John F Tracey was a poet. And a clockmaker. And a dedicated walker, having never seen the need to get his licence in 20th century Brisbane. First there were the trams, then the buses and trains and always his two feet to take him wherever he wanted to go. He was a father of 6 and a grandfather of 22, and the husband of his beloved Mary Ellen. I think it was Mae that really inspired him to write. It doesn’t take Agatha Christie-like deduction to figure this out because he wrote (at least) dozens of poems dedicated to his love for her.
It was about a year ago that my aunt, Lorraine, gave me a medium-sized suitcase marked with a taped ‘Margie Telford’. She’d moved out of her home of over half-a-century and was giving just about everything away: books, bric-a-brac, plastic bags filled with clothes and accessories, kitchenware—a lifetime of possessions gathered since her first home burnt down in outback Queensland. Generosity comes naturally to her but this was a complete decluttering of one’s life. I think I was given the most precious item of all: a suitcase filled with my grandfather’s writing, including scribblings and thoughts and drafts of the poems that he wrote.
Lorraine recounted the times she would hear him muttering to himself, turning the words this way and that until they lay perfectly formed in his mind. He did this on paper too. Line by line, he would purge his thoughts, going this way before drawing lines through that direction and returning to the crossroads in his mind to take a different road. The scribblings are his creativity in action.
I remember as a child the constant wonder my grandfather held for every moment from the cracking of macadamia nuts with his grandchildren in the backyard to the endless blue sky of a hot summer’s day to the perfect cadence of a well-formed sentence. I consider myself incredibly lucky to have borne witness to such awe because it set the stage of possibility and endless hope in my heart. Under my grandparents’ 3-bedroom house at Gordon Park, that held 8 people at one time, my grandfather had tables of pens and papers, as well as various tools and clocks in different stages of development. It was like the world wasn’t big enough for his creativity, and in the cool underbelly of this house it spewed out in all directions.
Over the last few days, I’ve been thinking more and more about my grandfather’s poems. And I’ve pulled down that suitcase from the top shelf in my cupboard and am reading them again. It feels like I have different eyes now. But maybe it’s my heart. I think it’s because I’ve crossed a threshold and committed to living this life of creativity. Nothing is the same. Including his words.
His energy and creativity are part of my lineage, and I don’t take that for granted for one moment.
Here’s a short scribbling of his I found on the back of a flyer for a writers event:
There is a gem of joy in every day Be on alert to find it. It will not tarnish or decay
If in your soul you mind it.
