The other day my son and I were discussing history, something that we frequently do. The subject of important events in history came up and we started talking about things that had happened in our lifetime. It didn’t take long for us to start on a, “Where were you when” exercise.
Being born in the first half of the last century as I was means that many important historical events took place during my lifetime so I started to recount them. Surprisingly, even though my memory goes back to the 1950’s, not that many significant historical events tied themselves to a particular place or time. But, some did and I thought it would be interesting if I recorded some of them.
I do not remember where I was the day the music died, for example. February 3rd 1959 I would have been in Croydon, in Adelaide and the first term of my fifth year in primary school would have just begun. But, even though I was a child of the rock and roll generation, I can’t tell you what I was doing that day.
The first important historical event that I can tie to a specific time was the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962. I can take you to the very classroom and the very seat in that classroom where I was sitting when Terry Franklin, my History teacher came into the room and announced that President Kennedy had told the Russian Premier, Nikita Kruschev, to remove his missiles from the island of Cuba. Despite having only a teenager’s understanding of the bigger picture at work here, I knew enough to know that we had reached the precipice and that we were balancing on the edge of World War III. I knew that both the USA and the USSR possessed enough nuclear weapons to destroy the whole world many times over and that both nations had the capability of delivering these weapons to the mainland of their enemies within a terrifyingly small period of time.
I can only ever recall being more frightened at on other time in my lifetime and I will detail that occasion a little later. The lesson proceeded in hushed tones and I am sure that many students in the class felt as I felt that what we were doing was so futile as we would be dead very shortly. This is not melodrama, understand this. We really believed that we were going to be plunged into a nuclear war at any moment and that there would be no survivors.
Terry Franklin (or Mr Franklin as we knew him then) was a wonderful teacher. Studious, well-spoken and passionate about English and History, it was to him that I owe my career as a teacher. Sensing that I was struggling academically, he buttonholed me on the stairs one day and asked me how I was going. This was unexpected as the teacher/student relationship was totally different in the day than it is today. However, Terry was ahead of his time in many ways and he proceeded to usher me into his office (unheard of thing back then) and sit me down on a chair where he explained to me the proper way of writing an essay. “It’s simple,” he said, “Remember it like this. You tell them what you’re going to tell them; then you tell them; then you tell them what you told them.” Sensing that I was still all at sea he went on to reveal the basic essay layout. Introduction, Body, Conclusion. Another 20 minutes or so while he put the flesh on the bones and I was ushered out of the office with instructions to write an essay on a subject that he had given me and return it to him the next day. I don’t remember doing this, but I do remember that the half an hour spent in Mr Franklin’s office that day turned my schooling around. In one fell swoop he had revealed a wonderful secret and, at the same time, kindled a passion for history that abides to this day.
Terry Franklin became my hero and I am pleased to say that, at the school’s 50th anniversary celebrations in 2008 I was able to meet him and thank him personally for the way that he had guided me, quite unwittingly, into the career that I had pursued with the same passion as his, for the preceding 40 years.
I should say, before I leave the subject, that Mr Franklin was ahead of his time in many ways, not just his attitude to students. He was married to a very glamorous wife who used to shock the very conservative residents of Speers Point by sunbaking on the front verandah of their house, clad only in a very tiny leopard print bikini. Once this became known amongst the student body (particularly the male student population) his rankings rose considerably!
Not long after the Cuban missile crisis had been defused at the very last minute, the next “Where were you” moment in history took place. The daughter of our neighbours across the road came rushing into our kitchen and said, “Have you heard? President Kennedy has been assassinated.”
Th next few days were a blur as people tried to get their heads around the fact that, in our day and age, one of the most powerful men in the world had been killed in broad daylight in public. We watched the proceedings and the funeral on our little black and white TV’s and the images that are now frozen and iconic in history, John Jr saluting his dad’s coffin, unfolded in front of your eyes. It was a surreal time.
In my first year of teachers college the college auditorium was taken over by a local electrical retailer who wheeled in 4 black and white TVs and set them up in the front to the room. They stayed there all day as we sat, riveted to a flickering and often indistinct picture and soundtrack and watched first Neil Armstrong and then Buzz Aldrin walk on the surface of the moon that we could see out the window of the room. It seemed impossible and it really isn’t that surprising that some people still think that it didn’t really happen. The magnitude of the undertaking and the hideous complexity of what was done, with utterly rudimentary electronic and computing equipment beggared belief then and it still does. Nevertheless the day is indelibly etched into my memory.
Lastly, January 18th 2003. A day that is seared into my memory; the day of the disastrous Canberra bushfires. We were living in Weston Creek, the area worst hit by the raging wildfire that swept in from the surrounding pine forests into the suburbs from two sides at once. In just a couple of hours that horrific Saturday afternoon over 500 houses were destroyed, 4 people lost their lives, 490 people were injured and thousands of people suffered a trauma from which many never recovered. Where was I? I was standing in the backyard of our house, hosing the back of the house while my wife stood in the front yard doing the same thing to the front of the house. As the fire roared in with the sound of a hundred express trains, the sky grew darker and darker until, at 1600 that day, it was darker than midnight. Burning embers and leaves falling in the yard were hastily extinguished as the smoke changed colour from white to black as the houses began to be consumed. The air was filled with the roar of the wind and the constant explosions as hot water system after hot water system exploded. In the middle of this, a huge explosion as the tanks at Duffy Service Station exploded and, all the time, the fear that our place would be next. Once into the houses, the fire began to abate as it couldn’t burn as intensely and move as quickly as it had in the forests. By the evening, it started to get lighter and we became aware that the danger was past, but all through the night the sirens continued and the radio began to tell us of just how devastating the afternoon had been.
A house 4 doors down the street from us was destroyed, that’s how close it came to us. I will never forget that day. Many people returned to their streets to find whole blocks of houses smoldering. Most people whose houses were touched by the fire lost everything. Very few escaped with anything but the clothes they were wearing and perhaps a few valuable possessions, snatched in a frantic rush to get out before the fire arrived. Marathon runner, Robert de Castella’s house just up the road from us was destroyed, taking all of his sporting memorabilia and medals. A good friend who ran a printing business from his garage lost not only his house and possessions but all of his business belongings as well.
Even people whose houses were not lost were affected in so many ways. Many sold up and moved away, the memories just too raw. For years after, empty blocks in the middle of the suburbs told the story of loss and despair. An enquiry failed utterly to sheet home the blame where it belonged, but, even if it had, it would have been no consolation.
You will note that I have not mentioned anything motorcycle-related. Except perhaps one. In March 1995 I was doing something or other when my brother phoned. “Have you heard the news,” he asked, “Harry’s been killed in a car accident.” I don’t remember the specifics of where I was or what I was doing, but I remember receiving the call and the impact is still felt. For Australia’s greatest motorcycle racer to die in a piddling little 2 litre touring car race seemed, and still seems, totally unjust.
Where were YOU and what events still stick in your mind? It’s an interesting exercise.
Oh, and one more thing. Despite me selling my CBX550 in 2002, I still get the occasional email from people who have read my CBX550 web site. Such a one came in some time ago from Peter Gardo, a resident of Sweden. Peter had been given the opportunity of buying an F2 model quite cheaply and we corresponded frequently as he restored the bike. It’s now finished and looks wonderful.
This evening I received a message from Peter telling me that the picture of me riding my 550 at Oran Park in 1984 or round about there has now been framed and is hanging on his garage wall. Well, now, isn’t that a thrill? Thank you, Peter.