Well, the stories of our two year stay in Rockhampton would not be complete without at least some mention of our idiosyncratic church at Charmers Street. The building itself radiated a certain exceptional posture, given that it was built right up to the council allocated property line, leaving no neutral space between itself and the passing sinful crowd. The timber pews were unpadded and uncomfortable – much like the constant theme emanating from the pulpit each Sunday evening. See, I had become pretty familiar with the wrath of the four horseman of the acropolis right there, long before it became a scary movie epic. This particular pastor had a singular pension for the doom and damnation of the hallucinogenic type stories contained in the last book of the bible Revelations. Usually a supreme challenge for a whole conference of biblical scholars, this pastor saw it as a particular challenge to unravel its deep mysteries to the simple folk of that beef-exporting country town. I know that the rather large proportioned Mrs Cronin must have really appreciated it. She eventuially demanded a full immersion baptism in the water tank provided for such a purpose, under the church’s raised stage and pulpit. Her baptism was unfortunately more reminiscent of the parting of the red sea, as the water from either side of her backward falling body flowed out of the tank and into that church hall. I could see at that moment, that the pastor felt that Jesus raising of Lazareth from the dead was an easier miracle than having to raise the now spiritually prone body of Mrs Cronin from the bottom of that baptismal tank. Scotty was also a regular at those evening sermons, but he seemed to have a special ability to just disconnect from the high emotion of the thoughts and ideas being portrayed. Well, his little black on/off switch was located on the left hand side of his pocket hearing aid and it did provide him with an option to just dose off on those long winded detailed description emanating from the lectern until one of his kids would lift it from his pocket, turn it on and up, and yell a wake up call into it, that is! Now, there is no verbal record of the specific reaction of the blind man’s behaviour to the monstrous and vivid imagery that was colourfully described, but I suspect it must have all made for an interesting, if not tentative, long walk home. For the non-visually challenged folk, their frightened disposition was often neutralized by the flop of minister’s hair flapping parallel to the ceiling as the huge pedestal fan kicked in to provide some cooling breeze to the now sweating and exposed skin tight scalp. Tom and I stayed with the program through most of the congregation singing and individual song items. We were there singing loudly when those saints went marching in and we wanted it to always stay that way. See, it had to be better than the rather heated burning alternative that was on offer. Still, we soon resorted to our Tin-Tin books once the minister got up to speak. Captain Haddock and he seemed to have such a lot in common. The blue blistering barnacles and thundering typhoons expletive by the Captain seemed to us in perfect harmony with the sentiment of much of the reverend’s message just the word choice was different. So, when the lead weights in our eyelids dropped and finally wanted to close, Tom and I would go in search of a three empty seat pew in which to stretch out for a nightcap. Worryingly, there was that ever fearful message that one day all the saints would be taken to heaven, leaving the heathen alone on the earth and so it happened. I woke one night all alone in that darkened church hall. The saints had all gone and left me behind! Yes it is true – they had all left me, but fortunately, only as far as our Albert Street home. 1,2,3,4,5. chummily we are missing one of the children was mum’s remark to a very tired dad. What a relief to my sleepy eyes to open the tall front timber doors of the church and see my Dad coming back to collect me. Nice one God OK, count me in!
