Satisfactory Ike , livre ebook

Satisfactory Ike
 
Memoirs of an Oil Man
 
 
 
 
IAN R. CAMPBELL
 
 
 
 

 
 
Copyright © 2022 by Ian R. Campbell.
 
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-5437-6876-3

Softcover
978-1-5437-6874-9

eBook
978-1-5437-6875-6
 
 
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CONTENTS
Introduction
Chapter 1 Earliest Memories
Chapter 2 Koorda Dust
Chapter 3 Koorda High Jinks and School Days, 1937–1945
Chapter 4 High School, 1945–1949
Chapter 5 University, 1950–1952
Chapter 6 Early Work in Australia, 1953–1956
Chapter 7 First Overseas Assignments, 1957–1960
Chapter 8 Wedding Bells, 1960
Chapter 9 Work and Married Life
Chapter 10 South Australia, 1963
Chapter 11 Libya Again, 1964
Chapter 12 Brisbane, Sumatra, and Perth, 1965–1967
Chapter 13 Sumatra, 1967–1971
Chapter 14 Perth Western Australia, 1971– 1984
Chapter 15 China, 1982
Chapter 16 California, Spain, and Preparations for London, 1983–1984
Chapter 17 United Kingdom, 1984–1989
INTRODUCTION
As the title page says, these words are the memoirs of me, Ian Ross Campbell. Memoirs? It is quite probable that a far better description could be found and used: how about: My Story? My History? Commentaries on My Life? My Reminiscences? A Collection of Anecdotes? My Autobiography? Whatever you or I might decide as we go through this story, as I start, my intention is to present to you a narrative of the experiences of my life.
And from where in the name of hell did this “Ike” come? Actually, I understand it was bestowed upon me within a few days of my birth. My father said it was his fault, when I first queried him on it. However, the truth is that he did not give me that nickname. What he really meant was that he was culpable of perpetuating the soubriquet. The name has stayed with me, in the minds of my family and my earliest friends, throughout my life. Nevertheless, many other latter-day friends would be very surprised to learn of the nickname.
Initially, it was a simple matter to unthinkingly accept the name. Indeed, mindless acceptance continued until at least seven or eight years of age. As time, learning and experience went on certain things in life came to be questioned, and I came to wonder about being called Ike. The explanation that it was only a nickname did not always give me total comfort. At times, it seemed so different from nicknames of other kids that this marked difference made me feel a little uncomfortable, if not sowing the first seeds of dislike.
In addition, I was completely aware, even by this time, that it would not be an easy thing to stop people, including the family, using the appellation. Truly, in those days I could sense the perversity of my fellow human beings. It was felt, in the event that I showed an aversion to being called Ike, it would be like pouring oil on the fire, and people would go out of their way to use the name more often. However, these doubts were not ever-present. Mostly, the name was quite happily accepted, particularly when it was used amongst my peers, at school, on the playing fields, inside the family, and by grown-ups as friends of my parents.
Anyway, on entry to university, with my newfound intellectual snobbery, I attempted to drop the name and distance myself from a sobriquet that I did not quite know how to handle. I just did not mention it. What about those who came out of High School with me? Fairly simple that one, you see there were only a few of us, and none of the others enrolled into Geology as I did, and thus, I rarely saw them. Well, apart from family and old friends, the ploy worked, and I went through my whole working life without my colleagues realising I had a nickname at all, let alone a nickname, which had a most amusing origin.
Before going on with the story, I must admit that, now, some sixty years on, there is a distinct pleasure in meeting an old friend again and being addressed Ike. Maybe I made a big mistake in dodging the familiar diminutive appellation. We will never know, but let me tell you, if anybody wishes to call me Ike, go right ahead: I like it and have no reservations about the use thereof as is witnessed by the title page.
So come on, get on with it. Where from, in the name of hell, did it come? You may well scream at me at this juncture. Okay, I will, but before you get too ‘antsy’ (as my American friends would say), let me remind you this is my story, and I will tell it as I damn well please.
My parents had come down to Perth from their farm at Mukinbudin for the momentous occasion of bringing their third child into this world. My mother, Evelyn Hilda (née Brown), and known as Bonnie to her family, gave birth to me on 5 February 1932, at 91 Angelo Street, South Perth, in the state of Western Australia. God only knows where my two elder brothers were at the time, and who cares, they got in my way enough in later life without getting in the way at my entry into this life.
My father, James Brown Campbell, and known as Sunny Jim to his family, officially registered my birth on 9 February 1932 and shortly thereafter returned to the farm, which was to be my future home. The farm had been given a name. It was called Pitlochry, and this will be the subject of further comments later on. Well, on the farm at the time, Dad had an Irish farm labourer working for him. Unfortunately, for this story and for all my life, the name of this man has not been recorded. The fact of a farm helper at that time is a little incongruous to me and always has been. You see, 1932 was the height of the Great Depression, which had started with the stock market crashes in New York and London in 1929. I can only deduce that Paddy was on the farm working for his keep because I now know Dad was in pretty straitened circumstances.
On arrival at the farm, Paddy, who, believe it or not, was illiterate, naturally wanted to know what the name of the new babe was.
Dad told him, ‘Ian’.
‘How do you spell that?’ asked Paddy.
‘Aye-ay-en’, replied Dad.
Paddy was perplexed and asked Dad, ‘How can you pronounce the name Ian like that when it starts with an aye ?’
He was adamant it should be pronounced as in iron . He finally accepted it but insisted that the first initial could only be pronounced aye . Paddy went on to say, ‘Well, his initials are ‘Aye-K’ [with the abbreviated form of the K ] because his last name is Campbell. Therefore, I will call him Ike.’
Dad loved the story (and so do I, incidentally) and proceeded to tell all and sundry that his third son was nicknamed Ike. To be completely fair about the whole thing, I do not think my mother ever really forgave Dad for his promotion of the name because I cannot recall my mother ever using it in my presence.
However, that only gives you half of the title. The ‘satisfactory’ part came along much later. Moreover, I do not intend to pass that on to you until the story unfolds to about my ninth year.
Many years have gone by from the first thought of setting down these memoirs until now as I commence the task. In the long period of time to arrive at the moment of truth of actually doing it, one thing kept coming into my mind: in what style does one present one’s own story? Probably, more accurate than that. In what sense does one write one’s own story? On first thoughts, we might all immediately agree that the first person, singular, is the only way to go. So why make anything of an obstacle out of such a simple problem?
Well, here we go—the first of the inhibitions arises. There are, in all of us, to varying degrees, a whole bunch of inhibitions that most of us prefer not to admit, or refuse to recognise, not knowing that others often can spot them a mile off. The good Lord only knows how many I have finished with. If I were to bet on it, I’d say there must be thousands. I hope, as this yarn goes along, I will have the ability to bring as many as I can to your attention, hoping not only that you will be able to get a better understanding of my character but also to have a good laugh at some of them.
At the primary school that I attended in Koorda, once a child passed second standard (that’s the terminology of the good old days, i.e. when a child reached nine years of age or thereabouts), that child naturally progressed into third standard, but more importantly, that meant going into the ‘Big School’. This was a major event, and everybody looked upon it with much trepidation as it came in turn to him or her.
This Koorda State School was not very big, and only two teachers were assigned there in those days. One teacher took classes of children of infants grade (present-day kindergarten) and first and second standards. The headmaster (poor son of a gun) took classes of children from third through sixth standard. He had to teach them in one