with Paul to share our adventures. I looked around . No Paul. The few locals around the table gave me a quick glance and then ignored me. Damn! Where was he? Surely he could have waited a bit.  But he hadn’t and so I had to drink alone and be thankful.



Bacl at Hermitage in 2008



Downhill wasn’t as easy as I expected. In fact it was positively dangerous. On those steep slopes the tracks had been scoured and ripped. They were practically creek beds with loose stones ready to send you sprawling with a twisted ankle. Even finding some grass verge was not easy. It was safer if longer to take the road and cope with some traffic. So, down through Luzernod where I ‘met’ the two Audras brothers who were the first to join Granjon, leaving the farm depleted of labour, but eventually, their faith-filled parents succumbing to Marcellin’s ‘blandishments’.  I was still enjoying my game of trying to spot Marcellin popping into those farmhouses as I moved further down through La Valla without tarrying. The legs were a bit rubbery by this time and so I kept on. Over ‘that’ bridge and along the lake before confronting the terror dogs again. Eventually I struggled along the tamed Gier and back home. It had taken over seven hours. I felt quite exhausted but jubilant.

More than any reward it had given me rich insights into that farm boy from Le Rosey, which was just up and over the range. The land had shared its secrets. The people who sprang from these parts were marked by the hills, the valleys, the woods, the soil. A hardy people.

I had more closely walked in the shoes of the young priest whose spirit had encircled the earth.

IT'S NOT THE FALLING DOWN BUT THE GETTING UP THAT COUNTS

IT’S NOT THE FALLING DOWN BUT THE GETTING UP THAT MATTERS.

I got quite a shock. What’s that police wagon doing there outside our Marist House?



Helen training a new group of canoe excursion

 Only minutes before and with a laugh I had farewelled the “family” and driven off, sure that I knew a quick way out of This Toongabbie labyrinth. Within minutes I had to retrace my way after some blundering around. In those few minutes some drama must have blown up and the police with flashing lights had arrived and I saw a policewoman entering. I decided to investigate. By the time I arrived there were shrieks….of laughter coming from inside.

What was going on?

It was all great hoot  and a crazy false alarm.

For the previous few hours I had been “entertained” in one of my regular visits to the fifteen or so residences that Marist Youth Care organised for youth in need. These visits included chatting with the “kids” (young people) and staff, watching TV, playing games, kicking footballs,  helping with the cooking, dining  and cleaning up. Around 8.00 pm or later I would leave to drive back to Dundas, or Croydon Park or Ryde. This particular night had been more fun than most, which could at times become high drama and confrontation. There were only two boys at this residence of Gilmour this night and young Marty, a lively Pacific Islander was determined to teach us some hip hop. Certainly Colleen, a talented youth worker showed some skill and there was lots of laughing and joking around.  I think I begged off, “with   bad hips, you know.”  At a handy break I was able to make an exit but knew that more fun would follow.

It did.  Marty had Colleen spinning around the floor and as she overbalanced the alarm button she had hanging her neck (a necessary precaution where “incidents” can so quickly blow up) hit the floor. Immediately, in the police station only minutes away, the red light flashed alarm. Two police jumped into the paddy wagon and raced to Gilmour. Expecting chaos or some critical situation they “stormed” in. For a moment or two or three there was a certain bewilderment, some quick explanation and then hilarity.

I spent nine years as chaplain to Marist Youth Care. It was certainly a rich and very different chapter in my life. After forty-forty five years as a teacher, I stepped out into a new country, ready for a new challenge. It’s funny in some ways that I had been part of a committee to help Brothers prepared for “retirement”  by choosing another less demanding ministry: and yet when my time came to step down and choose another ministry,  I had no idea where to go and what to do. It was Br. Michael Green who was there to help me.

“What about being chaplain to Trinity College?”

“No,  not school. I need to get away from that.”

“What about chaplain to Marist Youth Care?”

Lights went off in my head. Deep down, I knew that was where I would best contribute.

Actually, MYC is the best kept secret of the Marist Brothers in our province of NSW-Q’ld.

Starting way back in 1896 when the archbishop of Sydney needed to run an orphanage for poor, homeless kids, the Marist Brothers had willingly worked in with St. Vincent de Paul to care for 1000s of boys for seventy years and more. In the 1980s when the revolution of deinstitutionalisation had emptied out such orphanages or homes the Brothers had been forced to diversify. Luckily, there was a most creative and visionary man to lead us into a new era, Br. Gerald Burns. He set up and steered this new venture which included houses with boys and girls from fourteen to twenty in crisis and offered them a “home” with trained staff and programs to help them to get their lives in order again, assist in family restoration, and give them hope for the future.

