An Ode and a Tribute to My Beautiful Mother
9th December, 2024
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An Essay on Motherhood Through the Eyes of a Loving Son
John Gates. 2024

I have a mum. We all do. She just died the other day.

Note that I didn’t day ‘did’, because our mum is always with us, and will always be. You only get one –  you may have other women in your life, and of course, your wife takes up number one position and there are some who try to be your mother or are put in the position of carer, but the one that gave birth to you has a special place in the world, in your heart and in God’s heart, if you believe in a God.

Mine, very fortuitously, was still with us when I first started writing this in 2018. She had just turned 92 and to celebrate her birthday, embarked on the longest train journey in Australia, which, by definition, is probably one of the longest in the world – the Ghan.

You better believe it – my mother had the biggest bucket list in the world, and she kept ticking them off, until recently. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had tried hang gliding!

Travelling with her eldest daughter, my big sister, Pauline, they don’t mind a drink or two on a hot day, so they made sure that they organised the best cabin, closest to the bar and the restaurant. No slouch, my Mum, nor is big sis! We loved the Facebook posts and how good that we could share these family experiences in real time.

10 kids – mind boggling by today’s standards, and a working-class family – only the wealthy could pull that off these days, but back then, even though we were ‘theoretically poor’ nobody thought to tell us and since most of the families around us were also Irish-Catholics with big families, and all our dads had good jobs, that was just the norm. Good onya, Norm.

Mum and Dad married four years after that “big event” – WW2, which so rudely disturbed the 20th century, for a lot of folks.

Bought the War Service Home in the Shire, the new suburb of Gymea and we got on with life and Mum and Dad got on with …. You know what!

Having babies.

Seemed like about every two years we’d say to Dad – “where’s Mum” – he’d say, ..’at the hospital with the new baby and we’re picking her up on Saturday, and we’d say ..;What are we going to call him/ her, Dad?”

It was always a nice name, and the girls all got Mary as a second name and the boys all got William – except Bill of course, who got Gerard, after St Gerard, who was apparently the patron saint of mothers.

Pretty easy, back then, just pick your favourite saints! Good thing we followed the Irish and not the Romans or the Orthodox!!

So, given that my dad was a huge fan of Our Lady, and his name was William -  I’m guessing that he got to choose the names – and Mum would not have cared, because if it was OK with Dad, it was always OK with Mum – that’s the kind of couple that they were – they were ONE. She just does not sweat the small stuff, and if it’s not something that threatened her kids, it was generally small stuff.

Come the big day usually a Saturday, we’d all pile into the FJ or the EH Holden (depending on the year)  – plastic bench seats, no seatbelts, kids wrangling all over the place, jumping up and down on the back seat, hanging out the windows, off to St. Margaret’s, wait in the car while Dad went inside to do whatever grownups do, (we usually left Nana at home because there was no room in the car) and Mum would come out with the babe in arms, Dad would chuck all of her stuff and the baby gear in the boot and she would do the ride home with the baby safely cradled in her arms in the front seat!! No seat belts because nobody had thought of them back then.

All of us would be hanging over the seat trying to pat the newbie on his or her bald head. Happily, my Dad never had a prang in his life and those Holdens were made of tough steel anyway.

Imagine that!

Then we would all get to know our  new  brother or sister and life went on.

The original house had one bathroom and three bedrooms, which, when Nana stayed with us for 6 months of the year, got a bit crowded, so Mum and Dad  eventually put on an extension.

One of those weatherboard suburban houses, on a huge block, big enough that six over the back fence was a massive, long drive which only a Test cricketer or Dad could pull off, and many happy cricket games were played in that back yard. 

He had played for North Queensland before the war as a youngster and if it wasn’t for Tojo or Adolf, might have gone on to play for Queensland or who knows, maybe Australia.

He held an Australian schoolboy triple jump record that was not broken for about 20 years, so I am told.

Anyway, back to Mum..

She eventually sold the place for plenty. I drove by once, a few years later for a nostalgic visit and there was a block of flats there. Last time I visited the Shire!

Not only was our street a dirt road but we also had a dirt front yard, so Dad would sneak into the front yard of Sutherland Hospital on the way home from  work, each day, and pull up a few runners of that really blady grass (Kikuyu?) and plant them went he got home and before you knew it we had this brilliant yard of really strong grass, with a beautiful gum tree right in the centre.
No sewerage to start with – who knew that that was unusual, we thought everyone lived that way – we had the outdoor commode down the back and it was a couple of years before my dad (a colour blind electrician) got around to putting light and power out there, so the night trip was always interesting.
Every Tuesday morning Dan, Dan The Dunny Man used to turn up and replace the dunny pan, carrying the new one in on his shoulder all the way from the road to the back of the house, and vice versa with the full one.

