Looking back on places and events, I am thankful for a happy childhood, the absence of tragedy, and the Australianness of it all.
Only now do I appreciate, as the seventh decade of a very ordinary life rolls by, how fully the spirit of this unique and ancient land permeates the soul. In this quiet corner of the world my clan enjoyed a place and era that can never return.
I led a serendipitous life, and owe my character to the protection of parents and sisters, happenstance of moments, and benevolence of people who chanced my way.
The bush, countryside, beaches, streets and cityscapes, dusty townships, workplaces, and politics saturate memory. I’m a product of all those places and times.
In reveries I habitually apologise to my son Gregory for a childhood deprived (he assures me it wasn’t all that bad), to my first wife Anne for a young husband’s selfish insensitivity, and to my current wife Helen for suffering an old man’s outbursts, each of which he promises to be the last.
Attention then drifts to grandparents, aunts, and uncles, from whose attentions I shied, or bathed in, with no more gratitude or thought than a petted dog. To a mother and father, Bonnie and Gilbert, neither of whom I bothered to understand, or thank for their devotion, enquire after health, or take other than for granted. A normal young son, in other words.
To Kay Janice, my eldest sister (throughout these chapters called "Jan," as we always knew her) and her daughter (also Kay), who both gathered mountains of printouts, letters, and photographs that made this work possible. Jan phoned, visited, and wrote to many “long lost” relatives to establish or renew relationships. Daughter Kay searched relentlessly for documents and family connections, and added her own other half, the Smith Clan, to create a voluminous 'electronic' tree on which I now rely.
To Kerrie and Lynnette for a lifetime of being kind lovely sisters, and for Lynn’s efforts maintaining her branch of the family tree.
To cousins, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews working at the same task, who generously shared their hard earned collections: Peter Voysey, son of Lewis Voysey (1920-2002), and Ken Foran and son David. From all of whom photos and histories flowed.
To the wonderful Judy Norton (Judith Moncrieffe Voysey, D1987), son of Henry Voysey and Clare Suttor, who made connections we might never have known.
So, as it is owed, untold gratitude to doting grandparents, heroic parents, loving brave sisters, unappreciated wives, and a son who emerged from the chaos of disorderly parenting a more genuine person than I deserved.
Finally, dues to a place. When I think about our family’s good fortune and how it might otherwise have been, Springwood stands foremost.
It’s where our parents began their long struggle to modest prosperity. The war years were their false start, a cruel trick of fate endured only through optimism of early married life.
It’s where we children grew to understand this timeless land, on that impoverished little farm lost in the folds of Australia’s Great Dividing Range that wrote its character so well upon us.
Our parents were of the city, but we are of the blue mountains.