A very quiet, even self effacing Brother but with enormous inner resources, he must have got the shock of his life to wake and fine he had “scored” in the Australia Day Honours. Now, while several Brothers had been honoured with an OAM, Gerry out leapt them all with an AM! Big bikkies indeed.

“It’s equivalent to a knighthood in previous Empire honours” a friend told me.

 Being a man of intense integrity, some years later, he felt compelled to return this award in John Howard’s “reign” as Prime Minister. This was his protest against the scandalous treatment of refugees and unleashed racism.



A great group of carers farewelling Amy

 By the time I arrived at MYC there were over a hundred staff working for  disadvantaged youth.

I was strongly aware also that this work was very close to the spirit of St. Marcellin Champagnat. After all, he had set up us Marists to care for poor country kids in France that had been ravaged by twenty five years of war and revolution. I was keen to give it my best.

The welcome from Gerry was less than effusive.

“Welcome Des. But I’m afraid we can’t pay you and there’s no car”.

I wasn’t going to let a little problem like that bother me!

And then Jeff Veness advised me: “By the way Des. You’re in a new field now- Welfare. It’s a foreign country, totally different from Education. In fact I don’t know a single teacher who could adapt to this role.

I had many opportunities to value the wisdom in that. It would be a hard re adaptation.

Induction?  Well, it was up to me to organise that. Apart from a general introduction for new workers, the chaplain’s role had to be planned and moulded my myself. Generally, it was a  pastoral role in support of staff but it had many outreaches.

“The kids are not your responsibility, Des. You would need to be a trained youth worker for that. Your focus will be the staff who certainly need support.”

I was the first chaplain and the staff  were a bit mystified and even wary. It would be up to me to gain acceptance and trust. I made up three, the Brothers at MYC. Br Geoff Kelly was the third. Like Gerry, he had a long career- ministry with kids,e specially at St. Vincent’s. The very first meeting of one of the divisions brought out the staff’s ambivalence towards me. After giving some preliminary comments as to understanding of the role, a certain Wayne- an ex student of mine from twenty years before tossed in a curly questions.
“What about in our tussles with management, will you take our side?”

Clever one Wayne! Again, I had to explain my pastoral, support role.

My induction was intense enough. I attended every meeting at every level to get to know and feel the spirit and  effectiveness  of caring for kids with some extreme needs. So, from management level, division level, down to team meetings at a range of programs I started to get a hold. As well, I was learning to know the staffs and their needs. While most in leadership had training in the field, many of the face to face staff   were  “straight off the street”. Those with talent survived and even thrived. Others were weeded out quickly enough. I knew I could not adapt easily to these challenges. For a start, you had so little control. Teachers expect that their authority will prevail It doesn’t happen that way in this field. I recall many meetings when six or  eight would sit around for two hours to discuss what had happened in the last week. Methodically, they focussed on each of the five boys and gave a detailed description of his days. Many times, it was a story of conflict, anger, confrontation and impossibility to move forward. Yet the staff  were so intent to find something, anything, to commend and use as a platform from which they could move forward.



Gerry still inspires

 Added to this, I started to arrange invites for dinner in the various residences.  Not always easy, as there were a few workers who really didn’t fit; a few having come from Corrective Services and willing to use a bit of muscle and a little suspicious of Brother !  Eventually I learnt ways around their wariness and even earned some acceptance. I even got to know some of the boys and girls and a basis of trust formed.

In most of the residences, ranging from Parramatta to beyond Penrith I became a welcome visitor and was able to support, encourage and stimulate staff. Slowly I became aware of a certain stature of being BROTHER. Coming from St. Joseph’s College with a staff of over a hundred teachers there were about a dozen Brothers involved in school, with a bunch of retired Brothers, in the background. There was generally good  relationships  but certainly some tensions as well. A certain “them and us” mentality existed. I certainly tried hard to break that down and generally enjoyed some warm friendships. But overall, there was a certain taking- the- Brothers- for- granted, after all, they had been here for more than a hundred years! In MYC, as a Brother, you were a rarity, with an air of mystery and maybe even charism. There was a deeper respect and greater expectations. Maybe, it was a little heady but it certainly enriched the relationships and cooperation. Some valued friendships developed. I was so impressed with the quality of many and valued our ministry even more highly. I saw some remarkable achievements with kids who were able to move from desperation to hope. There were some outstanding carers who inspired. I’d like to name a few.



