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!

Keeping warm and dry

By

Growing up on the yumba and Cooladdi had its good times and not so good times.

The memory of hardship and pain diminishes over time and thoughts of happiness and laughter are more prominent… That’s just the way it is with life. And, as I reflect on those not so good times I think of how much things have changed.

Waking up to the smell of smoke filtering in from the outside fire where Mum sat cooking Johnny cakes in readiness for us kids to eat before we’d wonder off to school up town. A few sheets of tin fashioned to keep out the cold westerly wind offered little comfort as we’d warmly snuggle up close to each other, while Mum served us a breakfast of Johnny cakes and treacle and mugs of sweet milky tea.

Sometimes when things weren’t that good, instead of Johnny cakes and treacle it’d be bread dipped in curried fat. Mum would have a bucket of warm water sitting near the fire so we could wash ourselves before eating.

We’d all have to use the same bucket to wash as the water pipes would be frozen from the cold night air and there was no chance of getting any more water until the sun rose and heated the pipes.

After a quick wash and change into our school clothes we’d stand around the fire again to keep warm, but the problem with doing that while not being sufficiently dry is that it caused our skin to crack or scale like a fish. I remember crying each night with the pain that was caused from my dry skin…


My thighs would be bleeding from my continual scratching and to help ease the pain mum had a mixture of kerosene and sheep fat that she’d use to rub into the affected areas bringing some relief shortly after and eventually I’d fall asleep.

One day, Dad came up with the brilliant idea that he would add another room onto our little shack on the Yumba.

Whilst it was a good idea and it served the purpose for his growing family there was only one problem and that was the sheets of tin that he collected from the rubbish tip was full of nail holes so naturally when it rained the roof would leak.

Every time it rained it seemed like more holes would appear and I’m not sure how it happened but nevertheless when it did rain mum and I would race around puttying up the leaks with cakes of soap endeavouring to stop the water dripping through the roof and onto our beds.