I had a very loving Mum. Loving, sometimes, to the point of smothering. Of over controlling, particularly when I was younger. I was reading an article earlier this week about toxic parents (naturally, I can't find it now) and was sorta kinda surprised, but not much, to find a paragraph describing some of her behaviour to a T. She wasn't super toxic, but toxic enough to make me a secretive person who made my decisions behind her back rather than have her make them for me. Which she was very good at.
I miss her. She mellowed when I got married and clearly realised I was finally a big girl and was capable. She's been gone four years.
Since my teens I have played out conversations in my head with her. Conversations in which I finally get the upper hand. You'll understand this didn't happen often in real life. Mum was ALWAYS right. She'd just wear me down until I gave up.
Even with Mum not here any more, I was still having those conversations, or remembering particularly hard ones that took place, and actual arguments. It was getting me down. I couldn't shift them. I couldn't move on.
Coupled with doing work that no longer floats my boat (graphic and web design, managing a chamber of commerce) I was pretty well down in the dumps at the end of January when the work started to flow in again and I was trapped at the bloody computer.
Ach, you say. Chuck it in and do something else. Easier said than done. I'm not qualified for anything else, but I've been doing a lot of professional cat sitting recently and that may well become my new earner.
All through January I did cat sitting, and a more zen role I can't think of. Mid-February I felt like crying every time a new email came in. So a friend who'd also been in a terribly bad way (read: borderline suicidal) put me onto her hypnotherapist, a lovely woman who had helped my friend do a complete 180 in terms of mood. My friend is now rocking life and taking bad news in her stride; after a shocking start to the year she's coping well and being positive.
Now Mum was scathing of therapists - after all, why would you want to talk to a stranger when you could nut your problems out with your family, your mother? Hmm, but what if your mother was your problem? Or part of your problem, along with low self-esteem and self-love and a lot of anger as I'm too passive/aggressive.
So I saw the hypno. I had my first session six weeks ago and have felt subtle but positive changes. The Mum conversations have gone; if I feel one coming on I remember happy times, giggles with Mum, holidays and love instead. I'm calmer within myself. I'm calmer with inanimate objects such as my computer (and believe me, that's HUGE!).
I'm wondering if the yoga has also contributed to the calmness. I no longer get irate with other motorists unless they do something really stupid which jeopardises my safety. In Sydney that's a daily occurrence but these days I ignore the dopes who don't indicate and those with other small misdemeanours. But I digress ...
The hypno has tried to instil a self of strong self-worth, and I think it's happening. I saw her again today and she said she could see and feel a real change in me and my energy. We did another session which worked on me feeling more powerful and loving towards myself and my body conquering and getting rid of my psoriasis (let's hope that one works, it's shocking at the moment). I certainly went well under today, far deeper than the first session.
The only snag is the recording on my phone stopped of its own accord 11 minutes in. I'm giggling at the thought that perhaps Mum was there and stopped it! Anyway the hypno is going to re-record it and Dropbox it to me.
I'm hoping this is the year I can become the me I was always supposed to be, not the one I was told to be. Old habits die hard but I think my hypno is killing them softly.
Showing posts with label Mum. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mum. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 2, 2018
Monday, February 9, 2015
Rebecca where are you?
One of my favourite books is Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca. I read it first when I was in my mid-teens, and needed something to read. In Mum's bookshelf was an old hardback with a yellow dust jacket. On the spine it said The (then a gap where the dust jacket was torn) "Rebecca". Mum had ripped the price out as it was a bargain 2/6 in 1954 and she didn't want the price showing. I genuinely thought the book was called The "Rebecca" and that it was about a ship or something. Booooring!!!!
Mum's bookshelves were full of old hardbacks from the 40s and 50s. Many of them looked awfully unappetising, in fact downright boring, with a few exceptions, the best being They're A Weird Mob by Nino Culotta (John O'Grady to you), which I adore.
"Read Rebecca," Mum advised. "You'll love it." Only the week before she had urged me to read Green Dolphin Country and I just couldn't get into it; historical drama - not my thing at all.
Anyhow, I thought I'd give Rebecca a shot and I fell in love. It inspired me to seek out Daphne du Maurier's other novels and they have all been good companions and re-read over the years. Except for Julius. I hated it. Julius murdered his cat near the beginning of the book. That ruined it for me.
Every couple of years I re-read Rebecca; yes, I can quote from it, but I don't care. When I was living in our old place I borrowed the book from Mum, and when we moved in here I brought it back and put it in its rightful place in Mum's old bookshelf, which is in the room which is now my office.
Last week I wanted to read it. I knew where I'd put it. Right next to They're A Weird Mob. But it wasn't there. That yellow dust jacket is unmistakable. I checked the shelf again. I pulled out the books at the front to go through the books at the back. I looked through the front books, where it should have been, three times in total.
Had I loaned it out to Whingy? I had loaned her other DduM books but had resisted loaning her Rebecca as, in its 1954 'cheap edition' it was priceless to me and I didn't want her losing it or giving it away, forgetting who had loaned it to her. No, I hadn't loaned it.
So, it must be downstairs with most of G and my books. We have six bookshelves downstairs. I went through every single one of them, hunting for that yellow cover. Where the books were double stacked I took them out, and cast my eyes over thousands of books in total.
I was puzzled. Where on earth -? There was one more bookshelf in my office I hadn't checked, my own where I keep business books; it would be unlikely to be there but even so…
I chuntered back upstairs and into my office. And there it was. Bright yellow cover and all. Right next to They're A Weird Mob. Right where it should be.