Geoff now working with kids in Vietnam

 BILL. A jaunty, effervescent Scot who lit up any company with a ready joke, laugh and some self mockery, highlighting his bald pate and good looks! But what love of kids and wisdom to gain their trust and guide them through some rough patches in their life. It was an immediate and spontaneous friendship we struck up. He taught me so much. It was always a pleasure to visit his cottages, in the SAAP program- Short Term Assisted Accommodation, where young people would spend from three to nine months in getting back their lives on track.  Bill ensured it was a homely and accepting atmosphere where they grew in confidence and responsibility. The depth of their appreciation was a simple poem, written by “Angela” which captured so beautifully this man’s marvellous contribution to their lives.

TERESA. She was a natural. No amount of courses would give the mastery Teresa had in handling our young people. She excelled in the toughest and even explosive situations. They all knew she had a great heart and loved them to move them ahead. But she was also tough and could take on confrontations that I knew only she could do it in quite this way. Out there at Windsor she ran the gauntlet. But, she worked so hard to make that house more a home and was able to use her multi talents to coopt so many to extend their good will and resources to make it a show piece.

SUE. I’d never met anybody like Sue. She often told the story of how Br. Geoff Kelly had taken her on “even though she wasn’t a Catholic.” That trust powered her attachment to the Brothers and St. Vincent’s. Actually, she was a Gypsy and at times would amaze me with some insights into that culture and specially, religious beliefs. She was another natural with kids. Nobody could handle the boys with her flair and effectiveness. A mix of humour, joking, straight talking, care and cheek enabled her to defuse any dangerous situation.  I was so sorry to lose her when some health issues blighted her life.

CRAIG. A big, boisterous, great hearted young dad who could knock so much fun out of life and involve all around with infectious mirth. There was much, much more. He had such a gift with kids in trouble. He’d been “through the mill” himself and gained much wisdom and insight. I would marvel at how he could communicate, quite confrontationally at times, and they would listen. I really prized his very Marist of helping these young people We  became good friends. I was chuffed and felt so privileged when he asked me to conduct his mum’s funeral.




Bill ans some lovelies

  A major part of inducting new staff was a day program that Br. Geoff and I ran, focussing on the Marist story, the story of St. Vincent’s, the transition to Marist Youth Care and especially the story of Marcellin. Pitched at their level and including some quality interaction as we two “Bing and Bob” performed, newcomers felt welcomed, prized and even empowered by the story.

Br. Gerry had set up a professional if a bland paper/monthly, called MARIST MATTERS. When Gerry retired in the second year I grabbed the opportunity to return to an old skill of mine. Journalism!! Well, Sr.Claire and I kicked off the Solomon monthly magazine, called VOICE KATOLIKA, a modest publication which now, 30 years later, is in dazzling format, produced by those enterprising Salesian missionaries. But I needed some new skills. So, for two weekends I followed a course in using PUBLISHER. It was to pay handsome results.

Starting low key, it gave me opportunities of popping into our houses- programs, chatting with staff, taking photos, highlighting good work and initiatives, adding a personal touch with birthdays and profiling or getting stories. But first, we had to have a name. A little competition tapped into the creativity of the staff and we ended up with a beauty. W.H.A.M or WHAT’S HAPPENING AT MARIST. It took me some time to realise it wasn’t all that original. In the mess and disaster of the Vietnam War, the US had a campaign to raise morale and get the locals on side. And so WINNING HEARTS AND MINDS began an unsuccessful campaign.



At Keogh we care for four disabled men- Xmas party

 There was another goal as well. I had been saddened by the lack of interest our Brothers were showing in MYC. Hard to believe that despite the accolade of a future Superior General, Br. Emil, there was great apathy. “The greatest Marist commitment to youth in strike in the world” seems to have attracted little interest. I reckoned that once we moved out of St. Vincent’s and the Brothers no long ran the “mission” they felt outside and cut-off. So, with my newsy, light-hearted but inspirational WHAM inside every community, it just might create a renewed interest.

