![]() On one very particular day, about thirty years into our correspondence, I received a dramatically different letter from Stephen one with perfect pitch and astonishing spiritual vision. I have never heard any mention of these things from Stephen himself. Her reply was astonishing she told me that Stephen had a deep and abiding interest in the history of Sydney, and had read every book on the subject that the Public Library could provide she also said that he had a wide knowledge of the classical cannon of music. After many years I wrote to his mother at his address it was quite speculative: not actually knowing if he had family, only that I had been writing to him at one address for so many years. But that was all, every one of several hundred letters was much the same. ![]() Small variations on this theme occurred: a different job at work, or a different book in the Bible. Every letter I have ever received has been on a lined page, torn in half horizontally, and in a child like script they read: In contrast Stephen’s letters were a model of brevity, indeed they were virtually identical. I shared the evolving story of my working life, and later on my growing family in our various homes. My letters were rather longer than Stephen’s. For the next 40 years and more we exchanged a letter every few weeks, and through all those years there has usually been a letter from Stephen lying open on my desk, waiting for my reply. When I left home for University we began to correspond. I can hear it now as clearly as I remember the Chugabomb’s clattering hand. He would stand frighteningly close to me, poke me in the stomach with a short finger and ask, “And how has it been going with you?” His words always started at a very high pitch, and cascaded downwards with each poke of his stubby finger. By then I had begun to grow into my adult height of 6’7”, and Stephen was not much more than half that. Years later when I became an active part of our Church’s youth I began to meet Stephen at all sorts of Christian events. The smile which I would later recognise as warm and bright was to us ( us! I’m still claiming popular opinion here, without any basis whatever) just part of his rather different face. ![]() ![]() We (why do I say we? Do I need supporters for what I will say next?) we were afraid of Stephen and his startling voice. During my childhood residential homes for children with disabilities were still entirely normal, and so there were far fewer boys like Stephen out and about. Stephen was disabled, although to my lasting shame there were other words that schoolboys chose for him. Stephen – although his name was not known to me for several more years – was a very short fellow with an unusual face, a broad smile, and an even more unusual voice. On The Chugabomb there was often a boy a few years older than I, who was as different to me as the bus was to other busses. The hand’s brass operating mechanism was intricately made, worn bright from endless use, and I can still hear the clatter it made as it rattled in and out, deftly flicking it’s fingers one way or the other. Left turns were benign affairs in the olden days that offended no one and required no warning. The Chugabomb predated flashing indicator lights, it even predated brake lights! Instead the driver operated a mechanical hand which could point it’s fingers skyward to show that the bus was slowing to a stop (as against just slowing, which was it’s habitual condition), or the fingers could point to the right to indicate an imminent right turn. In my childhood the bus that did a lap of our suburb and took us to primary school was known as “The Chugabomb”, and even by the vintage standards of the late 1960’s it was ancient, and slow. I learned recently that one of my oldest friends has passed from our world. ![]()
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