We never met. But after that there was a succession of clerical worthies who probably had something to do with my ultimate choice of vocation. There was Denis Murtagh who drove a 1936 Ford coupe and always wore a driver’s dustcoat. He was Australian and a Rocky native who was educated at the Christian Brothers’ College in Rockhampton. Denis was an indefatigable character who loved to roll his ‘r’s’ when reciting the Mass Latin. He had a succession of curates most of whom rode their push-bikes to Koongal for Confessions and Mass. One night during Benediction Denis had occasion to haul me out of the sacristy where another altar server and myself were lighting charcoal for the thurible. We two were having a great old yarn together while Denis was delivering his homily. Next thing I knew my ear was in Denis’ paw as he ushered me back into the fold. According to my embarrassed and angry mother, this good priest had twice loudly berated us boys for making noise. That lug tug was the only contact with Denis that I recall. He was never charged!!
About the end of the Second World War a new curate appeared on his bike. I remember well this young newly ordained who had a bald pate. He was very friendly and we servers loved him but wished someone would give him a car. His name was William Smith. He had a doctorate and so to our childish wonder he was addressed as “Doctor” The only other doctor of my acquaintance was the one who jabbed needles in me for various diseases. Bill was a happy priest who would be part of my life for many years to come. In 1956 he was our seminary vice rector who provided no little amount of sanity in an otherwise nonsensical society. In 1968 I was appointed seminary bursar and Bill Smith was seminary Rector. At time of writing he lingers in the world of unknowing in a nursing home at Mackay, North Queensland. Bill Smith should be awarded the highest commendation for uncomplainingly wading through the messy marshes of incompetence on the part of those who were his superiors. The joys of Heaven await him.
Meanwhile back in time to my childhood.
One of the curates at the time was Joseph Meade, only recently ordained in his native Ireland. It was customary for the local Sisters of Mercy to provide breakfast for the priest after Mass in the sacristy. We servers often received a crumb from the holy man’s table. My altar service one morning was shared by the same boy with whom I had made noise and annoyed the Reverend Murtagh. His name is Charlie and while the two of us were helping with the demolition of the priest’s breakfast, Joe Meade said “Charlie, you’ll be a good priest some day” at which Charlie was excited! Thought I: “what about me?” I said nothing since I had no wish to be a priest and Charlie was welcome to have it all to himself. Charlie is happily married with a large grown family.
Years later I was a priest and met Joe in his parish of West Bundaberg. I recounted the sacristy prophecy gone wrong. Joe replied “Ah Harry, but I knew all the time it would be you.” You just cannot beat the wit of the Irish!
Came the day when the Bishop turned up and introduced to us parishioners at Koongal our very first parish priest. His name was Michael Greene and another of Ireland’s favourite sons. There was no presbytery for the new pastor so he bunked down in the same sacristy that witnessed so much of our altar serving capers. The year was 1947 and by the end of the next year a brand new presbytery was blessed. And that was not all. Prior to his advent there was one Mass on Sunday with plenty of seats. Within one year of Michael Greene’s arrival there were two Masses and both well attended. Mick came with a brand new De Soto motor car which really grabbed the attention of us teenagers. On top of that he sold raffle tickets in the local pub and had plans under way for a new primary school. He was much loved by all even though, as the Irish would say, ‘he was not well.’ We kids thought the world of Michael Greene and eagerly participated in his working bees. I had turned sixteen when I left the parish in 1950 to take up an electrical apprenticeship in Brisbane. Father Michael organised a parish social by way of a send-off for this teenage kid. He would be transferred to Brisbane not long after and there he founded the parish of Zillmere. He was struck by a car crossing the road at Aspley and was killed. The Lord has excellent places in Paradise for people like Michael Greene.
All of the above treated me well. None ever suggested that I would be a priest. Yet these words would never have been written for your scrutiny had it not been for the way they touched my life. And…there were many others as well.
Harry Bliss
