5.2.70 - more about the decision-making

5.2.70

Dear Mum, what fabulous news about Monica [Hannagan]! But do you know when you said in your previous letter that she was amongst the finalists I knew she would get the prize, and I wasn’t in the least bit surprised when your next letter came! The closest I’ll ever get to second sight perhaps! Give her my congratulations and love will you, please; she really is a marvel. What a terrible photo of everybody, though ˗ Les Simpson looking as though his hair was flying away in great tufts, and the Festival Queen looking pleased, but more beautiful than pleased...! And Monica’s by no means middle-aged, anyway; she’s the one relation whose age I can positively remember: she’ll always be ten years older than me, to the month! [I'm not sure which of the several prizes Monica won over the years this was; she went in for competitions where you had to answer general knowledge questions.]

If you see Des Stokes, by the way, thank him for his letter, and tell him that the reason for the long delay on the last article is that I temporarily lost the note I had of what he wanted, and since I’ve now found two or three more shops where there is a likelihood of my finding what he wants I’ll give it another try.

I started piano lessons again on Monday last ˗ eeergh! it was like going back to school again. But Doris is very nice and even suggested that if I wasn’t tied up to staying in Stoke Newington there was a vacancy in the house next door to her. However in spite of the extra amount it costs for fares I don’t really wish to leave this flat: the six of us (or seven generally) get on so well (with occasional mix-ups) that I don’t fancy going to live on my own, albeit above a landlady. Doris even gave me a guinea off the fees as well, and also said she has a whole lot of good secondhand music that might be of use to me.

We discussed the sort of exams I should probably try for and I’m inclined to think that it’s little use merely going for another performer’s exam: I only learn pretty much what I already know. I think it would be better to go for a teacher’s exam even though it means a lot of studying over at least the next full year, because then, finally, I might have something to fall back on that I could do competently, rather than having to go for crumming (yes, crumming, it’s a newly invented word) office jobs where I’ll barely be existing on the sort of money they’ll give me. The thing is that most of the better singers at the Centre last year had at least been through something like the Royal College, while the reps had been through Varsity, and somewhere along the line if I’m to be even partly as competent as they are at their work (though it seems to me I did have certain advantages over one or two of last year’s, and this year’s lot as well) I must have a wider general knowledge of music behind me. I keep feeling myself to be the talented amateur in a professional world as I am at the moment. I always think that I ought to be a ‘qualified’, so to speak, professional, with a more secure foundation than that on which I’m based just now. And it’s no use going on merely on my own, I can see. Even though the time wasn’t wasted: I learnt quite some theory in the time, but I must have someone driving me, because I’m basically so lazy!! I’m never really prepared to work unless I have to ˗ I have a little bit of my brain that says things will always fall into my lap. [Up to this point they had, to an extent, especially in New Zealand.] I know this just isn’t so. One eventually becomes a vegetable under those conditions.

National Children's Home, in Harpenden.
The buildings were still the same when I worked there
many years after this photo was taken.

Reg was quite pleased when I told him ˗ I think I’d been worrying him a bit, though he’d never actually say so. I know I don’t have to explain myself to you to any extent, but I like to let you have as full a picture of what I’m (now) trying to achieve. And anyway learning is never a waste of time ˗ even if you turned round and never used it again (like some of the things you learn at school) the brain expansion achieved is of great use! This teacher’s exam will involve learning not only theory and practical points but also teaching ones, and who knows ˗ they will no doubt come in handy if I can ever working satisfactorily as a rep. It doesn’t bother me at the moment if do or don’t, but I think my idea of a short ago of giving up music entirely and devoting myself to Good Works (in some shape or form: I think I had something the National Children’s Home in mind) is not very practical. [Reg was involved with NCH, and after he retired, he worked for them in an accounting capacity. Plainly this idea didn’t go away completely: I eventually wound up working at NCH a couple of years later: still under the impression that somehow I wasn’t doing enough for other people.] I think existing extra-musically would quite possibly drive me mad! [That is, without doing music at all.] Anyway, I’ll let you know what progress we make.

