Garry Sonny Martin

My name’s Garry Martin, but most people know me as Sonny.

Welcome to my Blog! I will be updating this page with new stories from time to time. 

I write stories about my childhood growing up in western Queensland to show the next generations what it was like growing up as a Blackfulla in the 1950s and 1960s.

I write these stories with the help of my daughter, Angie Faye Martin, to preserve memories of the past for future generations. Above all, I hope my granddaughters – Lailah and Ruby – find joy and meaningful connections in these stories.

I started documenting my childhood when I was in Oakey with my brother, Owen (Poe), and my mother, Zona Martin née Leslie. It was a quiet and nostalgic time for me – I finally felt time and space to really reflect on the past. My daughter was calling frequently from Melbourne during the Covid lockdowns and wanting information about the past for her debut novel, Melaleuca. She was particularly interested in stories from the yumba and how life was back then.

I hope you enjoy these yarns, have a laugh and remember our loved ones. There’ll be more coming soon!

Bob Martin – Grandfather

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I didn’t know either of my biological grandfathers – I only knew the man who lived with my granny, Bob Martin.

Bob Martin was widely known as an Afghan camel driver from around Broken Hill and moved to Cunnamulla at the behest of the local town council. He was a big rough-and-tumble, no-nonsense, type of man – always immaculately dressed in suits and shoes (without socks!). He was a very kind and giving person who us kids adored. He was an excellent motor mechanic and he spent many hours under the bonnet of his old cars. I’m told from very reliable sources that he could change the spark plugs in his cars while they were running – just a small example of his toughness.

I can recall one such time at Cooladdi when he and Granny were visiting us. He was working on his car and I was perched up beside him looking on when he sent me flying with a nice old backhander. Obviously, he didn’t like me sniffing – I had a snotty nose, and I was making too much noise for him to hear the car engine running. I cursed him under my breath as I walked away and promised myself never to help him fix his old broken-down bombs again. He could ask one of his favourites (Ray or Poey) to help him! He loved Ray and Poey and would take them everywhere he went.

We were in his big old Plymouth one day going back home to the camp when Ray fell out.

‘Stop, Grandfather! Ray just fell out.’ Poey screamed.

We were taking a sharp bend in the road, near the sheep yards, when the car door flew open and out went Ray. Grandfather slammed on the brakes and brought the car to a screaming halt and quickly raced back to where Ray was lying face down in the sand.

I remember Grandfather had a really wonderful tone to his voice, similar to that of the famous American actor, Burl Ives – deep and husky, comforting and reassuring. He spoke with authority and people listened. But, to hear his trembling voice pleading for God’s mercy as he held Ray in his arms was heartbreaking. My dear grandfather, shaking, and with tears in his eyes, caused me more pain than actually seeing Ray lying there because somehow I knew he was alright. I’ve never seen such relief on anyone’s face as I did that day when Ray opened his eyes and looked at Grandfather.

‘I’m okay, Grandfather,’ he whimpered and at that moment I’m sure I saw Grandfather look up into the sky and mutter a few words.

‘Come along now boys. Get back in the car and we’ll go get an ice cream,’ was all he could say and with those magic words we jumped back into the car and off we went, but not before Grandfather made sure that the doors were securely locked.

It wasn’t long after that event our dear grandfather passed away and died from a heart attack.