The Man on the Platform – a hard life, but he’s contented…

By Zelda Morris

I’m known for allowing plenty of time when catching a plane or train so it was a good hour early for the XPT when I strolled onto the Newcastle suburban platform bound for Narrabri.

As it was still a bit chilly in the morning air, I headed for the only bench in the sun.

There was another early traveller enjoying the warm sunshine, an older gent with luggage beside him, so I sat down and of course we began to chat. The next train was a regional service so I asked him where he was headed and told him my destination.

I used to have a friend I called ‘Mr Twenty Questions’ because he was always interested in people and most of those he ‘interrogated’ did enjoy sharing their stories.

I soon realised my platform companion loved to talk, he greeted rail staff as they passed us, with a cheery ‘g’day Mate’ and a quick comment.

Mr Platform was happy to tell me about his life.

A gentleman in his late 80s, and what a story he has!

He was the eldest of 14, grew up outside a small NSW country town, with no opportunity for education.

Dad was a drover and Mum must’ve been an extraordinary woman.

As a young boy he worked with a fencer and this fellow taught him to read, with the help of a cowboy comic book.

His manner impressed me, an acceptance of life’s challenges with no resentment exhibited for the circumstances that had been his to manage.

His work as a fencer, shearer and drover took him all around Australia.

With a country as amazing as ours, he said, he’d felt no need to go anywhere overseas.

No sour grapes there, his positive attitude showed how he’d made the most of his everyday life.

He had married the sister of one of the fencing mates he worked with, who were Aboriginal kids of the ‘Stolen Generation’.

What he told me briefly about the treatment these children had suffered at the hands of missionaries is too hard to repeat.

However, Mr Platform said they had six kids, including twins, and adopted other Aboriginal children in need.

He told me proudly that they had all ‘turned out well’, good education, hard workers, whether professional or in a trade, with good marriages.

He laughed as he said he’s lost count of his grandkids.

But obviously the families keep in contact with this contented man.

It was sad that his wife had died but his indomitable spirit was obvious.

He did ask me about myself but I found it difficult to relate my life of apparent privilege, despite my losses, grief and disappointments.

My story seemed rather colourless! Our train was on time so we boarded and wished each other a good trip.

As a writer of sorts, I wish I had learned more than his first name – as part of our friendly exchange we did introduce ourselves – so I could catch up with him again.

It is a story, I felt, of endurance that should be told for others to appreciate.

His life is an example of the old adage, that happiness is not related to how much money one has.

Zelda Morris is The Courier’s occasional guest columnist. The Courier is always interested to hear from contributors who would like to see their story in print.