About my other decision of last week - writing to the CIB: I finally sent my questionnaire off on Sunday night. I had been going to wait a while, but finally didn’t see any point. The biggest problem (apart from trying to describe yourself to any extent, which was terrifying because you feel all the time that you may be giving the wrong impression) was to supply a photograph of myself. So I finally went and took four of myself (for 3/-!) in one of the booths that develop them and everything on the spot within minutes. They were four rather terrible photos, so I sent the least bad, which isn’t at all what I think I look like, but obviously is since we’re led to believe the camera doesn’t lie! I’ve had an acknowledgement (receipt) this morning, and now wait (still), with a deep terror way down inside and tremendous good humour on the outside, for some results. The Good Lord has never seen so much of me before! I’ve been in and out of any church that comes by, more asking that he just keep a watchful eye on things rather than necessarily make everything turn out exactly right without problems! But, as the CIB suggests, it’s often the only way to meet R.C’s in a place like London. The people at the Parish Church are not especially friendly ˗ I don’t help either, but they seem to be rather middle-aged!!

About the Time magazines ˗ there really isn’t any point in keeping them, is there? Wouldn’t they be of more use somewhere, where they’ve being read?? Leave it up to you, Love Mike (heh, heh!) [I'd subscribed to Time magazine for some years, so there was a stack of them - mostly unread - in my bedroom wardrobe at home.]

P.S. I’ve only had one lot of books ˗ the other’s must have been held up somewhere. 

23.7.69 - the shortest letter

23.7.69

[Unusually, this is a short letter written on ordinary paper.]

Dear Mum, While I think of it, do send mail to reg for a bit, because things are still rather unsettled here, and I haven’t yet heard anymore about the other flat. I’m writing to you this way incidentally, because I wanted to send some stamps: Monica H. Asked me to send any ones of interest that I had for the kids. I thought I had some more, and some more interesting ones, but I don’t seem to have after all.

We’re been clearing up the flat this week but don’t really seem to be making much headway. It’s amazing the stuff that has accumulated. And this morning some more fudge arrived! I don’t know whether to try and finish it off before I go or not!

This is only going to be a short note I’m afraid, but I mainly wanted to get the address sorted out.

Marilyn wrote, and so I’ve replied immediately, telling her to write as much as she wants. I’ll try and keep up a fairly regular reply service. [This was seven months after I said ‘I must write’ to her.]

Better go, see ya, love Mike. 

25.6.69 - The year begins to wind up

25.6.69

Dear Mum, I’ve just been down to the shop to see if I could get a card for Daphne and Jack, but they had nothing that was either sufficiently funny or pleasant, so I’ll have to get you to pass on my congratulations. I don’t think I remember their address anyway. (Why did they call him Peter? We’ve surely got enough confusion in this family already. [Jack was my mother’s youngest brother, and Peter he and Daphne’s fifth child, their first boy. I already had another cousin called Peter.] They’re certainly determined not to let the Elgin Road Hannagans beat them are they? [Terry was older than Jack and he and his wife Monica had their fifth ˗ and last ˗ child in 1968.]

And what about this snow? You poor old things. Our weather is staying fairly warm, although it has been raining for the last couple of days. I think it’s clearing now. This week is our last with formal lessons, and we’re saying goodbye to the various teachers; next week we start rehearsals most of the time. The German teacher said she would take me on as a private pupil if I wished, though I don't know if I could afford it. But if I can, she’s certainly worth keeping on with.

We’re rehearsing two operas (The Consul is also going on but I’m not working on it) and they are Gianni Schicchi, which the Centre did last term but which I didn’t work on, and Il Tabarro, which is another one in the trio of operas that go under the heading of Il Trittico, and is, of course, by Puccini. We had our first production rehearsal today with Ande Anderson, and things seemed to be going fairly smoothly.

I don’t know if I told you that, a while back, when I was sitting in the train one night waiting for it to leave Charing Cross, I was marking some music ˗ actually I was putting some new words into a vocal score ˗ when a young negro fellow came along and looked over my shoulder through the window. I didn’t notice him at first, and got a bit of a shock! Anyway, he jumps in the carriage and sits down next to me and starts telling me about his interest in playing the classical guitar, and so we talked on and off until Blackheath. Well, on Monday, I was sitting in a carriage again, doing a crossword, when a figure went flying past, and then came back, and it was the same guy again. And he popped into the train, and again started talking. This is quite unusual here, which is what makes it worth telling ˗ it’s so rare than anyone will talk to you in a train ˗ in fact people wouldn’t say anything if you stood on their foot; I don’t think they’d expect you to apologise! This is how far they’ve taken this sort of don’t speak to your neighbour bit. This time he was saying how he had to learn a whole two-page spiel for the next day to use in his job as a door-to-door salesman for an encyclopedia firm! He’s an engineering student I think normally, and this is a sort of holiday job.

