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St. Bartholemew's Anglican Church, Alstonville NSW Australia 2007.
Christian's, Churches and Childhood Memories
Growing up in Australia in the 50's and 60's was a very unique experience. We were so blessed and thought it was all 'normal' and everyone in the World lived like we did.
I was born in a small country town and lived on a property that my forebears had pioneered. We had so much freedom as kids but there were just a few things that was expected of us. One of which was to go to Church with Mum at whichever Church she was booked to play the Organ at that particular Sunday.
The fact that my Mother was truly multi-denominational gave us all a broad appreciation of Catholic's, Church of England, Presbyterian, Methodist, Baptist, Weddings, Funerals, Good Choirs, out-of-tune choirs, squeaky voiced choirs, flat choirs, Tenors, Baritones, sopranos and in many instances, quiet sleepers and noisy snorers.
Church was a delight and a form of Entertainment as well as one of learning. Over time, we knew our Mums organ playing well enough to know when she was trying to compensate and or help one or other of the Priets, Ministers, Parsons or choir master when their singing needed a bit of bolstering. I always felt sorry for any of the Ministers or Priests when they had to stand up front and couldn't sing. And the good Lord knew there were a few of them! But if my Dad was with us, there was no problem.
You see, my Father had one of the best Baritone voices in the district. I always thought he used to sound very much like Mario Lanza and I used to love to sing beside him because then I could sing to my hearts content because I knew no-one would ever be able to hear me. I was one of those 'flat-singers'.
But at two of the places we used to go to Church, there were two seperate men, one at each place, who thought they could out-sing my Father. These singing competitions were a joy to listen to. Never was, nor ever has, Church been so much fun. The joy was infectious and everyone sang at the top of their voices. The Church rafters rang with vibrational energy and pure joy.
But as the years crept up, we got older, and these wonderful voices broke on the higher notes. Caution then crept it's ugly head through the pews and the joy of unabashedly singing out the notes fled like summer sunshine at the approach of winter.
Somehow, Church has never been quite the same as it was when we were growing up.
But the memory is strong and the appreciation of all the Christian denominations remain.
Along with the usual irreverent Australian humour to religion as Banjo Paterson captured in this poem:
A BUSH CHRISTENING - A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, And men of religion are scanty, On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost, One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten-year-old lad, Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned; He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest For the youngster had never been christened,
And his wife used to cry, "If the darlin' should die Saint Peter would not recognise him." But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived, Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.
Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue, With his ear to the keyhole was listenin', And he muttered in fright while his features turned white, "What the divil and all is this christenin'?"
He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts, And it seemed to his small understanding, If the man in the frock made him one of the flock, It must mean something very like branding.
So away with a rush he set off for the bush, While the tears in his eyelids they glistened- "'Tis outrageous," says he, "to brand youngsters like me, I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!"
Like a young native dog he ran into a log, And his father with language uncivil, Never heeding the "praste" cried aloud in his haste, "Come out and be christened, you divil!"
But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug, And his parents in vain might reprove him, Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke) "I've a notion," says he, "that'll move him."
"Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog; Poke him aisy-don't hurt him or maim him, 'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand, As he rushes out this end I'll name him.
"Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name- Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?" Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout- "Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!"
As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub Where he knew that pursuit would be risky, The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head That was labelled "Maginnis's Whisky!"
And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P., And the one thing he hates more than sin is To be asked by the folk who have heard of the joke, How he came to be christened "Maginnis"!
The Bulletin, 16 December 1893.
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