Over the years, WHAM went through various phases, starting with our own printing in black and white to a pretty slick colour production. The feedback from the workers was very positive. They enjoyed it and looked forward to it. It did much for the morale and quality of our Marist commitment. There was always a little editorial to which I gave much thought and tied in with the challenge and struggles we faced and drawing strongly from the Gospel and Marcellin’s story.

I think the greatest compliment paid to the WHAM was by a young carer, Joanne. In our conversation she informed me her grandparents were so interested and supportive of her work.

“How do you keep them informed?”

“That’s easy. I send them a copy of WHAM.”

Becoming deeply Marist was so important for us at MYC. While we might not beat the big drum of being Catholic, we undoubtedly were. I made sure that there strong symbols stating our identity. And so those attractive Bolivian crosses, crucifixes quietly beamed our commitment to our Catholic heritage. Marcellin became more a presence as well. When we instituted CHAMPAGNAT AWARDS- at two levels : Legends for ten years service, and         for five years. This helped generate a  certain enthusiasm.

It was in a retreat at Mittagong, in my third year that I was inspired to launch another enterprise. A Brother from the US ran an excellent retreat and I was lucky enough to share a meal with him a few times.




Sue has a real genius

  “By the way Brian, what ever happened to that great old Brother Stephen Urban ?

I was harking back some twenty years to the time that this “prophet”, a charismatic Brother had been invited to Sydney for a retreat in the dark days when the Church was rocking with upheavals, following Vatican 2 “revolution”, in which so many priests and religious left. Stephen was so inspiring and in a rallying speech to several hundred Brothers and which we all remembered over the years. His theme hit home:

“TELL THE CHILDREN OF ISRAEL TO MARCH ON.”

Brian knew his story well, having been on the same staff-community in New York. Steve didn’t meekly settle into slippers and an arm chair. He continued to teach Religious Education in the senior classes till into his seventies. But inevitably came the time when the principal or president of Malloy High School, gently advised him that it was time to hang up his stirrups. Humbly he agreed. But then, he asked

“What about if I set up in my office and invite students to come and chat about spirituality?”

Done deal!

And so, his last chapter of life, possibly his most satisfying, was launched. A constant stream of students would drop in and enjoy chatting to a Brother who was so full of wisdom and love.

When he died, there was a huge funeral. Most of the mourners were young people.

Spirituality! Maybe I could offer something to help our staff, deepen their spirituality. But what? Whatever form it took, it was important that it engage our variety of staff with religious background that ranged from “nothing” to practising Catholic or Anglican or Baptist. Important to note that we did not insist on a religious commitment as a condition of employment, but only a commitment and love of youth and openness to their own ongoing development.( I never quite knew the breakdown of religious affiliation.)

 It would be important that we get away to a suitable place where we could relax and enjoy a range of activities.  Yes, it would have to be fun, as well.  This was a word that had been slightly suss in bygone years, with a certain taint of frivolity and nonsense! Oh dear! We did take ourselves very seriously and Religion generally did conjure up images of “god-botherers”, wowsers, sober-sided gentlemen in black coats. Come to think of it the Gospel writers did not over indulge in jokes or wisecracks on Jesus side. And yet, I do believe he had great FUN in interacting with that saucy Samaritan woman at the well, or that other “pagan” who pleaded for her daughter, only to get a backhander from Jesus with his

“It’s not right to feed children’s food to dogs”. (After all, those arrogant Jews referred to all others as “dogs”) Well, she was quick in here riposte:

” Even the dogs eat the scraps that fall from the master’s table.”

 I can so easily see him with a smile on his face or a laugh and saying “bravo” or “touché” as he paid her the ultimate compliment:

“You’re right. Go home and you’ll find your daughter is cured.”

I started pooling ideas, drawing up some rough program and discussing with Geoff. We had an ace up our sleave- PEARL BEACH, a stunning location some ninety minutes from Sydney. The Brothers had purchased this cottage in a hideaway beach back in the 1960s to serve as a holiday house. It had proved a bonanza for us over the years.




Pearl Beach was perfect for Triple Treat

  Again, a catchy name would help sell the idea to our staff, who might be a little wary of anything like a retreat! What about TRIPLE TREAT. This would encapsulate our aim:

1. TIME OUT- get away, relax, unwind, enjoy company of fellow workers

2. TUNE IN – take time to reflect, deepen appreciation, get in touch with our stories.

3. TONE UP – recognise and celebrate our gifts, be empowered by our stories, the story.

It wasn’t so easy to sell the first trial run. A little persuasion, blandishments and smart marketing was called for. We would start modestly enough and build on that. Brothers Geoff and Gerry were supportive but were somewhat anxious that I had taken on too much sine I planned the run the whole operation myself, without any backup. The very morning when I was due to make an early dash north and set up for the group to arrive around midday, I woke up DEAF!! Panic. By God’s good grace I was able to slip into an early appointment with my doctor down the road. He syringed my ears and off I drove, so relieved and looking forward to the challenge.