At present at the Centre ˗ well yesterday, anyway ˗ they were holding auditions for singers and reps, and I went in to listen for a moment and suddenly realised that the pianist auditioning was Bill Southgate ˗ do you remember him? And he was apparently very nervous (though I didn’t hear him do the stuff he’d prepared) because when it came to doing sight-reading he made some fearful blues! (Am I glad I didn’t have to audition there!) [I auditioned by tape from NZ, I think.]  I went and had a cuppa with him afterwards and I think he was in a bit of a state, because he was rambling a bit! Anyway I got his address from him, and I must go and see him. [Bill Southgate - or William Southgate as he is more usually known these days - was from Dunedin, and eventually would become one of New Zealand’s better-known conductors. Strangely, when my wife and I came back from the UK in 1974, we met the Southgates at Auckland airport; they’d just returned as well.]

I think we’re talking about different things as regards the mysterious palette knife (!) ˗ I think I know what a spatula is, but wasn’t there a long (about 8 ˗ 10 inches, plus handle) implement, about an inch wide, and with a rounded end?? It’s driving me mad ˗ surely that isn’t a spatula?

Again, don’t worry about Postal Notes; I’m surviving quite well, thank you, and though they are nice when they do come, they aren’t part of my contract or anything! I’ve sent a letter to Monica H[annagan, wife of Terry] and Co, but I haven’t to the Stokes ˗ suppose I should, shouldn’t I? I’ll try and do it. Aerogrammes are actually cheaper than postcards ˗ you know? ˗ but harder, even for me, to fill up! [I have no idea why I was supposed to be writing, unless it was just a matter of keeping in touch with Dunedin relatives I’d had a great deal to do with over the years.]

I suppose as usual it is too late to suggest another film for you to go and see, but one called The Heart is a Lonely Hunter is superb, and except perhaps for one small sequence (which I think in this case is probably necessary) I think you would find it wonderful. It’s a deaf-mute trying to live amongst normal people, and the fact that no one else realises he is as lonely as the ones he helps. The acting is unbelievable. 

We went to a rehearsal of Macbeth, the opera, at the Garden yesterday ˗ what an appalling production ˗ it never fails to amaze me just how bad some of their productions are ˗ they live so far in the past that you’d think they’d never heard of the word imagination. [Elena Souliotis made her debut at Covent Garden as Lady Macbeth in this production, as well as singing the role for the first time.]

Last Friday our normal lecture at the Centre was replaced by a talk with films at the Generating Board Theatre in Newgate St. The films were made by the man who talked ˗ he’s an ex-executive film man, and is experimenting, now that he has the time, with film and music. The two examples he showed us were very interesting (his name is James Archibald and you’ll see it occasionally on some of the 50s films ˗ English ˗ on TV) but the one he likes more of the two seemed to me less good. We went back to the Centre with him (Jeff took he and J Robertson) (and me) and he said it was because I’d only seen half of his favourite: and that was about half an hour! Love, Mike. [I don’t remember this at all, and I’m not sure quite why people from the Centre went to it.]

20.3.69 Some catch up stuff

20.3.69

Dear Mum, there are so many odd fragments of news I thought I’d better write again to you. I’ve sent off the two foreign newspapers to Dale, but heaven knows when she’ll get them. They’ve both got news of the space men in them. [Not sure who Dale is, though it could be a second cousin.]

(As you can see I’ve finally been given one of these new type air letters: but I see that they don’t have on the outside where to cut them open except on one side; I almost invariably make a mess of one of these and cut them everywhere but where they’re supposed to be cut! Think I’ll put a wee note on the outside.) [These ‘new type air letters’ had only about two-thirds as much room to write on, which must have been frustrating for yours truly.] 

I’m finally getting my tax thing away too, but I’m sending it to you if you don’t mind, because I quite honestly am not sure of completing it from such a distance, and I thought perhaps if you were to give it straight to Des, it might not get lost in the rush of the end of the year. Anyway, it’ll take a while yet. [Presumably my tax return for 1968/9. Des was one of my uncles, who worked in the Inland Revenue in Dunedin; this was in the days when you could go into the office, speak to a human being and get them to help you fill out your tax return. In fact, you could go in and ask for your uncle is you so desired.]