He always had a blue singlet on with not a mark on it, and my brother Gerry and I used to hang out the window silently willing Dan Dan to trip and fall and do a face plant into the shite, but he never did.

That bloke could probably run a marathon with a pan on his shoulder. No high viz, back then! I still love the smell of Creosote in the morning.....there I go again, getting off the point.
My memories of my mother in those years are those of a loving woman, who just got on with things, melded into the background, kept a wonderful and happy house, put up with Nana, an old Irish harridan, didn’t work, until years later and totally supported our Dad, who worked all the hours that god gave him, in a day job and singing at weddings and functions in the evenings, because he was a magnificent operatic baritone, who, for some reason, had not gone on with his hugely promising career.

He came to Sydney in 1948, from Cairns, where he returned after the war, and came down to take up a belated scholarship at the Sydney Conservatorium, studying under the auspices of the then virtuoso teacher, Madame Marti.

This was a scholarship that he would have taken up years earlier if it hadn’t been for Herr Hitler and his nutter mates.

Came out of the Air Force at the age of 32 and began his studies at the age of 34. He won the prestigious Sun Aria, in Sydney, around that time and, interestingly, the female winner that year, was a young Joan Sutherland. He was in good company. She went on, overseas,  to fame and fortune, and he went on to marry the love of his life, and bring yours truly into being, not to mention those other younger pesky siblings of mine.

He was a member of the ABC Singers for a number of years, the 50’s equivalent of TV stars, before TV was a thing, and then, when he met my mother, all that mattered was having a large family.
Dad definitely inherited  family values, and the absolute love he had for my mum was tangible, though why he wanted to keep her …”bare foot and pregnant ..” all the time is a mystery. I guess that the blokes who returned from the war, all saw prosperity in front of them, having lived through the Great Depression, so we can only speculate what was in their heads, in those years.

Might also have been the fact that he was one of two kids and may have longed for siblings. His sister and he were not that close. She never left Cairns and as far as I can remember, only ever came to Sydney once. She had a stroke and was wheelchair-bound for much of her life.

For a working-class bloke, he became a staunch Liberal supporter and was pretty much anti-union, probably because he saw them as communists, or the anti-Christ, or some such,  which would have flown in the face of his Catholic upbringing.

Unfortunately, he died too early, and I never really got the chance to have that conversation with him as an adult.

I’m not sure that any of his children do, or even understand them, but they were views forged in the working-class Irish who settled in North Queensland, at the turn of the 20th Century, and brought with them that fiery form of Catholicism that many of us grew up with.

Back in those days, just about every parish church had an Irish priest or curate. Many of them were of the “fire and brimstone” ilk.  It was the norm – there he is, again, that bloke, Norm!

You went to mass, you listened to them rant and rave at you and YOU DID NOT DARE ARGUE!! You sang the hymns, listened to the mass in Latin, and went forth and multiplied (god help you if you went fifth!). Confession was always an experience.

Many of the families that we associated with through school, were Irish Catholic by descent.

Last time I went to Mass, a couple of years ago, when I thought it would be nice to take my young daughter to a Christmas midnight mass in a Brisbane suburb where we had never been to church before there was this very nice, young African priest preaching to a small group of old folks, sitting in the front row, no atmosphere and the distinct impression that those parishioners, bless them, were not even paying attention. As a celebration of Christmas, it was joy-less and fell well short of what I had remembered as a former churchgoer, so we left at half-time.

Lest you think I have been talking about my Dad to the exclusion of my beautiful Mum, that is because until his incredibly premature death at age 59 with 9 children and 6 still at home, Mum had been the support mechanism, the keeper of the house, the one who was just there for every one of us, in all of our different ways, administering to our different needs. Giving each one of us the quality time that we needed in our own special way.

In my case, that quality time was the walk to church on Sunday morning.

Dad would leave early to get the choir organised and he would take the other kids in the car and let them run around in the church yard or leave the little ones home with Nana.

I elected to walk with Mum – it was about a mile, and it was our special time each week. I had her to myself, and she always asked the right questions, sometimes incisive, sometimes inquisitive, sometimes just curious, and sometimes, mischievous, but we talked and talked and talked. She was just a great friend, and full of insightful wisdom.

That was a special time.

No mobile phones, only one car for the whole family, only one landline, in the hallway that my sister and I fought over every night.

The internet was that funny piece of netting that Nana wore on her head, and who knows why – she was almost bald, anyway, but as odd as she was, she was my dad’s mum and he loved her, so we did, too, even if she was a cranky old Irish thing. I remember provoking her one night when I was helping Mum with the dinner (the gravy was my special thing) and she threw a 1 lb bag of sugar at me. Went everywhere!

