Margaret Mary Clark - Her way!
- Bruce Clark
- 2 days ago
- 12 min read
Updated: 1 day ago
Margaret Clark (Mum), missed her chance seeing her beloved Frank Sinatra on his ill-fated 1974 Australian tour, well as usual she was busy just being Mum, and Frank was being “Cranky” Frankie, calling local female media “hookers”, not surprisingly causing a bit of angst, a union blockade and Ol’ Blue Eyes vowing he’d never be back down under.
Sinatra and some scratchy vinyl had become a soundtrack to our young Ashgrove lives in Brisbane; Mum’s obvious teenage kicks had never waned. Never thought of her as a bobby-soxer though!
Yet never doubting a Queenslander, especially one from the gluttonous Joh Bjelke-Petersen 80’s, like developer Mike Gore and his white shoes, when he launched his Sanctuary Cove development with an “Ultimate Event” spectacular and Sinatra (with Peter Allen and Whitney Houston on the bill, Clive James hosting), but Sinatra was lured ($1m cash will do that) was the main man. Chairman Of the Board.
So here was my chance to fulfil a lifelong dream.
I can’t remember the cost of our two Ultimate tickets, probably all of a young Courier-Mail journalist’s weekly wages and some more (expense accounts were OK back then though), but this was priceless for Mum. And for some 40,000 other wish listers, freeloaders, well-heeled or plain Queensland era shysters.
Ok, Frankie was hardly in showroom condition by this stage (he was 72 and had sourced many a dodgy toupee on the latter journey), but there he was before her blue eyes, the voice, the pizzazz, the panache, the banter and presence more than enough and that love had never faded.
“I can die happy now,” I vividly remember her saying. That was a balmy Gold Coast evening, January 1988, Sinatra sweating his way through a hit laden evening on the Village Stage.
Thankfully she didn’t.
(Here is a link to The Ultimate Event):
But as I sat with her in St Vincent’s Care in Bardon these past weeks, almost 40 years on, down a YouTube rabbit hole we found that show, with a very young Richard Wilkins introducing, and though hard of hearing, just watching her watching him, you could sense some embers rekindling some rapidly fading fires.
“He was very good,” she’d say, “Look at him.” We did and we nodded knowingly.
But at the same time to quote Frankie (or lyricist Paul Anka actually), “and now the end is near”, latching onto such memories is a little solace at a time when a use-by date is so near and all you can do is hold a hand, share some love and thoughts and wait.
“I’m 93, I’ve had a long life, it’s been good,” she would say, “I’m good, I’m ready, give me a kiss” in a rare waking moment from a pain free drug induced rest, well you can imagine torn emotions on a Mother’s Day Sunday.
Margaret Clark, aka Mum, Nana, Mickey - was born the youngest of three children (Bruce and Grahame, her older brothers) to Eric and Ethel Dennis, born the year Phar Lap was killed, Peter Pan won the Cup and the Grey Street Bridge opened in Brisbane. I drove over it last week.
But Eric, in insurance, whose only era vice was simple snooker at Brisbane’s Tattersall’s Club, and Ethel, a cook and enthusiastic forever host at their 37 Hipwood Street Hamilton home, a weatherboard Queenslander of course with a mango tree in the backyard, Jacarandas in the front, chooks and a tendered garden of Iceland poppies and pink gerberas and naturally a dog called Tiny setting a timeless homely scene on the traditional veranda.
(When Mum went to Instagram, her handle remained Eric1Ethel - though I doubt there is a number 2 out there. And she wouldn’t be much of an influencer anyway, except to us.)
And not bad from the young blond (Snowy) headed girl who started at Ascot primary writing with slate pencil on a slate tile.
Yet so, begins an overdue reality version of Mum’s “This Is Your Life.”
Thankfully she wrote much of her own script, unearthing such rich voluminous journals dating back to April 1981 called “My Notebook” is a rare treasure trove, a time capsule opened as much as memories to be burnished.
“If we go through life wanting everything to be perfect then we end up missing out on so much happiness, because we miss the beauty of the flower that is different” was one of her first entries.
I collated a book of other writings for her 80th birthday - “Margaret’s Memoirs”, but for any family and children wanting memories at times of loss or grieving, such an owned perspective is like meeting epochs and eras in real time
“This book is written for Sue, Bruce and Kylie and anyone who may be interested in reading the collection of words that I shall put together in the following pages,” she started with April 13, 1981, and she wrote for more than 40 years.
Of finding a daughter smoking, a son leaving home then moving interstate, of disappointment in her failed marriage and then of her children, the joy of motherhood and grandmotherhood observations shared, of taking up bridge, friends lost, commercial challenges, a loved family dog “Poppet”, (Yorkshire Terrier-Pomerium cross, bought for $2 from the RSPCA), words she had read and been inspired by, daily challenges, whatever came across her mind ended up on paper.