I’m sure I’ve got dozens of other things to say, now what are they all? I know: on Tuesday, I’d been informed that I’d got to go to a rehearsal at 5.30 in the evening, and so said to myself that I’d fill the day in on my own. When I finally arrived at the Opera Centre, the rehearsal had been shifted forward into the early afternoon, and I’d missed it entirely and the two pianists from the other show had had to do it. They’d tried to ring me here at the flat, by phoning upstairs, but of course D was out all the time. We can’t be expected to know they’re going to change their minds like this at the last minute all the time. It’s very poor organisation and quite a number of the singers have been complaining about it too.

Anyway, on the same morning I’d rung up George Bamford to see if he had any more stuff for me to check, and he said he still wouldn’t be ready until that night, and so I said all right then I’d call around in the late afternoon. He also said, of course you don’t do copying do you, he said, I could do with help on that more than anything else. Well, like the twit that I am, I said, No, I don’t, because he’s never sounded keen on my doing it before. Anyway, after I’d rung off, I thought to myself, well, perhaps I could force his hand a little, since he was in such an awkward position as far as time went, and go in and say would it be any use if I did do some copying for him. Well, I did go in, and he, without too much apparent second thoughting, said all right, he’d let me have a go. (He offered one other time to give me some pointers on the business, but never did.) So I sat down eventually, and got started, and apart from his scrubbing the very first thing I did ˗ actually it was a bit of a mess, the pen I’d started to use had scratched on the paper and ink dots had gone everywhere! Also I seemed to be picking up dirty marks from the pen all the time. So finally I went off and washed my hands, and started again, with a not too efficient blotter ˗ it was doing most of the mucking-up of things, I discovered ˗ and using the exiled piece of paper to cover up the page until I actually used it [wrote on it] each time, I got on all right. Didn’t do very much in the end ˗ he said he’d prefer that I went a little slower than not (I thought I was going slow!) and even though the place is away from the mainstream of things, there are a lot of people coming and going, and George and his wife talk a lot, always apparently starting a conversation up without informing the other who or what they’re talking about! And Mrs B made me a couple of ham sandwiches and an enormous cup of coffee, and this delayed things a little too.

Anyway that was that and I then went to the OC. Well, I felt a bit put out at not having anything to do, so in the end David Gorringe, and Hazel and I went to the pictures (a local cinema where it’s cheaper, but where the audience seems always to consist of morons ˗ they don’t laugh or do anything.)  We went to Finian’s Rainbow ˗ a Monica-taking picture, if it hasn’t already been to Dunedin. [Presumably meaning my mother should take my aunt Monica to see it. She was the wife of my uncle Des mentioned above.] It is full of marvellous lines, with a lot of very clever jokes on racial problems in the South of America. But it all went over the heads of the people here ˗ they really are thick, you know. [Oh, dear, what a bumptious know-all this guy is!] (The same day I went down to our post office in Blackheath to get our mail delivered to our doorstep instead of the flats upstairs, and the first bit of mail arrived this morning ˗ Upstairs!). Heaven knows what’ll happen when they get decimal coinage. I think most of them will just give up!

Yesterday, I got up early and went in to get seats for the Dance of Death with Olivier. Got three quite decent seats, without having to queue with a very big crowd ˗ a dozen perhaps, and then since I had 3 hours to fill in before going down to East Croydon where the rehearsal are being held just now (the local art school is doing the designing of the show) I went to the cinema in Waterloo Station where they were showing On the Waterfront with Brando. Fabulous. A very moving story, with a priest who was a priest in it, instead of the usual wishy washy characters you get, and Brando is superb.

Last night Mike and a friend of his he found in a pub recently called John from Ohio (he’s here for an indefinite time, and very pleasant) and I went to D of D. It’s a rather rubbishy play though the first act is at least several times better than the second, but it was great to see Olivier in the flesh, and Geraldine McEwan, his co-star, is outstanding.

Lots of love Mike. 

Travel letter from Des

Amongst the letters I've come across in the last day or so is an aerogramme from Des, sent from Canada, when he and Monica went over for a reunion with some of Des's wartime squadron.  I only know that the date of the letter was 17 Sept - there's no year, although by squinting very hard at the postmark it could be 1980.  (It could also be 1930!)  [John Stokes has now confirmed that it was indeed 1980.]

