Tom and I and another family did a short walk to a nearby bush cliff-face the other day. At the base of the cliff, which was not high, the boys began crushing the soft sandstone into a pale yellow powder. The repeated gesture of rubbing the rocks into sand sent my thoughts flying to my youth.

Fifth grade. Killarney Heights Public School. The man named Armstrong had not yet set foot on the moon. Our school playground extended beyond the bounds of the asphalt into a small ragged portion of bushland adjacent a neighbouring house. An army of small boys emerged every recess and lunchtime to dig into the clay banks of the bush (this became a game involving small plastic figurines called Crater Critters, see below). When we tired of this, a production line of short-panted proletarians began grinding down sandstone rock into a powder that would be funneled into discarded empty beer bottles. This went on for some time as I recall, at least until teachers cottoned on to the industrial nature of our play. At some time during Fifth grade, the area became out of bounds. End of an era.

I also recall this as a time when I chatted avidly to my erstwhile best friend, Michael Chapman, about pop music. He was hugely enarmoured of the Australian star Russell Morris (he of The Real Thing fame). We would clamber over rocks and wander the long stretches of concrete and grass discussing the smallest details in the life of his pop idol and flicking through Go Set magazine. It was a different time to now. Cassette players and tapes were the current biggest thing. Families had one Hi-Fi system in their house if they were lucky. In most respects, we were beholden to what was played on the radio and that was the Top 40. Or rather, a dozen or so songs played over and over all day.



A young Russell Morris as I knew him in the late sixties.