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!

An Embarrassing Moment

By

We’d been to the Charleville show and on our way back home to Cooladdi when Poey burst into our compartment of the Flying Flee and said, ‘Dad wants you and Bobby up there.’

The Flying Flee, an old steam engine, was the train that travelled between Charleville and Quilpie and had about four or five passenger carriages, and one or two carriages that carried goods for delivery to station properties and general stores along the way and that would also include stores for Cooladdi.

Up we went, as requested by our dear father, not knowing exactly what he wanted. All we knew was that he had had a few drinks prior to leaving Charleville and anything was possible.

The carriage compartment was filled with a few work mates that we knew from Cooladdi and as we entered the cabin we were overwhelmed with the strong smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke. I wondered what on earth could Dad possibly want us for. He introduced us to the young fellas and in doing so, asked me to take off my shirt and show them my muscles.

‘What!?’ was my immediate reply.

‘Go on son, show ‘em your muscles, and how you shape up.’

If you can imagine for one moment how big my muscle may have been (if I had any…!) I was probably all of five stone, ringing wet, and here I was standing in front of these young guys ready to flex my muscles.

Goodness knows what they were thinking, probably more embarrassed for me than anything.

So, not wanting to get a clip under the ear for not doing as I was told, I took of my shirt. 

‘Move around a bit son, show ‘em how you throw a straight left, now a combination,’ he instructed, and much to his delight I obeyed. The only thing that I could think of at the time was, he must have been really proud of my boxing ability and wanted to boast to his mates about it.

And, then it was Bobby’s turn. ‘Sing a song for my mates, Bob,’ he would request of Bobby.

‘Daddy, please! Do I have to?’ was all she could say.

I don’t know how on earth she did it, but somehow she would work up enough courage and sing.

‘Well hello dolly, it’s so nice dolly to have you back where you belong…’

And she went on singing. The words just rolled off her tongue like a seasoned performer and I could see the pride on Dad’s face as Bobby dutifully performed an amazing rendition of the Louis Armstrong’s song ‘Hello Dolly’.

We still laugh about that embarrassing moment now as we look back in time, but I can tell you, it was no laughing matter back then. It was later on that same night when we arrived in Cooladdi that Dad decided he needed to use the toilet. He stopped into the thunderbox toilet near the tea room where Mum had been working by the railway station. Bobby and I, and the rest of us, went home. And it wasn’t until the next day that Mum told us that Dad had fallen asleep on the toilet and the poor old falla woke up, in such a fright and wondered where the heck he was. Poetic justice.