I think the letter was written in a couple of stages: one long stretch and then a little bit to fill up the last space at the end.  

Dear Pat, Daphne, Jack and Co,
    This was to be a copy (virtually) of my letter to John and Barbara, but as I began that in San Francisco it would be inappropriate.  On the evening of 10 Sept we had a banquet in the Monterey Room of our hotel - went off OK, but 'banquet' would be a grandiose name for it.  I believe a batch of Aussies and perhaps Tour No 1 (which did not eventuate) were to join us (27) but this did not happen.  However I'm sure all enjoyed the night.  It was a nice hotel, in fact all the accommodation has been very good.  You would be interested Jack in the plumbing fixtures.  No loose plugs in the basins - steel (or chrome I suppose) ones operated by push rod which comes up through the tap assembly - new to me.  Usually showers have been over the bath with separate taps (ie H& C) regulating temp. & supply through the bath faucet - when temp. adjusted you lift a lever and the water then travels to the shower rose!
Pretty hard to squeeze letter writing into the day, but occasionally it is possible usually in morning as cases have to be ready about an hour before bus departure when we are on the move.  Tour to date has been immensely enjoyable with quite a few highlights, some recorded on film, but I guess a movie camera with sound would have been needed to capture some of the spirit of the moment, eg, the 'Bert Albert' [Alpert, probably] band in the street at Tijuana.  Wish you could all be with us.  Monica has just [been] watching a moose opposite the hotel.  There had been a couple of elk earlier.  Hope the bears wait until we depart before making their appearance!

The current version of the Airtram - you
can see why Monica might have had her
eyes shut!

Enjoyed S.F. where we took a bus tour of city and some also visited Chinatown and Fisherman's Wharf for a look around and a bit of shopping.  Fabulous shopping - could have spent a fortune, but we still have a long way to go.  On to Edmonton and Winnipeg today.  Flew to Vancouver on DC 8 and stayed in centre of city - very noisy at night.  Great bus tour of this beautiful city including visit to Queen Elizabeth Park with sunken garden where some Japanese?? weddings were being photographed.  Unfortunately my pictures are a little disappointing.  Had dinner one night at revolving restaurant 32? storeys up (highlight of visit).  Also spent time in tremendous shopping mall which spread underground to link up with two big stores, Hudson Bay Coy and [word indecipherable].  On way to Kamloops by coach we stopped at Hell's Gate, a fast stretch of deep wild water on Fraser's (?) river.  Descended gorge by Airtram which took about 28 people (including Monica - probably with eyes closed!) to where snacks, restrooms and ingenious salmon by-pass were located.  Travel Lodge Motel very comfortable and quiet.  Enjoyed Chinese meal at restaurant.  Indian heritage fairly evident along the way.
28 Sept. At this stage the reunion is over - met some wonderful people and had great time.  More later. Love Monica and Des.  xxoo

Letter from Jack to Pat

I've been having a clean out of old papers and amongst all the stuff has been various bits of family memorabilia.  Last night I came across an envelope with an old letter in it that I don't remember seeing before.  It’s from [my uncle] Jack to Pat when she was in Australia, and was sent on Sunday the 15th Feb, 1948.  Monica and Des had just got married; they lived at Stanley St the year we came home.   Jack was 17 in 1948; it was also the year that Mum and I came back to Dunedin, without my father.  I found another letter too, from Nan (my grandmother) in which she’s talking about all three of us coming back.  Obviously something didn’t work out along that line.   I’ll copy that letter here too, shortly.
Here’s Jack’s one.  He gets a bit carried away at times, and full stops become unimportant...but it's nice to see the typical Hannagan humour coming through.