But amongst it all something struck me early, a May 1981 entry: “As I place the value of human relationships above all else in the world, I therefore see unselfishness as a truly worthwhile attribute.”
If I was to look for one word to attach to Mum, it would be “unselfish.”
Think of a 19-year-old girl in her prime, through St Margarets School and off to study science at the University of Queensland, a young life born out of the depression era, family separated to Dalby during the war but dreaming of times ahead in supposedly simpler times.
“Is there no justice in life” she would write, finding her 58-year-old mother, once so full of life and verve, unable to find her way home from the city, memory loss and disorientation, a time before Alzheimer’s became identified as a named disease.
“I was only 19 and as I had been thoroughly spoiled up until this time, a lot of these strange occurrences went unnoticed. Our home was spotless and her cooking had to be tasted to
realise just what a great cook she was.”
“Then my mother no longer existed. It was like a role reversal, she lived 10 years that way and it was terrifying to watch her die, succumbing to a slow death like that was the worst,” she wrote.
With her science studies on long term on hold she became an air hostess (no flight attendant back then) and wearing a pale blue and white polka dot dress, white gloves and stocking of course, got a job with Trans Australian Airlines (TAA).
Apart from a first career, it opened another, casual as a writer, author, commentator, observer, letter to the editor writer, recidivist. - and with good reason.
I have a copy of her $400 world-wide exclusive contract with Reader’s Digest for her “What A Difference A Day Makes” and I’ve heard the story so many times and read it as much about the Fokker Friendship Flight 548 from Maryborough to Rockhampton, lost in the weather over Mackay on June 11, 1960 with two air hostess, 29 passengers, many school kids, all gone. And it could have been her.
“I was rostered on and it was a mere chance I was not a member of the crew on the fatal crash - I was on that route every three weeks, except that one.
“I have wrestled with this the rest of my life.”
But there was to be no rest, a mother first, a scientist and provider later, a family focussed matriarch forever.
“The first surprise (on being pregnant) was the unbearable morning sickness. This was ghastly and lasted six months,” she wrote.
No ultrasounds back then, she discovered late she was having twins, my sister Sue born seven minutes before me, as I politely waited for Dr Ian Cary to help us out in a breach position at St Andrews in Brisbane at 37 weeks.
“The thrill and joy were almost overwhelming but so began the hardest few months of my life. Constant exhaustion every day, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Mum wrote.
She took us back to her Hipwood Street home for the first two years “as I had been born in this house, it was only fitting for me to bring my own children home to my beloved home.”
That home was sold later, but she couldn’t resist an open for inspection visit (Still to find the name “Tiny” painted on a lower ground wall), before the shell was apparently transferred to the country on the back of a trailer. She hated that.
Almost as much as the house she and her husband, our father Ken, built for us at 77 Barkala Street, The Gap, a modern home on a granite site with a hill as steep as seemingly the first climb at Everest.
“I never liked it, my father had a stroke and died there,” she wrote.
And then she wrote another published piece “Some Houses Will Never Be A Home” published in The Australian October 2009.
“Houses have souls - they can love you or hate you - The Gap caused me so much angst, the house that hated me.”
Until she found 78 Glenlyon Drive Ashgrove, one of the suburbs best streets, leading into Marist Brothers College and she bought it in 1973 our, or more so her, forever home.
She christened it “Kymasubru”, Makbye Diva like, taking our names (youngster sister Kylie) first to build out the moniker. The name plate remains on the front porch to this day.
And that is when a house became the home she loved.
After a long day’s work on the other side of the Brisbane River, it was home for us, meat and three veggies for dinner (garnished with salt), apple crumble as her favorite treat, rhubarb on the side.
At these times, you recall littler things that matter not so much to others but to us, like when I asked to borrow some panty hose from Mum, and cut them in half, drop a Kookaburra six-Stichter down the leg, tie it to a rope throw it over the big branch of the backyard Jacaranda where many a slashing cover drive was practiced endlessly.
Oy Mum taking Kylie shopping on Saturday mornings with smarties her reward (she’s still addicted), or when during her seemingly hugely successful 17th birthday at home before Mum fronted all guests at midnight to check who wanted a taxi home booked.
Or when Sue contacted glandular fever (from sharing a soft drink can, not from kissing anyone she assures) as a 20-year-old nursing student and was confined to bed for a month with Mum taking on nursing duties herself - orange juice, towel baths, washing and plaiting hair on a slow recovery path, or just Mum being that selfless everywhere mum again.
But that house, her home, our place, anything but pretentious, was dedicated to times past, loaded with mahogany furniture, cabinets and dining tables from her mother's era, Royal Doulton and Wedgewood proudly displayed but rarely used.
She’d take up competitive Bridge in retirement and never stop trying to better herself and letters to the editor became more and more prolific (she had more than 20 published in the “Soapbox” column - quite appropriately - in The Australian on a myriad of topics but all sending a sassy savvy message.