The first course was a winner. The group gelled early….in fact when they climbed the stairs to the veranda that scene of beach and sea with pounding waves, really lifted them and weariness and wariness dropped away. A wonderful lunch all laid out reinforced the welcome. I recall the settling in exercise to relax and tuning into the ambience and their own bodies and feelings, to some soft music and my sonorous spiel, sent most into dreamland! A good start. The program was interactive, reaching deep down into their own wisdom and sharing that. It was quite amazing how the “Spirit” was alive and active among us. I certainly learnt so much over those days.

The exercise that left me reeling and wondering was RIVER OF LIFE. It really was a time of reflection to get one’s life in some kind of perspective as we each used the symbol of river with its rapids, smooth stretches, falls, rocks, swamps, even billabongs to map out the high and low points. It was a big ask in some ways as it called for trust. I would model the process and throw in some of the drams of my own life with the grief, the dramas, high points, tragedy and boredoms. Well, that certainly evoked very honest responses. In fact, I was blown away by the rugged lives, the huge challenges that so many had to cope with. I was even more aware of how cosseted, sheltered, even “dull” my own life had been in comparison. It was especially in rela




Waikiki at Pearl Beach

  tionships where there had been so much upheaval, pain and desperation. I really did feel so privileged to share their individual “book of life”. There was one statement that summed up much of what many had to cope with. “Benny”, a migrant had copped so much harassment, and venom. But he was a fighter and even if he did not emerge unscathed he certainly had not buckled. High School and adolescence was a wasteland. He summed up his later teen years with

“the next few years were drugs, sex, rock and roll.”.

Of course, we spent time in evaluation before the trip back to real life. They were just so positive and appreciative of this experience and wrote glowingly. Of course, this was wonderful grist for WHAM, along with beachside photos to promote TRIPLE TREAT. We had no trouble in filling the numbers from then on. The plan was to run four or five each year. Over the next few years some seventy to eighty staff enjoyed the experience. I felt it was the best contribution I had made as chaplain.

 Brother Geoff proved right of course. I was really struggling after a few years. Bad health was dogging me as well, with back problems racking me and a left hip on fire to compound problems. So, I did co-opt some help in setting up, preparation, liaising and being rouseabout.

I should have known Geoff would be right.

With his extraordinary skills, resource, experience and training, Geoff stood so tall in the Welfare field. In fact, over those years, most of the new initiatives were set up and rolled out by Geoff. His commitment to youth on a wider scale was prodigious. A promising scheme to keep youth of prison came across from New Zealand. CONFERENCING sounds a prosaic process but it was anything but and it promised much. Geoff was quick to see its potential and over a few years ran many such “meetings” in which a young offender had to face the victim of his crime, show remorse and then work at a plan to somehow pay back and give promise they would not re-offend. All this, if successful, would keep them out of court and a possible prison sentence.

 Geoff invited me to attend as an “interested member of the public.” So around this table I would be sitting with the offender, possibly with his parent, friends and support, the police rep, a youth rep, the victim and family and supporters. I had to admire Geoff’s marvellous expertise and wisdom and sensitivity. Of cours3e, he had to take time to set all this up, and generally there were all sorts of problems and obstacles to negotiate. He was unfailingly understanding, good humoured, courteous, trusting and yet prepared to challenge. Now and again, the situation would get very sticky and reach an impasse. Or there would be high drama; for example when this Indian lady pointed her finger at this young Afghan boy, who had been part of a gang where one had violently assaulted her husband and screamed

“You left my husband to die in the street.”




Tom designed our badge.

  At times, as convener, Geoff would call “time out” to cool down. That was when I came into play, I would pray as if possessed!!!!  When all returned we generally found a way forward.

Thanks St. Marcellin.