Dad had one sister who lived in faraway Cairns and Nana would bugger off to stay with her for six months, each year. It was a huge event taking Nana to the airport and putting her on the TAA flight every 6 months. The only time we got to go to an airport – there was no real terminal, as we know them today - we stood outside the tin shed in the weather behind the “gate” which was literally a school gate and the privileged ones, like our Nana, got to go through the gate and walk across the tarmac. We stood there for bloody hours until the plane was out of sight.

For all we knew, she was sitting on the opposite side of the plane, taking her beloved “Bex” having a cup of tea and probably falling fast asleep.

I joined the Navy at age 16 and went away, and Mum and Dad were proud of me. It didn’t bother me that I didn’t communicate with him, much, as he would always be around, never had a sick day in his life, very talented sportsman and magnificent singer.  I just assumed that he would live forever, as you do as a 16-year-old.

Another aside, we lived at Gymea Bay and it was a stopping off point between Sydney and Jervis Bay, where we were doing our Naval training at the Royal Australian Naval College, so most Sundays, a bunch of my classmates would drop in on their way back to the College. I remember, once, about 14 dropped in, mid-Sunday afternoon,  and my Mum pulled off the best “loaves and fishes” trick that you have ever seen. Some of my classmates talk about it to this day.

In June, 1975 Dad suffered a massive embolism and died very suddenly (ie within hours). I later found out that his blood pressure was often through the roof, and that he was hiding some anger issues.

I was stationed in Victoria at that time, at HMAS Cerberus, a shore base. As luck would have it I was the Officer of the Day, the day that he died.

Even though I had a house on the base, we were required to stay the night in a cabin near the main gate, when on duty. Usually, you get a reasonable night’s sleep, barring any unforeseen emergencies, you head down the mess for breakfast  around 7.00, back to the cabin, tidy up and leave at 8.00 am to go to work on the base.

Sometimes there would be a message or two passed between duty officers from other ships or establishments about various personnel matters and you would handle those before going off duty.
That morning, I just got back to the cabin, when the phone rang – I answered and gave my name – there was an audible gasp on the other end of the line – the poor bloke who was doing the same thing as me and just about to go off duty said ....”I’m very sorry but I have to tell you that your father died last night..”

I said: ..”oh you mean my grandfather, don’t you, Rupert Radecki, who has been pretty sick?”
He said: ..”no, it’s your father Bill Gates”.

Holy dooly – my first reaction was to feel sorry for that guy who just thought he was passing on a message to someone, tidying up before going off duty. Afterwards, I thought that that was a strange reaction, but later realised that it was because I wanted to do anything other than acknowledge that my invincible, strong, beautiful Dad was dead.

If I had a doubt, it was definitely dispelled later that afternoon, when after flying to Sydney, I walked into the family home to be met with total and utter devastation of my mother hugging my brothers and sisters and not knowing what else to do.

So, I grabbed the funeral papers and cleared out to see the funeral director and do anything but be in that scene of devastation.

Got home, a couple of hours later and the ‘event’ was in full swing – all of Mums and Dad’s friends had turned up, as they do, with casseroles and other food and drink,  just trying to be neighbourly and help in any way they could. Tall tales and platitudes, all very well meaning, because after all, what else do you say?

If you were kind enough to turn up, then God bless you.

It was too much for me and I went and sat out on the back step and broke down, for the first time that day – it finally all came out – Mum eventually came out and found me and we sat together for a while, in yet another very special moment in time. It was healthy and I got it out of my system and, once again, Mum was there for me, when I was trying to be there for her.

To say that she then picked up the ball and ran with it, is a complete understatement.

This was a woman who had hardly worked in her married life, and basically only worked at our school in a part-time role and helped out on the canteen.

She had only learned to drive and gotten a licence not long before Dad died.

She had two daughters that were Sisters of Nursing, so she decided that she would take up nursing and became a Nurse’s Aide, working for another 16 or so years and practically ended up running the department of the  hospital that she worked at, and was, apparently the best and feistiest Union rep that they had ever had. She was a Toast Mistress, got involved at school, and really stepped up.

Somehow, we managed to get all the kids through school, Mum ran a great home, and everyone has been pretty successful in their chosen careers.

Mum now has 11 natural grandchildren and a great grandchild – there are a few late starters in the family which I know irked her a bit, she also has two stepsons, who have given us grandkids, so the clan is reasonably healthy. 
 
What is the point of all of this?

Well, apart from telling my mother that I loved her, which I tried to do on the phone as often as possible, it is to record my deep conviction that your mother (anyone’s mother) is and should be held in a most special position of importance in your life.