I swear Mum was playing a joke on me. I did ask her, when I was downstairs, where the book was. It seems inconceivable that I could look at that book three times and not see it, not with that bright cover. I'm looking at it now and it's unmissable.
Now I just have to find my copy of Susan Hill's Mrs de Winter, which was written as a follow up. I've read Sally Beauman's Rebecca's Tale, which was excellent and a believable sequel to Rebecca. But hey, I can't find the book downstairs and it's not in the bookshelf in my office. Mum….?
Mum's bookshelves were full of old hardbacks from the 40s and 50s. Many of them looked awfully unappetising, in fact downright boring, with a few exceptions, the best being They're A Weird Mob by Nino Culotta (John O'Grady to you), which I adore.
"Read Rebecca," Mum advised. "You'll love it." Only the week before she had urged me to read Green Dolphin Country and I just couldn't get into it; historical drama - not my thing at all.
Anyhow, I thought I'd give Rebecca a shot and I fell in love. It inspired me to seek out Daphne du Maurier's other novels and they have all been good companions and re-read over the years. Except for Julius. I hated it. Julius murdered his cat near the beginning of the book. That ruined it for me.
Every couple of years I re-read Rebecca; yes, I can quote from it, but I don't care. When I was living in our old place I borrowed the book from Mum, and when we moved in here I brought it back and put it in its rightful place in Mum's old bookshelf, which is in the room which is now my office.
Last week I wanted to read it. I knew where I'd put it. Right next to They're A Weird Mob. But it wasn't there. That yellow dust jacket is unmistakable. I checked the shelf again. I pulled out the books at the front to go through the books at the back. I looked through the front books, where it should have been, three times in total.
Had I loaned it out to Whingy? I had loaned her other DduM books but had resisted loaning her Rebecca as, in its 1954 'cheap edition' it was priceless to me and I didn't want her losing it or giving it away, forgetting who had loaned it to her. No, I hadn't loaned it.
So, it must be downstairs with most of G and my books. We have six bookshelves downstairs. I went through every single one of them, hunting for that yellow cover. Where the books were double stacked I took them out, and cast my eyes over thousands of books in total.
I was puzzled. Where on earth -? There was one more bookshelf in my office I hadn't checked, my own where I keep business books; it would be unlikely to be there but even so…
I chuntered back upstairs and into my office. And there it was. Bright yellow cover and all. Right next to They're A Weird Mob. Right where it should be.
I swear Mum was playing a joke on me. I did ask her, when I was downstairs, where the book was. It seems inconceivable that I could look at that book three times and not see it, not with that bright cover. I'm looking at it now and it's unmissable.
Now I just have to find my copy of Susan Hill's Mrs de Winter, which was written as a follow up. I've read Sally Beauman's Rebecca's Tale, which was excellent and a believable sequel to Rebecca. But hey, I can't find the book downstairs and it's not in the bookshelf in my office. Mum….?
Friday, January 23, 2015
Dream a little dream of...
I had an afternoon nap earlier this week. It was hot, I'd overeaten for lunch (on salad - can you believe I overate on bloody salad??) and felt unspeakably tired after lunch. It was as if I was being sent to sleep. I had decided to read for fifteen minutes after lunch but couldn't keep my eyes open, and lay on the sofa instead.
I dreamed of Mum, and I do wonder if she sent me to sleep for that purpose. I'm sure she still hangs around here.
Anyway, in the dream I was sorting out the broom cupboard. Last weekend G and I bought a new long-handled dustpan and brush (we do SUCH exciting things together) and I promised to move the old one out of the cupboard and take it to the garage for use down there and on the path and driveway. Lazy me, I hadn't done it at that point.
But in my dream I picked it out of the cupboard, and had the new one in my hand too. Mum was standing next to me in the hall.
"I'll just sweep the kitchen floor," I told her, brandishing the new dustpan.
"No, you don't have to do that right now," she said, a little mysteriously. She was hiding something.
"But it's dirty."
"You won't want to go in there."
"There's a spider, isn't there?" I said anxiously. I loathe spiders - specifically the big bastards such as the Huntsmans we get occasionally clinging to the ceiling.
Mum nodded. I peered into the kitchen and looked up. No sign of it; I went in slowly, around to the cooking area. Aaargh! There it was, above the oven. I squealed and ran back out to the hall and Mum.
And woke up about then.
Honestly, the dream was so vivid I was sure Mum was still alive and with me. And that there was a spider in the kitchen. I wish the former were true with all my heart. I was so convinced I'd had a spider warning I went into the kitchen warily and looked everywhere. I've been checking every ceiling in the house since then.
I think earlier in this dream I was on the patio. I'd had a cigarette and oh heck, Mum was standing at the door. I must reek of smoke, I thought despairingly, knowing how much she disapproved of smoking. I was being very edgy and trying not to get too close to her so she wouldn't smell it on me. I think I had a broom in my hand and was sweeping up outside. Mum was saying something about cigarettes but I can't remember what. That part of the dream wasn't as real and vivid as the spider bit.
Although it's been a stinking hot week here I haven't had that desperate urge to sleep, the sense that I can't stay awake, since the spider dream. I do believe Mum visited me. Lovely warm feeling!
I dreamed of Mum, and I do wonder if she sent me to sleep for that purpose. I'm sure she still hangs around here.
Anyway, in the dream I was sorting out the broom cupboard. Last weekend G and I bought a new long-handled dustpan and brush (we do SUCH exciting things together) and I promised to move the old one out of the cupboard and take it to the garage for use down there and on the path and driveway. Lazy me, I hadn't done it at that point.