I never did expect to step into the role of EXORCIST. However, I could claim to have taken on that scary role. In our Aboriginal program which involved a small group of young men at Hebersham there was trouble. There was some kind of evil spirit in the house. Matt came to discuss with me and asked if I help out. I would obviously have to know more and along with the “boys” I could start planning some response. So, at dinner one night, around the table I gathered stories from the staff and clients. No doubt about it. There was a real fear abroad. Some of the experiences had been very scary and so real. So, after a few hours I began to make some suggestions. Again, I’m not sure if any of the boys were Catholics, thought Matt certainly was, being an ex students of the Patrician Brothers. I committed myself and said I would get back to them and together we would run some “liturgy”. In the meantime I go tin touch with Fr. Phil, who was the chaplain to the gaol, with a heavy concentration of Aboriginals. He assured me that there was no need for a priest to do the honours. As well, he explained that often he is called to “exorcise” prison cells that are haunted!

About a week later I’m back around the table with some ten willing participants. I explained very clearly that it would be our faith in Jesus  and not some mumbo-jumbo that would rid us of this spirit. I then invited each to play a part. So, one would carry the Bible, another, a large crucifix, two with candles, and one to carry the holy water. I was dressed in full “regimentals”- white soutane, black cord and crucifix around the neck. So, in procession we moved to the particular corner where it seemed the spirit was strongest. I opened with a prayer, a reading from the Gospels involving a story of Jesus, expelling demons. Then I splashed some holy water and with a firm command called “Begone evil spirit.” At this they all responded with AMEN.

And so we moved to different “stations” to perform the same ritual. It all took about half an hour. After, we chatted about the experience. There was certainly no doubt in my mind that any pesky spirit would have scampered off. I certainly never received any report of any revisits.

The two funerals I was invited to preside  stand out as privileges. One was a surprise as the old lady and her sparkling daughter were both good Catholics; so why me? Never really did find out. But I found there were certain tensions to complicate a good farewell. I was determined to include all and insisted we share stories about mum. So, on a clear spring day we shared this graveside service. Again, I was sure the Spirit was gently lifting and healing. Mother walked among them again, smiling and chatting as they shared their stories. The reading was very appropriate and powerful. We joined in the prayer and the blessing as mum “was laid to rest.”

I then had to accompany the funeral rep to the office to sign documents. As we parted he shoved an envelope in my hand. A little dazed I opened it to find a very handsome check! I felt a little mercenary but then I certainly played a part in ensuring a blessed farewell for mum.

The good ship MYC very nearly foundered when a crisis seemed to blow up from nowhere. It was a failure in leadership with terrible consequences. It even looked as if Geoff would have to step down. That caused enormous consternation.

Providentially, out through the smoke and rubble strode a champion, Ken Buttrum.

With his credentials he was undoubtedly ideal to step into the breach. A pocket dynamo, with an intense compassion and love for kids, Ken had come up the hard way. He had even taken on that “hell” up on the hill, at Mt. Penang and conquered it with kindness and empowered the staff and the young hell-raisers who could terrorise. He’d also turned around Cobham Juvenile Detention Centre. And then he was in the rarefied atmosphere of DIRECTOR GENERAL!! Well, anything but rarefied for Ken. He was a hands- on man and drew so much of his energy in mixing with young people, who instinctively knew this little block had their best interests at heart. He could tell so many remarkable stories of success with kids.



Ken was mobbed at his farewell!

 What powered him was his up front, undisguised faith in Jesus Christ. Early on he had been a lay preacher in the Anglican Church and this continued to enthuse him. While some might have been dismayed by a preaching style, he soon turned that around as he was so credible, related so well, enjoyed the company of all, could tell a joke and make fun of himself. Very soon each knew he was on their side and while there were always a very few who might rort the system, Ken was not fooled and gave them a chance to shape up. On the other side, he really did trim some deadwood, “people who obviously did not love kids”.

I was lucky I had got to know Ken and in fact, was one of his “heroes”. It was all so simple and even minimal. One day Geoff had suggested I pop up to Nepean Hospital to see one of the board members who was recovering from some surgery.

“I think Ken Buttrum will appreciate it” said Geoff.

That was an understatement. After eventually finding the room, I knocked timidly and entered.

What a scene: there was Ken holding court, cracking jokes mostly with a few mates around.

At the foot of the bed was Helen, his lovely wife, quietly knitting away. You would think the

Pope had popped in! They were so impressed, even awed, that I should come. Crazy really.

But that simple act has stood the test of time and reaped me many plaudits. So many times

They recount that incident……I was so happy to have them as guests as my diamond jubilee.

