Every weekend our family would take the monotonous and repetitive forty-minute ride home to The Gap from the Sunday night church service at Coopers. It was boring enough to put you to sleep – and that is what it mostly did. Mum was usually the first to doze off for her oft declared ‘fourty-winks’, with the kids falling down in quick succession. Dad was the only person who never slept on those trip, which was a good thing mind you, given that he was always the designated driver. His mind was often still trying to digest what HE the Lord had said and commanded through the sermon from the pulpit of that evening. Well this particular night the trip was as mind numbing as any other, apart from the constant monsoonal-type rain that had bucketed down all evening. We were nearing the end of the trip that headed down the hill from Ashgrove towards the St.Johns Wood creek crossing. Mum had by this time woken from her 30 minute ‘fourty-winks” and was heard to cry alarmingly “Look Chumley … the road has gone”. The previous dead corpses from the back seat were now all sitting upright, straining to look through the poring of rain to see for themselves the reason behind all this melodrama. It soon became obvious to all of us kids that the road was still there – it was just 3 feet a raging overflowing creek that had broken its banks. Now this flash flood must have come up suddenly because we were one of 6 only cars that had been stopped by the calamity. Five of us had stopped on the side of the road just before the swell – with the sixth one stopped in the middle of the creek and was being pressed hard up against a tree by the sheer weight of the flood waters. Strangely, its cabin light was still on. Excitement turned to panic when dad and a few other people realized that the driver of the car parked in the middle of those raging waters was really up the creek. To be more precise – he was up a tree just up the creek from where the torrent had valet parked his car.
Dad decided that he should try to lend a hand. He put on a raincoat over his Sunday best and promptly stepped out of the car into 3 feet of muddy swirling water. At least the raincoat kept his shirt and tie dry. After a short recognizance and discussion with the committee of rescuers, Dad was soon back looking for torches, ropes and ‘anything heavy’. We tried to assist him in the frantic search but all we could come up with were some Tin-Tin books, Phantom comics and a Bible. None of them fitted his description apart from the Phantom comics, which can sometimes be a bit heavy. The rescue committee continued to discuss the possible means of salvation – when HE pulled up in a big fella’s Ute. A tall hardened man with a gruff voice and wearing a navy blue singlet. HE had it all; the rope, the torch, the timber and an out-of-my-way-you-quislings attitude. HE did not have to tell Dad nothing – Dad was already out of his way. HE was on the scene and was soon handing out the jobs – I think Dad got torch. Then with some mighty heaves of the timber , HE was able to reach the stranded and distressed tree hugger with the rope. The grateful man held on tight to the lifeline while those designated with the job winced him to safety.
By this time, the rain had abated and so we had all ventured out of the car without our shoes and socks. Our Sunday trousers were rolled up to out knees as we waded over to a lamppost. We stood at that lamppost trying to calculate whether the water was still raising by marking it at the current level. Dad soon came from the rescue scene with some of the committee members who were generally congratulating themselves on their successful rescue. “That went well Chumley” mum said proudly. “Oh … I just did as I was told” was Dad’s quick retort.
No sooner had Dad joined us than another car came floating gently down the stream. The driver was still inside the vehicle and turning his traction-less wheel repeatedly in the direction of Cummings Street but the torrent had other ideas. It also valet parked his vehicle against the tree. By now, HE was getting a little pissed at having to rescue yet another stupid Sunday-Driver.
It was not long after the second rescue that we noticed a large space had appeared between our lamppost mark and the now obvious receding water level. Well, the big fella’s Ute was first to cross followed by the committee ducklings, tentatively in a line. As it turned out – HE was actually the reclusive farmer who used to yell at us kids whenever we took a shortcut home across his farm. After the redemption of St.Johns Woods, we respectfully decided from then on to walk around his vege-plot – rather than just straight over it.