Dear Pat,
It is about time I wrote the airmail [?] don’t you think?  Well here goes.
        Well Mum and Dad went away for there [sic] holiday on Thursday and as far as the weather goes here I think they have had plenty of sunshine.  Terry and I had to get our own tea on Thursday and afterwards I went to the pictures.  I came home from the pictures and at about 11.50 pm Monica and Des arrived home and we didn’t expect them till Friday.  Anyway I got to sleep at about 1 o’clock after a lot of talking; they seem to have had a pretty good time from what they told us.
        On Saturday morning Terry went for his holiday up to Wellington but he had a terrible day for travelling as it was so hot.
        We got all the snaps back from the chemist the other day but Terry took them all to Wellington with him so I will send him a telegram on Monday to send all mine down and I will send them all over to you and you can take the ones you want.  They are very small but you can see what everyone looks like.  I just had a look around but I can’t even find even one tiny small one to send you.
        By the way the pen I am writing this letter with was given to me by Des III [Stokes] for serving the mass for them.  It’s one of those that writes so many thousand words and then stops.  They say you can’t fill them but Dad reckons he can so we can try.  It looks like an ever sharp pencil cause the nib comes out the end and just looks like the lead.  The pen is very easy to write with but I’m very much afraid that I am unable to do it justice.  (So much for the pen).
      I’ve got a photo of [the Ryans] I thought you might be interested it’s not bad for me eh what?
      I just got another photo this time one of Miss Patricia O’Flaherty she’s a corker wee kid from what Mr and Mrs Stokes tell us.  When you see this you've seen just as much of her as we have.
We had a lot of fun the day of the wedding especially when Des was trying to get the car out.  First of all before Monica and Des came home after the breakfast we tied tincans on the back of the car and one Mr Munro printed on the back (just married).  As he was trying to get the car out three of us pushed like mad and he couldn't move an inch.  However he eventually got out onto the street and as they tried to get away Terry put a potatoe [sic] in the exhaust and Des didn’t know what was wrong.  Well he got started and by this time Charlie had a rope tied on the bumper bar and they still couldn't move and after a while they got away and the next we heard they were in Timaru then they went to Wellington and from there to Napier where they stayed for a while and came home.
      Well as this pen only writes so many words I better keep it to write to you next year or maybe a bit sooner than that.  Cheerio for now,
Love,
Jack.
PS Hurry up and come over so I won’t have to write so regularly.
Note on the back.  How’s Michael and Frank ain't I awful I forgot to ask.

Sent to: 
Mrs F A Crowl
6th Floor
Rationing Directorate
159 Flinders Lane
Melbourne
Australia.

Clearing the attic

The other day we were looking for something in one of our two attics and came across a box of photos and memorabilia that had belonged, Celia tells me, to my mother.  I've scanned some of the photos: they're a random mix, so you'll just have to take them as they come.  (And there'll be more.)

The first group were photographed at the family reunion in 1976: from the left we have three sisters: Anne and Tess Hannagan, Rose (Gallagher) and their cousin Mona.  (I have three Mona Hannagans listed on the family tree, so I'm not quite sure which one this is, though my bet is on Mona Thomas.)

The next picture comes from four years later: the three sisters have not aged well, although it must be admitted they weren't young ladies either (Anne was 84, Tess, 81 and Rose, 88).  Rose is in the middle, and died a year later. 

In this photo we have cousins of a different generation.  I think it's Denise Hannagan on the left, with Kathleen Ryan behind her; Anne (?) Ryan in the front, and Mary Stokes at the right.

By way of contrast, to the left we have a group of boy cousins: Paul Stokes, myself, John Ryan and Raymond Hannagan.

On the right is Terry Hannagan on his wedding day, with Monica (nee McCabe), his new wife, and Jack (his younger brother) and Phil (Monica's sister).


The photo below is of Des and Monica at their wedding - the quality isn't so good because this is already a copy of an original.  


















And the photo above was taken at Brian O'Flaherty's wedding to Jean.   Brian's parents, Des and Joyce O'Flaherty (nee Hannagan) at to the left, with Terry, their other son beside them.  On the other side of the couple is Pat O'Flaherty, and presumably Jean's parents.

Finally we have a photo of Jack Hannagan as a boy - I have no idea who the Bishop is, or the other two boys.   [Wikipedia tells us that James Whyte was Bishop of Dunedin from 1920 to 1957, but there was also a coadjutor Bishop, Hugh O'Neill, from 1943-1946.  My guess is that it's more likely Whyte.]

My Memories of Mum

The following is a tribute to Monica Stokes from her daughter, Mary (Fraher). It was read at the funeral by Mary's daughter, Deborah.

One of my earliest childhood memories is sitting with Mum while she read me a book about an adopted baby. I think the book was called Chosen Baby and it was a story about Mr and Mrs Brown who had chosen a special baby. I can still vividly see in my mind the pictures in this book and how proud and special I felt to be a ‘chosen’ baby.