Well, he certainly relit, recharged and boosted the boilers and steered a new course away from the reefs, the terrors of the deep. I was amazed at the speed with which he fired up Marists, involving all at every level. For a little man he now bestrode the west like some colossus. He embraced Marcellin’s spirit and reinvigorated us with his commitment. I even felt threatened on one occasion! As the main ringman, lion tamer and impresario at a Triple Treat event, I found I had to keep him in check……as he was eating away at my messiah complex.

For those two-three years he was obviously revelling in his role. I was saddened when his contract- a fill in arrangement came to an end. I know he would have loved to roll on.

At his farewell there was “mourning and grief” to exagerate. But we did the farewell in style. His

Most treasured gift was an album, so brilliantly arranged, with photos and tributes from the

Many, many staff. He still pulls in out now and then and enjoys revisiting that rich chapter of

His life.

My own dubious humility was severely put to the test in my last year. I was approached delicately to see whether I would be open to have a residence named after me!! In my early years we had been naming our homes after some pioneer and legendary Brothers- Gilmour, McKenna.

Now, I know that Geoff and Gerry had turned down such an offer with becoming modesty.

Me? Well, I reasoned “if this will give some meaning and add to the story, I’ll back it.”

So Murphy House and Des’ Place have made their mark.

A new zest lifted MYC when the Education division swung into action in a more dramatic way with Lyn Harrison leading. One of the more dramatic aspects was implementing Geoff’s

Conferencing Model and adapting to school situations. Very soon there were calls from Catholic

School to assist in difficult situation where a student was facing suspension or expulsion. Many

A parent was relieved, even if they had to front up for an embarrassing conference, to find their

Son-daughter was given another chance. Invitations came from inter-state and from schools

Across the spectrum. The impact and appeal went wider still. Br. Tony Leon had joined this

Restorative Justice Program and with Mauricio Vespa they “strutted their stuff” in the USA!

I was amazed with the enthusiasm with which MYC embraced and promoted the

Marist Way of Working with young people. I could not imagine a Marist school staff dedicating the most part of

A staff day to depth their understanding and appreciation of the qualities of Marcellin’s  Marists.

In small groups we discussed what the qualities meant and then expressed in paint. Incredible!

The intensity of interaction to arrive at an artistic expression. The pick of the paintings have

Made for an impressive collage at the entrance to the new a display in the next admin centre.

Over the years I saw the wisdom of accepting small victories or progress with thanks and being re-energised by them. As a teacher I had to adapt. For a school teacher term exams gave clear proof of progress and you could take comfort that you were being effective. Not at MYC. Chatting with one of the workers he explained that you didn’t measure in months, or weeks but maybe just a day.

“If I have a good shift I go home happy.”



We organised the protest to John Howard's Iraq war.

 The ground was very shifty. You had to be ready for a rough ride and for the long haul.

Josh was an attractive boy, with a ready smile and cheeky as well. But the omens were not all that good. When I heard that he was keen to make his First Communion, I was keen to step in and help. This would be more up my alley. It was through a certain “Father Andrew” that he wanted to check out this avenue. Oh, and his very religious grand mother. That’s when I found out that he’d been in juvenile detention before moving to us. So, it was arranged that I would meet him and we’d plan together.

I arrived to find Josh playing with some remote control cars and having the time of his life. It wasn’t an easy encounter. I was able to wrest a few minutes from his fun when I was able to encourage him, point out that this was a great move, but a serious one and we would have to plan and carry out together.  In all it would take some six or more sessions. I nearly slipped into teacher mode to assert some authority. I knew that would be counter productive and so we kept it friendly. I was not encouraged.

A few scatty encounters followed and we made some progress. He was actually pretty smart but he had some ulterior motive I thought. As Josh probably had seen little of the inside of a church we visited the parish church at Wentworthville. It was like a play pen for Josh. Not gentle tour to explain. Did he have ADHD?  Probably. The climax came when he discovered the Poor Box!  He rattled the lock and it sprung open with a cascade of coins hitting the floor.  As well, there were a few ten dollar notes. Very generous people indeed! Well, we gathered up and found the parish priest to hand over the loot. I’m not sure all the paper money found its way into the parish funds.