But in my dream I picked it out of the cupboard, and had the new one in my hand too. Mum was standing next to me in the hall.
"I'll just sweep the kitchen floor," I told her, brandishing the new dustpan.
"No, you don't have to do that right now," she said, a little mysteriously. She was hiding something.
"But it's dirty."
"You won't want to go in there."
"There's a spider, isn't there?" I said anxiously. I loathe spiders - specifically the big bastards such as the Huntsmans we get occasionally clinging to the ceiling.
Mum nodded. I peered into the kitchen and looked up. No sign of it; I went in slowly, around to the cooking area. Aaargh! There it was, above the oven. I squealed and ran back out to the hall and Mum.
And woke up about then.
Honestly, the dream was so vivid I was sure Mum was still alive and with me. And that there was a spider in the kitchen. I wish the former were true with all my heart. I was so convinced I'd had a spider warning I went into the kitchen warily and looked everywhere. I've been checking every ceiling in the house since then.
I think earlier in this dream I was on the patio. I'd had a cigarette and oh heck, Mum was standing at the door. I must reek of smoke, I thought despairingly, knowing how much she disapproved of smoking. I was being very edgy and trying not to get too close to her so she wouldn't smell it on me. I think I had a broom in my hand and was sweeping up outside. Mum was saying something about cigarettes but I can't remember what. That part of the dream wasn't as real and vivid as the spider bit.
Although it's been a stinking hot week here I haven't had that desperate urge to sleep, the sense that I can't stay awake, since the spider dream. I do believe Mum visited me. Lovely warm feeling!
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Mum and Max Oldaker, the last of the Matinee Idols
In her late teens and early 20s, my mother was an avid theatre-goer. She loved musical comedy, ballet, operetta, theatre and to a lesser extent opera, as the three very full scrap books full of theatre programmes she kept confirm.
These scrapbooks are gems, with the programmes carefully stuck in and occasionally kept companion by newspaper reviews of the performance.
Mum used to go with a group of girlfriends, and it wasn't uncommon for them to go to opening night, last night and sometimes a night in between. The programmes bear testament to that, as there are multiples of some of them. Those young girls stayed good friends all their lives, through husbands, divorces, children, whatever, and met once a year. Mum was the last of them; one by one over the last twenty years they have seen the final curtain.
She used to talk about those old days with love and affection; you could, after the performance ended, take a tram home by yourself close to midnight and feel safe. You might meet for coffee at Repens before the performance. And then there were the stars themselves.
Sir Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh visited Sydney in 1948, and Mum, while she didn't see the play they were in (perhaps it was too expensive, or perhaps it booked out before she could get tickets), she did manage to get their autographs. And George Formby's.
When Mum spoke about her theatre-going days however, the name that cropped up the most was Max Oldaker.
Max who?
Max Oldaker. Tasmanian-born, he was the heart-throb of the theatre in the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s. He epitomised Tall, Dark and Handsome. He could act, he could sing, and was highly sought after for operetta roles and had a successful career in the UK as well as Australia. He understudied Rex Harrison in London in My Fair Lady, and the night Rex fell sick brought the house down; Rex made a damned quick recovery as Max did the role much better than he. With his fine tenor voice he considered doing serious opera, but it was in roles such as The Red Shadow in The Desert Song that his audience loved him.
Mum and her friends used to hang around the stage door for a sight of Max after the show was over. They made friends with Olga Deane, who ran the Sydney branch of the Max Oldaker Fan Club (sadly no remnants from that in Mum's amazing haul of theatre memorabilia). Olga was one of the Albert family of Albert Music fame, and very well-connected in the world of music and theatre.
She'd invite Mum and the girls to jam sessions at her house in (I think) Rose Bay. You'd go up a set of narrow stone stairs to a house perched up on the hill and see a sign: Here it is! Inside you'd sit wherever you could - on a chair if you were lucky, on a cushion on the floor if you weren't, and musicians would drop in, instruments in hand, after their shows and have an impromptu jam session. You wouldn't know who would turn up (Max never did) but you'd hear music and singing, get up and dance and have a great time. And catch the tram home at some ungodly hour early Sunday morning.
While Max was Red Shadow-ing the Actors' Benevolent Fund of Australia had organised a Popular Man contest to raise funds for charity, and entertainment organisations such as J. C. Williamson put up candidates. Max was working for them at the time and was their chosen man. Olga got Mum and the girls busy, selling buttons and badges with Max's face on them at the Theatre at nights. I don't think it was every night, but Mum certainly did her shift. I can't find any of the badges in the house but I'd be surprised if she didn't keep one.
Max won the contest - not to Mum's surprise - by raising the most money for charity.
By then Mum, aged 20, and the girls were getting on pretty well with Max. With their button-selling status and their 'inner circle' membership of the Max Oldaker Fan Club as friends of Olga, they were allowed into his dressing room, and would wait there while Max was on stage.
"In he'd come at the end of the act or the show," Mum used to say, "In full costume, with his face mask still on, and his cape wrapped around him. He'd fling it open with one arm, very theatrically. He must have thought us a bunch of giggling girls but he was very nice and friendly to us."
Max gave Mum two signed photos of him being 'crowned' the winner - more about that later on.
Max was gay (a 'confirmed bachelor', as they used to say), but whether the girls knew that at the time I don't know - Mum knew he was gay when she spoke about him to me as an adult, but when she found that out I'm not quite sure. I suspect these young women from very ordinary families thought he was just behaving in the flamboyant and over the top way some actors do.