This is  written for my children, so that I can put down a marker, and hope that they will abide by it.

A wife is in that same position but in a different way, as she is the one that you unite with for the future and becomes the beautiful mother of your children, but your mother is the one that you have been united with from birth and that cord, though it may have been cut for purely practical reasons, remains there, for purely seminal reasons. It cannot be severed.

That person who turned you into who you are, what you are, stopped you from becoming what you might have been, if you had had your way, who nurtured you, drove you everywhere, gave up her weekends to be the taxi driver to you and your mates, fed a houseful of them every other weekend without complaint and worried about you every step of your young life, clothed and fed you, even if it was a struggle and looked after you when you were sick, or worried, or sad, or angry or confused, or just put up with you and your friends going through your rites of passage, is someone very special.

This is a woman who will worry about you for the rest of your life, even if you don’t need her to.

This is the person who will shed tears of joy when you get the credit for something, not someone who will try to take credit,  and will stand proudly in the background when you get accolades. All she will ask for, in return, is a nice photo for a happy memory, or an acknowledgment on Facebook.

This is the person (my beautiful wife) who I find, sitting cross-legged on our bed, with photos of all of the kids spread out, re-living happy memories and shedding a proud tear or two with all the great memories of little things and big things.

When I was involved with a senior Rugby Club in Sydney, we had mothers who still came to watch their sons play every Saturday and these were guys who were in their late 20’s or early 30’s,  married with kids and well established in their careers and I remember one of the guys, now a burly police sergeant saying to me that whenever he scored a try or pulled off a great tackle, he still looked up into the grandstand where his mother was sitting, knowing that he would get a high five (or a blown kiss!!).
  
Some of those mothers were the fiercest barrackers that I have come across in Rugby. I know for a fact that he was not the only one to share that sentiment. You played the game for lots of reasons, one of which was to give back to those people who supported you through juniors and colts and grade, etc.

You move on and meet your life partner and start your family for your own personal reasons, but in doing so you give your mother grandchildren. For her, it is almost as if everything that went before concatenates into that moment. The utter pride that your mother feels for you, coupled with the utter love for the unborn or newborn cannot be measured in any rational way.

Your mother moves to a further dimension in her life...Up until then there is the hope that she will become a grandmother, and then there is knowing it is going to happen and finally, it happens, and her heart explodes but this time not just with love for one person, but with love for her son or daughter as a new parent and utter love for  the little human being that has just been born and the hope that she can be useful in so many ways, given that she has all of that life experience that has gone before...She is suddenly alive, because every fibre of her womanhood is now laser focussed on the beautiful being that is just starting its life. She does not want to  interfere, but just to be there in her child’s time of adjustment and offer any support that she can, not just because she loves you but because her pride in you almost bursts out of her heart.

In a way, her life cycle starts all over again, but she is aware that it is you and your family that are and must be your first consideration  and she just wants to be able to be there for you and make your life that much easier.
My mother was at the hospital for the birth of my three children and got early cuddling rights each time which is at it should be. I could not imagine her not being there, under any circumstances.

If a man cannot see these simple precepts, then you have to worry what has gotten into his head.

If a man cannot honour his mother, unconditionally, the same way that he loves his spouse unconditionally, then you have to question him, as a man.

As men, we draw strength from our parents, but it seems to me that a man gets his mental and intellectual strength from the example that his mother sets him. He draws many things from his father and one would hope it is that his father honours his own mother unconditionally, and always holds her up as his shining light.

My father did and I guess that is how it rubbed off on me.

So, there you have it. I was moved to write this because I love my Mum and because my beautiful wife has become a grandmother for the third time, and I can see the way that that has given her a “new glow”. Since starting to write this in 2018, we have had two more grandchildren, from my two stepsons, and they live a fair way away, but whenever they call Grandma comes running.

I can’t always get away on short notice, so thank goodness for Facetime and Facebook.. Those mischievous little fellas grow up way too fast.

Some of Mum’s kids and grandkids have also produced off-spring so the clan grows.

I was also moved to write it because there are so many men out there, who can’t articulate what it all means.

I am always reminded of that great scene from Monty Python’s “Life of Brian” …. “he’s not the Messiah, he’s just a very naughty boy..”.  I don’t know why, but that always makes me smile.

That is my mother to a tee, and that is my beautiful wife to a tee, in her role as the mother of my children and my stepchildren.

I want all of my children to understand the concept, especially the males of the clan. God bless you both. You are formidable women.
 
She was happy and content to the end, but when her time came, she was ready to go.. Not bad for a lady who has been separated (by death) from her beloved husband, more years than they were married.

I hope, and believe that they have ultimately been reunited.
Love you, Mum.
 
John Gates
December, 2024