Josh never did make it to his First Communion! He did another stint in detention. For what ? Well, he was missing his mum and decided he would pay her a midnight visit. While the staff member slept on, Josh hot wired the car and slid out. Now, it’s quite a hike to the eastern suburbs. He ran the gauntlet at least once when police must have been a little unsure of that baby face but he seemed bit enough. He did get to see mum, if briefly. On the way back, his luck ran out. Somme sharper police gave pursuit. It was a hairy race as Josh gunned down some boulevard. He crashed, luckily, without harm. And back in the pen went he.

I would go and visit him down past Campbelltown, in a brand new facility for kids. Very tight security. Even then there were periodic outbreaks of violence and villainy. His strongest support was his grand father. I had to marvel at him and his “trekking” across from faraway Cronulla, sometimes twice a week. But he did it in style. Being a fancier of those scintillating, chromed “yank tanks” from the 50s-60s, he insisted on driving his flared tails and obviously enjoyed the startled and envious views of humbler motorists. It must have cost a dollar a kilometre! But for him, it was FREE. He won a battle with DOCS that they should pay for his transport.

Josh returned to the “bosom” of St. Vincent’s. Of course, he was a hero with the other boys. He had form! But actually, he did not seem to glory in it. We did resume our “lessons” but did not make much progress.

It was around this time that MYC suffered a tragedy. One of the boys, who seemed to be contented and making good progress in the local high school and with plans to join a local sports team, committed suicide. His death caused a huge upheaval and much grief and pain. As chaplain I organised a memorial service in the local church. Josh, who knew Bryce well, played quite a significant role in the liturgy I had organised. I was grateful to him, as he acted with much sensitivity and poise. He actually composed a very fine prayer and delivered it splendidly.

He surely had talent.

Soon enough he’s into devilment again. Back in detention. It seemed like his was programmed and was hell bent on a life of “thrills”, taking on the “coppers” and so sure he could outwit them. It could not end up happily. His good grandfather would see his hopes dashed. I hate to think where he is now.

Nine years had slipped by since I first fronted up as the Chaplain. 2008 for me with was time to move on. Besides, I had a hip replacement surgery coming up. Later on in the year I would be



At the old prophet's grave at Santa Teresa.

 A jaunting overseas, on a mission to gather material for a third and final movie on Marists in the

Pacific. Along with my friend, John Tipton, our admirable Director of Finance, who had brought up back from the brink, we had to “endure” a very public farewell. I know I did not expect to be so moved by it. Was it insensitivity, cluelessness, modesty even? When I found myself over indulged in gratitude, compliments and deep appreciation. I had certainly made some wonderful friendships and come to value and prize our staff at all levels. It struck me again, that it’s different away from school. There the ceremony would have been more formal……maybe. MYC staff are more down to earth, struggled through many hard times, work with the toughest of kids and have huge hearts.  I still treasure a huge FAREWELL card where all wrote many heartfelt comments. As well, I was given the most priceless of gifts, an Apple IPod. Over the last few years this has given me enormous pleasure, with the one hundred and twenty CDs to accompany me in all sorts of moods and even putting lift into my walking as Radetsky’s March has me stepping along in fine military style.

Another surprise and most generous gift was to enable me to carry out a desire I’d had tucked away over the last couple of years: to experience at depth Aboriginal Spirituality with a visit to the Centre. The only time I’d viewed it was back in 1970, flying back from Asia. I was mesmerised as the land seemed to be littered with huge dinosaur like skeletons. In the meantime I’d read widely enough on the wonder of spirituality of our ancient peoples and wanted to “touch” it. Luckily, our Melbourne Brothers work in a school in Alice Springs  and some further out in an Aboriginal Community at Santa Teresa. Again, I was in PILGRIM  mode. A certain Brother Cletus was buried there and I just had to visit his grave. Way back in 1943 I recall him well from Eastwood when he and a certain Bother Crispin, both Aussi Rules fanatics used to entertain us lads by dropping kicking from either end of the oval. Amazing. In the meantime he’d steered his Brothers into a new era when Brothers and Sisters negotiated a difficult passage to a heady land where personalism flourished after stultifying years of iron clad rule! He was a hero. When he gave up the “power” he spent the last twenty years or so in a small house, embracing the local culture and being welcomed as an “elder”.

This all helped into a transition from chaplain to a gentler pace and involving in some other interests that had been on the back burner for some time. It also gave me more time for reflection, to muse and scribble, and read and browse. It also triggered some surprising ventures, like writing down stories, or vignettes like this.

As is said wisely AN UNREFLECTED LIFE IS A USELESS LIFE.