Mum followed his career for years, but after she married Dad she'd found a real life 'matinee idol' and the theatre programmes dwindled a bit. Dad wasn't into theatre like Mum was but the more he went with her the more he liked it.
When I was four, Max was playing in Half A Sixpence in Sydney and Mum took me to see a matinee performance. I don't remember a thing about it. I don't remember Mum taking me to the stage door to meet Max, and Max recognising her and greeting her by name after nearly twenty years and being absolutely delightful to both of us.
Several years ago I discovered that writer Charles Osborne had written a biography of Max: Max Oldaker, the Last of the Matinee Idols. I bought it for Mum for Christmas that year, read it after she did and something saddened me. I have just finished re-reading it, and I'm a little bit sad again and wonder if Mum was too. She never mentioned it. In a nutshell, here's what saddens me:
Max, you see, was embarrassed about the whole 'matinee idol' palaver. He had asked that the Max Oldaker Fan Club be wound up in 1944. I quote:
'To his dismay the Sydney Morning Herald in November published "a long and nauseating column which is disgusting - a degrading presentation of childishly adulatory material given to them by Olga Deane."'(Max's words)
In a letter (to his parents? It's not stated) Max writes, 'I've written to her and told her that there must be no compromise and that the whole of this nonsense must stop at once. I really think I should publish my views on the whole thing. I might have known that, for all Olga Deane's kindness, she is a person of no taste. I feel ashamed that I allowed her to start the club, but I suppose I couldn't have known what it would develop into. Now I hate it all. It's really not the sort of publicity I want.'
Ouch! I wonder what Mum thought when she read that, when Max had been so pleasant and welcoming to her and her friends - and Olga?
And as for what Max thought of being the winner of the Popular Man contest - here are Max's own words in a letter to Charles Osborne:
'At 12.30 am the trumpets blared and the ceremony began. Out of the gentleman's lavatory came little Max clad in a rather short regal robe which two attendants attempted to carry. Said robe was surmounted with an ermine collar which had provided a breeding ground and happy home for many generations of J.C. Williamson moths. My dear, the dais shook, the crown wouldn't fit and poor little Max felt most embarrassed. Kathleen Robinson, the actress-manageress of the Minerva Theatre, "kreowned" me, and we were both convulsed when the wretched thing would insist on coming to rest over my right eye as I made my epic speech. Many silly speeches were made about me… The photographs of the ceremony were devastating, and I look positively repulsive in a crown.'
Max must have gritted his teeth when he personally autographed two photographs of the ceremony for Mum.
Max's attitude to his longtime fans mellowed, you'll be happy to know. By the time Mum took me to see Half A Sixpence, Charles Osborne writes about the show, 'In Sydney, he had his old star dressing room back again at the Theatre Royal, and was touched to find so many fans from the forties crowding around the stage door every night.'
If you want to find out more about Max, read the book by Charles Osborne. Max had a real wit and style about him, and was a prolific letter writer who could tell a good story against himself. His letters are a delight. You'll find several copies for sale on the interweb.
Barry Humphries wrote the Foreword in Charles Osborne's book, and I'll share a bit of it here. It's 1956 and Barry is working with Max in a show called Around the Loop:
'"How do you manage, Max," I once asked him, "to smile with such sincerity at the curtain call on a thin Wednesday matinee?"
These scrapbooks are gems, with the programmes carefully stuck in and occasionally kept companion by newspaper reviews of the performance.
Mum used to go with a group of girlfriends, and it wasn't uncommon for them to go to opening night, last night and sometimes a night in between. The programmes bear testament to that, as there are multiples of some of them. Those young girls stayed good friends all their lives, through husbands, divorces, children, whatever, and met once a year. Mum was the last of them; one by one over the last twenty years they have seen the final curtain.
She used to talk about those old days with love and affection; you could, after the performance ended, take a tram home by yourself close to midnight and feel safe. You might meet for coffee at Repens before the performance. And then there were the stars themselves.
Sir Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh visited Sydney in 1948, and Mum, while she didn't see the play they were in (perhaps it was too expensive, or perhaps it booked out before she could get tickets), she did manage to get their autographs. And George Formby's.
When Mum spoke about her theatre-going days however, the name that cropped up the most was Max Oldaker.
Max who?
Max Oldaker. Tasmanian-born, he was the heart-throb of the theatre in the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s. He epitomised Tall, Dark and Handsome. He could act, he could sing, and was highly sought after for operetta roles and had a successful career in the UK as well as Australia. He understudied Rex Harrison in London in My Fair Lady, and the night Rex fell sick brought the house down; Rex made a damned quick recovery as Max did the role much better than he. With his fine tenor voice he considered doing serious opera, but it was in roles such as The Red Shadow in The Desert Song that his audience loved him.
 |
| What a looker! Max Oldaker as The Red Shadow in The Desert Song with co-star Joy Beattie. 1945 |
 |
| Max Oldaker as The Red Shadow in The Desert Song, 1945 |
 |
| Max Oldaker and Joy Beattie, stars of The Desert Song, 1945. I'd love to know the story behind this pic. Max is in theatrical makeup, Joy isn't, and they're in a bathroom. |
Mum and her friends used to hang around the stage door for a sight of Max after the show was over. They made friends with Olga Deane, who ran the Sydney branch of the Max Oldaker Fan Club (sadly no remnants from that in Mum's amazing haul of theatre memorabilia). Olga was one of the Albert family of Albert Music fame, and very well-connected in the world of music and theatre.