I can’t remember how old I was when Mum gave me her autograph book. In the front cover she had written:

Not flesh of my flesh
Nor bone of my bone
But still miraculously my own
Never forget for a single minute
You didn’t grow under my heart
But in it.

I have never thought of Mum as anything else but Mum. She was not my adopted mother. She was Mum. I never felt anything other than flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood.

Mum provided us all with a warm and happy home. She was always there when I got home from school. Friends were always made to feel welcome and there was always plenty of food to be shared around. In fact I’m quite sure that a lot of friends just showed up for the home baking, which never seemed to run out.

Mum was always willing to help out others where ever and when ever there was a need. It wasn’t at all unusual for us to have extra kids staying. She helped out when other mums needed a break, or were unwell, or were having more babies. We didn’t have a large home but there was always room for one or two more.

Mum loved going on our annual two-week holiday, especially to a small crib at Millers Flat. The little Morris 8 would be loaded up to the gunnels, Paul and I sitting on a pile of bedding so high that our heads almost touched the roof. Mum just loved those holidays at Millers Flat – the sunshine, the fresh air, the daily trips to the swimming pool, the little creek where we spent a lot of time, the hammock, the safe hanging in the willow tree, the rainwater tank which supplied us with water for cooking, washing and cleaning teeth. They were great holidays. Not even the long drop detracted from those holidays. We went to different places from time to time, but Millers Flat was always Mum’s favourite place.

For as long as I can remember Mum was involved in church and Parish activities. For many years she was an active member of the Women’s League. She would bake, bake and bake some more for school fetes. The Catholic Church was very special to her. She wasn’t simply a Catholic. She lived her faith day in and day out and was a great example to everyone who she came in touch with.

She was a people person. She loved talking to people and could while away the hours quite happily chatting to friends and family. When Aunty Flo came to stay with us I’m sure she would be creeping into bed not long before us kids were up and about. The two of them would sit in the kitchen and talk the night away. I also have very fond memories of Mum and her good friend Kathryn Waddell together. There was always so much laughter when those two got together.

Mum, you were the best mother a child could wish for. You were the best wife a husband could wish for. Rest in peace.

More tributes to Monica Stokes

John Stokes wrote the following paragraphs, and is happy for me to put them on the blog. I read them out on his behalf at the funeral today.

1. As teenagers, Mark Anngow and I were best mates and we used to gather at our place to do teenage boy things with other boys. On this particular day were playing 3 card brag in my room when Mum walked past, saw what we were doing, and went away to get the paper money to join us. Which she did. With her quiet spoken, gentle way she proceeded to give the know-all boys a valuable, and valued, lesson in not taking anyone for granted - she cleaned us out in very short order!! I had, of course, forgotten that Mum was a very skilled card player who had a killer instinct; she taught me how to play, and to win with a self effacing good humour. More importantly, she could lose with a dignity that eludes me to this day - at Euchre, 500 and crib. Crib became a favourite while I was still living at home. I also recollect that, by and large, it was our place my friends and I would repair to after a hard day at school... until Mark got his driver’s license and an old Austin Cambridge, and school became something to avoid....

2. Just to hark back to the quiet, gentle spoken woman everyone remembers, I can remember a time when she was, in fact, neither....

I had drunk a little more than was good for me at a work 'do' on a weeknight in Dunedin and was - not to put too fine a point on it – paralytic. Dad had to drive into Dunedin to pick me up and take me home with inevitable stops on the way. I can't remember too much about the evening but I do recall the morning after when I was going to call in sick - well, I was!! - and Mum came through the door of the sleepout like the sergeant-major of every soldier’s nightmares and read me the Riot Act. Rather sheepishly - with head hung low, I went to work that morning on the same train as Dad - I think!! - who I'm sure looked remarkably smug as he didn't have to say a word about my immature behaviour. It had all been said with an eloquence, brevity and volume that he would never be able to match!

There are many, many more such examples - and I'm sure the girls and Paul have their own particular twists to add, but these two sum up, for me, what Mum was all about; quietly able to work some kind of magic on a teenage boy/young man; providing a stability that was needed and a love that was overt without being cloying. I would not be who I am now without her guiding hand. There were many times when the world’s problems were solved at the sink doing the evening dishes, when teenage heartache became a life lesson without judgment and, later on, during one or two events in my life I could have done without, such support as I was never able to get anywhere else... Mum, you will live in my heart forever and your quiet smile will forever brighten my days....

