Story Archive
- THREE GENTLE STORIES IN THE AGE OF TRUMP
- THE STAGE - FINALLY I AM ON IT
- BROKEN
- THE ROAD
- THE WEIGHT OF THINGS
- RANDOM THOUGHTS AND ACHING BONES
- FOOD GLORIOUS FOOD
- Vale Tommie
- A BIG WALK - Step by Step
- IN DEFENCE OF NIMBIN
- SLEEPING WITH THE ANGELS
- THE LADY BUSHRANGER
- OUT OF THE SHIRE
- THE SOUND OF RAIN
- AND SO IT BEGINS - The Great Australian Crawl.
- NO MANS LAND
- THE FROG IN THE TOILET BOWL
- LEN BENCE - THE ARTIST WARRIOR
- SWAGMAN IN SEARCH OF A CONCEPT
- THE GERMAN ABORIGINAL
- NOT LONG NOW
- LOTS OF THINGS COMING
- DAD'S COMING
- THE BEING LEFT ALONE FEELING
- YES - I STOLE THE CHOCOLATE
- THE OLD COAT
- THE PARTY
- MEMORIES
- DOG WALKING IN A CEMETERY
- MY KENNEL IS GOING UNDER THE HAMMER!
- DAD'S BACK
- THE BIG CHILL
- THINGS HAPPEN THAT YOU DON'T KNOW WILL HAPPEN
- THE NEW KENNEL
- ALFRED STIEGLITZ - THE ELOQUENT EYE
- AN IDEA FOR DINGO DAY!
- THE GARDENS OF STONE
- DON'T RAGE AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT!
- MOTHER'S DAY
- TODAY
- THE NIGHT LINDA JAIVIN DROPPED ME
- Old Nana
- SIMPATICO
- Nuggets
- THE WUFFINGTON POST-2
- C-C-C-C-CHANGES
- THE WUFFINGTON POST-1
- MAKE MY DAY
- A NEW YEARS DAY LIKE ANY OTHER!
- RECIPES FROM OLD SOULS
- A DOG'S CHRISTMAS
- Well this is Christmas!
- MY NEW BOOK IS COMING!
- OLD MAN - OLD GRIEF
- GOD - WHAT A FORTNIGHT WE'VE HAD
- WILLIAM-JAMES HAS ARRIVED
- CAESAR'S ISLAND
- I HAVE LOST MY EAR-ECTION
- BUSTED IN BOULIA
- YEE HAA! ITS THE HARTS RANGE RACE DAY
- TRULY ... THERE WERE ANIMALS EVERYWHERE
- Old Man Hermann
- THERE IS AN ART TO BEGGING
- ROLL UP -- ROLL UP - ITS THE TRAVELING R&R SHOW
- MOLLY & ME
- EDITING A LIFE
- BUZZ ... BABBLE ... BUBBLE ... BURRA ... BACKHOUSE
- THE MAGIC KENNEL & ROAD TRAINS WITHOUT CATTLE
- I REALLY DON'T KNOW WHERE TO START
- CREATIVE DRIVES - BEAUTIFUL VOICES - MISSIONARY PLAINS.
- WHAT A WEEK WE'VE HAD
- I'VE GOT A MAN CRUSH ON BEN HALL
- GOING GOING GOING ..... GONE
- I LOVE WRITING ABOUT SNIFFING & EATING
- THE DIVING BELL & THE BUTTERFLY
- ROADIES, GERMANS & A JAPANESE ADVENTURER
- THE MAD DASH
- MY NEW COAT
- DOES DAD THINK I'M STUPID?
- THE ITALIAN PENTHOUSE
- I AM POWERLESS OVER COWS
- ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD
- COMING HOME
- BLOG ON BLOGGING - THREE MONTHS WRAP
- ROLLING OVER
- CONTACT & THE DINGO
- SAD BUT BEAUTIFUL
- VICTORY WITHOUT TRIUMPH IN HAY
- ALISON HUNT - SENIOR DESERT WOMAN
- I AM NOT ANGRY - JUST A LITTLE DISSAPOINTED
- HOLIDAY WITH THE CHOOKS
- EAGLE HAWK NECK
- MAX IN HAHNDORF
- WHAT ABOUT THE HANDSOME PEOPLE?
- DRUGS & RADISHES
- MY NAME is TOM AND I AM AN OVER EATER
- BOGGED AND STRANDED
- BUTT NAKED IN MORGAN
- ON THE ROAD AGAIN
- The CHEF, the ABORIGINALS, the BLOND & the BULL
- A SADHU OF THE OUTBACK
- CONDOMS & BIRD SEED
- TOMMIE, STEVE AND KIRA
- ADELAIDE AND BACK
- GUNNING READY OR NOT
- AN IDEA IS ANSWERED
- TOMMIE
CAESAR'S ISLAND

Raymond
Busby's Pond, Centennial Park, Sydney















I had never known, until I just looked up Centennial Park on Google, that it was to Busby's Pond that Dad took my sister Barbara and I from our corner shop in Surry Hills. In the afternoons, when the rush had died down, he would rhetorically, and theatrically as with everything he did, ask - who wants to go to Centennial? - We both answered Instantly with a frenzy of joyful yeses.
Our huge labradour Caesar would even forgo his latest culinary acquisition and bound as only a hyper-obeise lab can do towards the car ... with ponderous intent.
Centennial Park had been Sydney's early water supply and was then drained to become the massive expanse of green which now lies east of the city centre. It was opened by Sir Henry Parkes whose surname must have inspired the second part of its name.
Among magnificent paperbarks, space, ducks in ponds and birds being chased by Caesar, I was happy.
It answers the question for me, how can an inner city boy’s soul resonate with landscape as mine does? The afternoons spent in Centennial Park not just chasing ducks, but stripping off paperbark, playing with Barb and Dad, rolling around with Caesar and staring at the islands that lay in the middle of the ponds might be the answer. The joy of those afternoons associated nature in my soul with release and bliss, an imprint that grows deeper by the year.
Beyond the shore of our playing area lay a mysterious island. This was the land to which I hankered, a secret world where all kinds of animals, treasure and fables lay; a magical place made even more so by never being entered.
Sometimes Caesar almost made it across to this faraway planet, chasing a stick into the water. He had those big jowls that fat labs have and boy was he fat. Our customers fed him remainders of meat pies, sausage rolls, battered savs, hot dogs, half eaten sandwiches and chips.
If Caesar wanted to sleep in the middle of the road he did. Cars drove around him.
Mind you, Bourke Street only had a few cars a day back then. Ours was one of them, each couple of years a lovely new-car smelling Holden, one time a pink one. Must have been on special.
Tommie and I walked the park yesterday and it has remained as it was intended, the People's Park. People ride on cycles and on horses. They run and stretch in lycra or practice Tai Chi in red silk. Children are handed bread to feed the ducks and are as excited as Barb and I were.
Memory almost has a scent of its own. In this place it is so thick I am on the brink of convulsing with love for my Dad and for things past.
Tommie chased a duck into Busby's pond. It scampered toward the little island to which my imagination made so many forays.
Fifty years later the island will be named today in honour of all the other islands I have strived to explore.
CAESARS ISLAND.
c ya
Raymond