She'd invite Mum and the girls to jam sessions at her house in (I think) Rose Bay. You'd go up a set of narrow stone stairs to a house perched up on the hill and see a sign: Here it is! Inside you'd sit wherever you could - on a chair if you were lucky, on a cushion on the floor if you weren't, and musicians would drop in, instruments in hand, after their shows and have an impromptu jam session. You wouldn't know who would turn up (Max never did) but you'd hear music and singing, get up and dance and have a great time. And catch the tram home at some ungodly hour early Sunday morning.
 |
| Jack Burgess at the piano with Max Oldaker. Max played the piano beautifully and composed music as well as having a fine tenor voice; a very talented man. |
While Max was Red Shadow-ing the Actors' Benevolent Fund of Australia had organised a Popular Man contest to raise funds for charity, and entertainment organisations such as J. C. Williamson put up candidates. Max was working for them at the time and was their chosen man. Olga got Mum and the girls busy, selling buttons and badges with Max's face on them at the Theatre at nights. I don't think it was every night, but Mum certainly did her shift. I can't find any of the badges in the house but I'd be surprised if she didn't keep one.
Max won the contest - not to Mum's surprise - by raising the most money for charity.
By then Mum, aged 20, and the girls were getting on pretty well with Max. With their button-selling status and their 'inner circle' membership of the Max Oldaker Fan Club as friends of Olga, they were allowed into his dressing room, and would wait there while Max was on stage.
"In he'd come at the end of the act or the show," Mum used to say, "In full costume, with his face mask still on, and his cape wrapped around him. He'd fling it open with one arm, very theatrically. He must have thought us a bunch of giggling girls but he was very nice and friendly to us."
Max gave Mum two signed photos of him being 'crowned' the winner - more about that later on.
Max was gay (a 'confirmed bachelor', as they used to say), but whether the girls knew that at the time I don't know - Mum knew he was gay when she spoke about him to me as an adult, but when she found that out I'm not quite sure. I suspect these young women from very ordinary families thought he was just behaving in the flamboyant and over the top way some actors do.
 |
| Max Oldaker clowning around, 1945 |
When I was four, Max was playing in Half A Sixpence in Sydney and Mum took me to see a matinee performance. I don't remember a thing about it. I don't remember Mum taking me to the stage door to meet Max, and Max recognising her and greeting her by name after nearly twenty years and being absolutely delightful to both of us.
Several years ago I discovered that writer Charles Osborne had written a biography of Max: Max Oldaker, the Last of the Matinee Idols. I bought it for Mum for Christmas that year, read it after she did and something saddened me. I have just finished re-reading it, and I'm a little bit sad again and wonder if Mum was too. She never mentioned it. In a nutshell, here's what saddens me:
Max, you see, was embarrassed about the whole 'matinee idol' palaver. He had asked that the Max Oldaker Fan Club be wound up in 1944. I quote:
'To his dismay the Sydney Morning Herald in November published "a long and nauseating column which is disgusting - a degrading presentation of childishly adulatory material given to them by Olga Deane."'(Max's words)
In a letter (to his parents? It's not stated) Max writes, 'I've written to her and told her that there must be no compromise and that the whole of this nonsense must stop at once. I really think I should publish my views on the whole thing. I might have known that, for all Olga Deane's kindness, she is a person of no taste. I feel ashamed that I allowed her to start the club, but I suppose I couldn't have known what it would develop into. Now I hate it all. It's really not the sort of publicity I want.'
Ouch! I wonder what Mum thought when she read that, when Max had been so pleasant and welcoming to her and her friends - and Olga?
And as for what Max thought of being the winner of the Popular Man contest - here are Max's own words in a letter to Charles Osborne:
'At 12.30 am the trumpets blared and the ceremony began. Out of the gentleman's lavatory came little Max clad in a rather short regal robe which two attendants attempted to carry. Said robe was surmounted with an ermine collar which had provided a breeding ground and happy home for many generations of J.C. Williamson moths. My dear, the dais shook, the crown wouldn't fit and poor little Max felt most embarrassed. Kathleen Robinson, the actress-manageress of the Minerva Theatre, "kreowned" me, and we were both convulsed when the wretched thing would insist on coming to rest over my right eye as I made my epic speech. Many silly speeches were made about me… The photographs of the ceremony were devastating, and I look positively repulsive in a crown.'
 |
| Max Oldaker, winner of the Popular Man contest, with his badly-fitting crown on 31 October 1945. Also in the photo, Jack Cazabon, Peter Finch and Jack Burgess |
 |
| Looking rather embarrassed, Max Oldaker being 'kreowned' by Kathleen Robinson, 31 October 1945. Also in photo are Dick Bentley, Strella Wilson, John Cazabon, Wayne Froman, Jack Burgess, Hal Lashwood, Marshall Crosby, Leonard Bullen |
 |
| The back of the photo above, signed for Mum who had volunteered her time to help Max win the Popular Man contest. |
Max must have gritted his teeth when he personally autographed two photographs of the ceremony for Mum.
Max's attitude to his longtime fans mellowed, you'll be happy to know. By the time Mum took me to see Half A Sixpence, Charles Osborne writes about the show, 'In Sydney, he had his old star dressing room back again at the Theatre Royal, and was touched to find so many fans from the forties crowding around the stage door every night.'
If you want to find out more about Max, read the book by Charles Osborne. Max had a real wit and style about him, and was a prolific letter writer who could tell a good story against himself. His letters are a delight. You'll find several copies for sale on the interweb.
Barry Humphries wrote the Foreword in Charles Osborne's book, and I'll share a bit of it here. It's 1956 and Barry is working with Max in a show called Around the Loop:
'"How do you manage, Max," I once asked him, "to smile with such sincerity at the curtain call on a thin Wednesday matinee?"