Local councillors and representative members of parliament weren’t spared her advice on such pressing issues as one-way suburban back lanes or red-tape restrictions on planning and developments.
But if there were issues with the children and the conversation started with: “Remember, I am your mother,” you knew a tense terse exchange was forthcoming.
So, to some of the many thoughts she journalled:
On motherhood: “One of the hardest lessons is that she must know when to learn, however, is to know when to let go. One cannot be a good mother by holding on to her and children and that aphorism “to lose by holding and to keep by letting go comes to mind.”
On her marriage to our father Ken at a time divorce was not as acceptable or normal as today: “It is with much sadness that I say our relationship failed and that brought much unhappiness not only to me but to the children. Life can bring the good and the bad in one package.”
Better on becoming a grandmother: “One cannot imagine the joy when one’s first grandchild is born. This is a whole new world. Firstly, you don’t have to experience the actual birth as you did with your firstborn.”
And she would shower them with the same love of her own children, from my Gabi who gave her Billie, her first great grandchild before branching the gene tree with twins Hunter and Darcy. Billie, now four, gave her much joy the last two weeks when she visited Bardon.
If there was a special place of peace for all, it was what she called “the Duck Pond” at the Mount Coot-tha Botanical Gardens and that is where some eternal physical memory will be, but it is the real lived memories that will never leave.
Mum had a mantra through life aimed at keeping things simple and often reprised when tides flowed against her, where often they did.
“This too shall pass,” of Persian mythology, she would say.
And then she did. (She hung on longer than we thought, maybe she was just giving me time to finish this.)
And it gave her three much loved children a chance in sharing last moments of care, tears and goodbyes, when all she wanted was for someone to scratch her back, tormented in palliative care by an imaginary (maybe it was real) itch. It was the very least we could do, of course she had scratched ours for so long.
Back at Glenlyon Drive alone I found some of her vinyl, of course Frankie.
So “in the wee small hours” - cue the music and then press play.
“Regrets I’ve had a few…..”, you might have heard it. She loved it.
But I am also reminded of words from my favorite American sportswriter Red Smith, having sourced a rare collection of his brilliant words in eulogies called “Absent Friends” some years ago.
“Dying is no big deal,” Red typed, “The least of us will achieve that, living is the trick.”
Mum did that.
And how could we forget - “I am your mother.” Thankfully you were and then so much more. Fly you to the moon, forget about spring on Jupiter or Mars.
May you find Frankie somewhere soon. We will treasure our days here, never strangers in the night.
Mum vicariously lived my racing life with me. Never a rusted-on fan she would punt a few dollars on The Cup, but she loved horses that I loved or wrote about or were connected closely to owners and friends, like the Ottobre’s and Pride Of Jenni.
So, on a quiet Saturday afternoon in Bardon last week I kept mentioning that Pride Of Jenni was running at the Gold Coast. She always wanted to know about Jenni, but I didn’t really think she was there in full mind. There was no banter as sedation had control until I switched the race on and I said Jenni was doing Jenni things, not expecting a reaction.
In a form of resurrection as Jenni hit the home turn in the Hollindale - “Jenni” she suddenly said, “that’s good, go Jenni” and there was something therapeutic in that. The last race she saw.
.
FROM GABI -the first grandchild.
Some memories live so deeply within you that they become part of who you are.
Most of my core early childhood memories are with Nana, and I know they will stay with me for the rest of my life.
There’s a certain smell when I step into a car with the air con on that takes me straight back to Nana driving me around Ashgrove in her Toyota Corolla.
The crackling of thunder takes me back to making boats out of sticks and leaves and racing them through the gutters in Nana’s backyard with Sophie.
The sound of birds crowing instantly transports me back to her house, where you could always hear them in the background.
The feel and sound of a leather couch against bare skin is reminiscent of our afternoon naps on Nana’s white leather couch.
The sound of the afternoon news transports me back to Nana’s back room, finishing Nana’s rissoles shortly followed by her famous apple crumble.
Even the sound of cars passing by at night takes me back to lying awake in her bed on Glenlyon Drive, listening to the world outside while feeling completely safe beside her.
I could go on.
There are so many other memories I’m taken back to so vividly by sounds and smells and I think that speaks to how special those memories were to me.
As your first grandchild, I have always felt we shared a very special bond. Albeit unspoken, there was something that tied us together. Maybe it was the distance that meant you had to hold a very special place in your heart for me and time together was so sacred. And then later in life, as I learnt I was having twins too, there became another layer to that bond — twin motherhood.
I don’t know if other people have such a strong connection with their nana but all I know is I am so lucky I did.
I can still hear your voice so clearly in my mind saying “oh I love you Gab.”
Nana, you have left the biggest imprint on who I am as a person and I look forward to finding you in everyday moments forever and as promised, sharing those memories with your great grandchildren.
The matriarch of the family who literally dedicated your entire life to your family - thank you will never be enough.
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