Monica Stokes

 Most of you will know that Monica Stokes (nee Hannagan) died around three in the morning of Thursday the 26th August, 2010. She would have been 87 in November this year. Her funeral was held at the Mosgiel Catholic Parish Church (in the old Holy Cross college) today.


The following is a tribute that Mike Crowl gave during the Requiem Mass. Two other tributes were given and will be posted here when and if permission is given. 

One of my earliest memories as a child – it must have been between the age of 3 and 4 - is of an evening at Stanley St, in the house where the Hannagan family grew up. Monica and Des lived there for the first year of their marriage [and I grew up there]. They were getting ready for what I guess must have been a fancy dress ball. Monica was dressed up like one of the ‘three little maids from school’ in The Mikado, and having a great time getting ready and putting on special make up. Monica did quite a bit of performing when she was young.

Another early memory is of the third-storey flat in High St that Monica and Des moved into. It was (in fact, still is) a narrow brick building with a fire escape all down the front, where I lost a favourite toy under their couch, and couldn’t seem to get anyone to find it for me (!)

I used to stay with the family sometimes once they moved to Mosgiel, or go away with them on holiday. They often went to the De Courcy’s crib [also known as a 'bach' or holiday home] in Miller’s Flat, or to a crib in Warrington. This was when I was quite young and only Paul and Mary were on the scene. Monica and Des were always great to be with, and were warm and friendly to this odd little boy they were looking after.

One of the lovely things about Monica was her laugh. It was highly infectious. Sometimes even as adults we’d all just sit there laughing uncontrollably because of it. Even when she was lying in the rest home after she’d got Alzheimer’s, when all the talking she could do was a strange little language that she seemed to make up as she went along, or she’d sing odd little snatches of songs (I think to entertain us), that smile would suddenly light up her face, and there’d be a moment when the laugh would bubble up. It didn’t matter that there wasn’t any particular joke, it was as endearing as ever.

Last Saturday Celia and I spent a bit of time with Des, Mary and Barbara [two of Monica's children]. They told us some stories we’d never heard. We found out that when Monica was young she and Flo, Des’s sister, had been very good friends. It was Flo who made sure Monica got introduced to Des - even though she was at that time going out with another young man.

They also told us about a time when Monica was at school, at St Philomena’s. In one sewing class she was with a group of girls who were chatting and not getting on with their work, and the nun came passed, looked at their work, and said, ‘That’s terrible. Do it again!’ The girls carried on talking, didn’t do anything else, and some time later the nun came back, took another look, and said: ‘That’s much better!’

And talking of sewing, we found out that Monica and a group of other ladies used to darn the socks for the seminarians at Holy Cross College. Some years later, Des, Monica and the family were heading north for a wedding, and stopped off near Kaikoura. They were going to stay in a motel, but the local parish priest insisted they stay with him at the Presbytery. Next morning, to Monica’s embarrassment, he just happened to mention during the sermon that there was ‘someone’ in the congregation who used to darn his socks.

We only just found out on Saturday that Monica had had asthma very badly as a child, often to the point where the doctor would be called in the middle of the night to attend to her. She was thought of as a fragile and unwell child, and there were times they thought they might lose her. Apparently Pat would wheel her around in a wheelchair. All the problems with asthma disappeared when she came to live in Mosgiel.

When I heard last week that Monica had died, the first picture that came to mind was that she would now be running through Heaven looking for her family. I could see her racing straight through Mumma’s extensive garden plots – and laughing, of course – and shouting to Mumma to come and find everyone! There’d be Esther and Raymond*, her big sister and brother whom she never even known in this life; there’d be Joyce and Charlie and Doreen, and Terry and Jack; and Des Ryan and Des O’Flaherty – she’d be laughing at the fact that three sisters out of four married men with the same Christian name [Des]. She’d be looking for her mother and father (Nan and Pop as they were to us grandchildren), and suddenly there they’d all be, laughing uncontrollably and shouting and hugging and kissing each other. And standing to one side would be Jesus, with a big grin on his face....and when he finally gets a word in, he embraces her and says, 'Well done, good and faithful servant. Come and share the joy that I’ve been preparing for you forever.'

*Esther, the first-born child, died within a few months; Raymond, the third child (after Joyce) died in his fourth year.

The photos come from the front and back covers of the song sheet provided for the funeral.