"Dear Barry, it’s an old trick Noel (Coward) taught me, and it never fails.” He demonstrated, standing in the middle of the dressing room in his Turkish towelling gown, eyes sparkling, teeth bared in a dazzling smile. “Sillycunts,” beamed Max through clenched teeth, bowing to the imaginary stalls. “Sillycunts,” again, to the circle, the gods and the Royal Box.
“It looks far more genuine than ‘cheese’, dear boy,” said Max, “and you’ve just got to hope that no one in the stalls can lip read.” I couldn’t help thinking of all my mother’s friends at those Melbourne matinees, their palms moist, hearts palpitating as Max Oldaker, the Last of the Matinee Idols, flashed them all his valedictory smile.’
I love it! I have real regrets that I don't remember meeting The Last of the Matinee Idols when I was four.
There's not much on the interweb about Max, sadly.
G and I visited Launceston last year, and while I was in the Princess Theatre looking at the Max wall, I phoned Mum and described it all to her, and took photos to show on my return (they are reasonably rubbish photos, taken through glass, so I'm not posting them here). I'm so glad I did as Mum was gone herself two months later.
Who else remembers Max Oldaker and Olga Deane? Is there anyone out there who went to Olga's place late at night for a jam session, or whose parents did? At the risk of sounding like Olga and upsetting Max's ghost, I think the chap could do with some publicity. He was very talented and a true theatre star of the era. And dammit, he was handsome. That's reason enough.
There's not much on the interweb about Max, sadly.
- A few bio pages. This one here is quite good: http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/oldaker-maxwell-charles-max-11296
- Several images - and I have added all that I have from Mum's stash here to share them with the world
- And only one free-to-listen recording of him singing that I can find, from 1929: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S19My765AnY (Blogger won't embed it - it can't find it!!) If you're in Melbourne the State Library of Victoria has a CD of Max's songs.
G and I visited Launceston last year, and while I was in the Princess Theatre looking at the Max wall, I phoned Mum and described it all to her, and took photos to show on my return (they are reasonably rubbish photos, taken through glass, so I'm not posting them here). I'm so glad I did as Mum was gone herself two months later.
Who else remembers Max Oldaker and Olga Deane? Is there anyone out there who went to Olga's place late at night for a jam session, or whose parents did? At the risk of sounding like Olga and upsetting Max's ghost, I think the chap could do with some publicity. He was very talented and a true theatre star of the era. And dammit, he was handsome. That's reason enough.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
The letter no wife wants to get
I have been sorting through my Mum's desk; a hotchpotch of letters, ancient receipts, brochures, information about the suburb I live in and much more.
Mum's letters have been scattered in boxes in her bedroom and pigeonholes in the desk. Some are letters from her sister, and parents when they were on holiday. Some are carbon copies of letters she has sent others. And there are, most interestingly and importantly, letters from my father. I have yet to put all these letters in some kind of chronological order, but have read most of them over the last couple of months.
Dad was an airline pilot and was sent to Geelong to train on the Boeing 707 in 1964, ostensibly for six months. He returned on leave to Sydney a couple of times at first, and his letters to Mum were initially full of love for her and for his little infant daughter, me. They also spoke of what he was learning. Then there was the letter a few months in saying he would stay in Geelong on his next leave and catch up on his study and try to get more flying hours in. The letters got shorter. I can't find any carbon copies of Mum's in reply to Dad's letters but they could turn up.
Then two days ago I found this one, in Mum's desk:
Dear J---,
Well I did check yesterday and it was terrible although they passed me except for the night part of it. I am getting another go tomorrow at it. My flying seems to be going from bad to worse and so does everything else. I guess you can tell by the last few weeks that I am not interested in coming home again so I think it would be better for all concerned if I did not and we keep on going as we have been over the last six weeks. I will be up in Sydney as soon as I get through here & will give you a ring and talk about it, you decide what you want to do about the house etc as it is yours to make the decision also about "Carinthia". I am missing her very much and still think you are a wonderful person but cannot go on deceiving you and myself about our relationship it just worrys me all the time I am home so that it will be better this way. I guess you have been expecting this the way you were speaking before so do not be too upset. I think it is the best for both of us so please be sensible. Will ring you when I get to Sydney and still
I vaguely remember this time. I was two and a half. I remember waiting at the living room window with Mum, watching for Dad's car to come down the hill and into the drive on his return from Melbourne, but it never did. Mum cried a lot. I did too. I was told that Daddy wasn't coming home again. I was used to him being away for days at a time in the job he had, and always waited at the window on the days he was due home.
Mum reckoned she and Dad never argued. I don't know what went on in regard to 'the way you were speaking before' but I suspect Mum challenged Dad about him having an affair with what was then called an air hostess (hostie) - the woman he divorced Mum to marry. I think she suspected the hostie was also staying in Geelong and I suspect she was right. Neither of my parents is around now to ask, and Mum was pretty frank with me when I grew to adulthood about Dad and the hostie and my parents' marriage breakup.
Frankly, I think this letter is a copout. It's like being dumped by text or, in the 90s, email. My parents were married for 14 years before Dad wrote this letter. Mum was furious for years about it and called him a gutless wonder, because he didn't say what he needed to say face to face.
The copy of the letter is a photocopy with no original available. I suspect the original got used in the divorce courts when Mum was fighting for the house. Dad's letter clearly states 'you decide what you want to do about the house etc as it is your to make the decision'. Mum made damned sure it was hers!
I can't imagine my Mum's utter sadness when this letter arrived in the post. It would have wrenched her heart out and thrown it on the ground to sizzle and die in the Sydney summer sun. My poor lovely Mum, getting a missive like this. I think she thought Dad had had a mental breakdown of some sort and that he'd realise his mistake and come home then as the months went on in 1965 realised he was serious.
So now I have a cataloguing job ahead of me, putting this whole story together chapter by chapter, letter by letter, date by date. I can't bear to throw them out; this is my family history.
Many couples go through divorce, but in the 60s it was less common and a long, drawn out process which took a good five years to complete. There was a social stigma attached too, even in those modern times. My Mum wasn't alone in divorcing her husband, but her story is important to me and deserves preserving, even if I am the only one who reads these letters and feels my own heart wrench in sympathy.
Mum's letters have been scattered in boxes in her bedroom and pigeonholes in the desk. Some are letters from her sister, and parents when they were on holiday. Some are carbon copies of letters she has sent others. And there are, most interestingly and importantly, letters from my father. I have yet to put all these letters in some kind of chronological order, but have read most of them over the last couple of months.
Dad was an airline pilot and was sent to Geelong to train on the Boeing 707 in 1964, ostensibly for six months. He returned on leave to Sydney a couple of times at first, and his letters to Mum were initially full of love for her and for his little infant daughter, me. They also spoke of what he was learning. Then there was the letter a few months in saying he would stay in Geelong on his next leave and catch up on his study and try to get more flying hours in. The letters got shorter. I can't find any carbon copies of Mum's in reply to Dad's letters but they could turn up.
Then two days ago I found this one, in Mum's desk:
Geelong
19/1/65
Dear J---,
Well I did check yesterday and it was terrible although they passed me except for the night part of it. I am getting another go tomorrow at it. My flying seems to be going from bad to worse and so does everything else. I guess you can tell by the last few weeks that I am not interested in coming home again so I think it would be better for all concerned if I did not and we keep on going as we have been over the last six weeks. I will be up in Sydney as soon as I get through here & will give you a ring and talk about it, you decide what you want to do about the house etc as it is yours to make the decision also about "Carinthia". I am missing her very much and still think you are a wonderful person but cannot go on deceiving you and myself about our relationship it just worrys me all the time I am home so that it will be better this way. I guess you have been expecting this the way you were speaking before so do not be too upset. I think it is the best for both of us so please be sensible. Will ring you when I get to Sydney and still
lots of love
L-- xxx
I vaguely remember this time. I was two and a half. I remember waiting at the living room window with Mum, watching for Dad's car to come down the hill and into the drive on his return from Melbourne, but it never did. Mum cried a lot. I did too. I was told that Daddy wasn't coming home again. I was used to him being away for days at a time in the job he had, and always waited at the window on the days he was due home.
Mum reckoned she and Dad never argued. I don't know what went on in regard to 'the way you were speaking before' but I suspect Mum challenged Dad about him having an affair with what was then called an air hostess (hostie) - the woman he divorced Mum to marry. I think she suspected the hostie was also staying in Geelong and I suspect she was right. Neither of my parents is around now to ask, and Mum was pretty frank with me when I grew to adulthood about Dad and the hostie and my parents' marriage breakup.
Frankly, I think this letter is a copout. It's like being dumped by text or, in the 90s, email. My parents were married for 14 years before Dad wrote this letter. Mum was furious for years about it and called him a gutless wonder, because he didn't say what he needed to say face to face.
The copy of the letter is a photocopy with no original available. I suspect the original got used in the divorce courts when Mum was fighting for the house. Dad's letter clearly states 'you decide what you want to do about the house etc as it is your to make the decision'. Mum made damned sure it was hers!
I can't imagine my Mum's utter sadness when this letter arrived in the post. It would have wrenched her heart out and thrown it on the ground to sizzle and die in the Sydney summer sun. My poor lovely Mum, getting a missive like this. I think she thought Dad had had a mental breakdown of some sort and that he'd realise his mistake and come home then as the months went on in 1965 realised he was serious.
So now I have a cataloguing job ahead of me, putting this whole story together chapter by chapter, letter by letter, date by date. I can't bear to throw them out; this is my family history.
Many couples go through divorce, but in the 60s it was less common and a long, drawn out process which took a good five years to complete. There was a social stigma attached too, even in those modern times. My Mum wasn't alone in divorcing her husband, but her story is important to me and deserves preserving, even if I am the only one who reads these letters and feels my own heart wrench in sympathy.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
The hardest time
When I was a child I used to be terrified of losing my Mum. Either she'd run away, as Dad did, or she'd get hit by a bus or die of a terrible disease… you get the idea. The very thought could have me in tears.
I have been lucky. I have had my Mum as both mother and closest friend for 51 years. And now I know what it is like to lose her, for I lost her on December 28 last year. It's numbing. It's a deep awfulness inside. It's incomprehensible to me that I shan't see her again or hear her voice, or feel her arms around me and mine around hers.
Mum had a stroke on 17 December and lasted ten days, fluctuating in the first week between a vague lucidity and a coma-like state. She couldn't move her left side. In the first few days she could talk in that the sounds she made were occasionally comprehensible. She only said one sentence clearly, five days after her stroke: "Get me a jelly bean." That might sound nuts but it was a perfectly sane request by a diabetic worried that she hadn't eaten in days (she couldn't eat and was being fed via a tube).
If seeing her - this vital, wonderful, active woman of 88, she who was more up to date on current affairs and politics than I - lying incapable in a hospital bed festooned with tubes and monitors wasn't bad enough, the last week was the worst of my life.
You see, the three specialists I spoke to all said it would be kinder to turn off the food and water and let nature take its course, as it was clear Mum would never recover and the best she could hope for would be a couple of months in a nursing home before the grim reaper paid a visit. Knowing Mum's horror of nursing homes, especially after seeing her own sister-in-law in the same situation, I agreed with them, feeling sick with guilt at the decision and in floods of tears.
What can be crueller than to watch the person you love most in the world fade away day by day?
Until almost the very last Mum could squeeze my hand or kick the blanket with her 'good' leg to answer yes/no questions, but even that wasn't enough to convince the doctors she had a fighting chance. They had her on low dose morphine and increased it when a gland in her neck started to swell and was obviously painful.
I did my mourning and grieving while Mum was still alive, being as brave as I could as I sat by her bed, talking of everyday things, telling her about the birds in the umbrella tree outside her house, telling her about the weather and mainly telling her I loved her.
It was outside the ward, in the corridor, that I would burst into racking sobs, wanting her back as she was, a bit frail but still independent, funny and clever.
When the phone call came at 3.45 in the morning, my heart turned to lead. We raced to the hospital but were fifteen minutes too late. I had asked the nurse to tell Mum we were coming, to hang on, but I think even her strong will couldn't overcome the inevitable. That, or she didn't want me to see her die, and I'm rather grateful for that if it's the case. Watching her dying was one thing, seeing her take a last breath would have been a killer for me.
I wanted to blog this as it was happening, to pour out my raw soul, but the internet connection at Mum's house where we were staying while she was in hospital was too slow. I had enough on my plate without ISP frustration.
So now it's nearly two months later, and I am ashamed that I don't cry on a daily basis; when I think of Mum though I get a beautiful feeling of warmth, as if she is still there beside me. I can imagine I'm putting my arms around her and I can feel her body, the shoulder that was damaged in a car crash in the 1960s slightly lower than the other. It's a feeling of comfort rather than a feeling of loss, and I am grateful and glad my mind has decided I will transmute my grief to this rather than be the wreck I thought I would be, depressed and howling on the hour. I have had to be strong; Mum was a strong woman and I think I have somehow, in these weeks, garnered some of her amazing spirit. Maybe she's still around. I hope so.
I may have lost Mum, but I will never lose her. Does that make sense? I think it does. I love you, Mum.
I have been lucky. I have had my Mum as both mother and closest friend for 51 years. And now I know what it is like to lose her, for I lost her on December 28 last year. It's numbing. It's a deep awfulness inside. It's incomprehensible to me that I shan't see her again or hear her voice, or feel her arms around me and mine around hers.
Mum had a stroke on 17 December and lasted ten days, fluctuating in the first week between a vague lucidity and a coma-like state. She couldn't move her left side. In the first few days she could talk in that the sounds she made were occasionally comprehensible. She only said one sentence clearly, five days after her stroke: "Get me a jelly bean." That might sound nuts but it was a perfectly sane request by a diabetic worried that she hadn't eaten in days (she couldn't eat and was being fed via a tube).
If seeing her - this vital, wonderful, active woman of 88, she who was more up to date on current affairs and politics than I - lying incapable in a hospital bed festooned with tubes and monitors wasn't bad enough, the last week was the worst of my life.
You see, the three specialists I spoke to all said it would be kinder to turn off the food and water and let nature take its course, as it was clear Mum would never recover and the best she could hope for would be a couple of months in a nursing home before the grim reaper paid a visit. Knowing Mum's horror of nursing homes, especially after seeing her own sister-in-law in the same situation, I agreed with them, feeling sick with guilt at the decision and in floods of tears.
What can be crueller than to watch the person you love most in the world fade away day by day?
Until almost the very last Mum could squeeze my hand or kick the blanket with her 'good' leg to answer yes/no questions, but even that wasn't enough to convince the doctors she had a fighting chance. They had her on low dose morphine and increased it when a gland in her neck started to swell and was obviously painful.
I did my mourning and grieving while Mum was still alive, being as brave as I could as I sat by her bed, talking of everyday things, telling her about the birds in the umbrella tree outside her house, telling her about the weather and mainly telling her I loved her.
It was outside the ward, in the corridor, that I would burst into racking sobs, wanting her back as she was, a bit frail but still independent, funny and clever.
When the phone call came at 3.45 in the morning, my heart turned to lead. We raced to the hospital but were fifteen minutes too late. I had asked the nurse to tell Mum we were coming, to hang on, but I think even her strong will couldn't overcome the inevitable. That, or she didn't want me to see her die, and I'm rather grateful for that if it's the case. Watching her dying was one thing, seeing her take a last breath would have been a killer for me.
I wanted to blog this as it was happening, to pour out my raw soul, but the internet connection at Mum's house where we were staying while she was in hospital was too slow. I had enough on my plate without ISP frustration.
So now it's nearly two months later, and I am ashamed that I don't cry on a daily basis; when I think of Mum though I get a beautiful feeling of warmth, as if she is still there beside me. I can imagine I'm putting my arms around her and I can feel her body, the shoulder that was damaged in a car crash in the 1960s slightly lower than the other. It's a feeling of comfort rather than a feeling of loss, and I am grateful and glad my mind has decided I will transmute my grief to this rather than be the wreck I thought I would be, depressed and howling on the hour. I have had to be strong; Mum was a strong woman and I think I have somehow, in these weeks, garnered some of her amazing spirit. Maybe she's still around. I hope so.
I may have lost Mum, but I will never lose her. Does that make sense? I think it does. I love you, Mum.
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