Our home in Geelong (lovingly referred to as “55”) was envy of hordes of friends we kids accumulated. “55” was always full of activity, it was meeting place for whole neighborhood and it was also full of genuine family love, largely because of Dad.

I recall his high forehead with shock of strong, thick gray hair atop his smiling face, so full of character. That nerve shattering, stern look; infamous querying glance over top of his dark rimmed glasses; easy smile and quick wit. The sheer presence of a man so many people had a great respect for. He was without doubt most profound influence on my life. If I live to be half man he was I will have achieved much. A formidable man in so many respects, and yet, a simple man with simple tastes.

I remember Dads’ work as a “wharfie”, a stevedore in Port of Geelong where he worked hard and was admired by his peers as a man with great integrity and genuine humility. After several years “on wharf” he became Secretary, and later President of WWF (waterside workers federation). He served his members’ interests well, to point that many considered him their guardian, and in fact he ended up retrieving several from jail in wee small hours. They nicknamed him “The Mirror” because Dad always said “I’ll look into it” when one of his charges raised an issue. He could easily have been “Father” Stan. He had that sort of sincere quality to him, though he was no saint.

Dad was almost always a fair man, with a genuine concern for his fellow man. Some of his surreptitious acts of kindness over years only surfaced after he passed away in ’81 with colon cancer at age of sixty one. One time he partially mortgaged our family home, packed to rafters with kids, to help a struggling wharfie and his family. There were also many times when he instinctively did simple but caring and thoughtful thing for people he hardly knew.

I remember Dads’ justice as clearly as I remember his face. He had an uncanny way of knowing who was in wrong, despite outright lies and preposterous exaggerations we heaped on him in explanation of our frequent sins. Of course he saw through bumph, and dispensed his justice accordingly. No “trial” or denial was tolerated when he knew he was right. The amazing thing was, he was almost always right!

Dad and Mum had other rebels to contend with as well as me. We were by no means perfect children. We had inherited his spunk. Some of us had mischievous natures sufficient to test any parent, even one with wisdom of Solomon. He somehow allowed our spirits to thrive while steering us through those formative years, and he did that with all thirteen of us.

He was justifiably a very proud man and he made sure we knew he was very proud of us all, as he would often tell us so. His was a family which revolved around him, and he was strong center of family unit. Still, how he and Mum managed to feed, house, educate, guide, correct and advise us, and keep us all on “straight and narrow”, I will never know.

Of course we had our chores, from washing and drying dishes to cleaning school shoes and collecting eggs from chook-pen in yard, to chopping great piles of wood and building fires to warm our bones on those cold Victorian winter mornings. There were many times when Dad would drag my brothers and I out of bed early on Saturday mornings to hitch up trailer and head for his mates’ place in bush to collect that firewood.

This wood collection ritual scared living daylights out of me. I wasn’t too keen on spiders and wood we collected was riddled with them. It was even hairier when one such hairy monster ran frantically down a log hanging out of open fireplace to escape immolation. My younger sisters, Carol and Christine used to shriek fit to pierce our eardrums, as only little girls can.

One time, after we had collected enough wood to sag old wooden trailers’ axle, Dad decided we should collect mushrooms for dinner in surrounding paddocks. Mum did wonderful things with fresh mushrooms and we didn’t mind chore. It was a beautiful day and I was glad to be clear of tarantulas’ I knew were itching to crawl into back seat of car to get at me, so off I set into a paddock among sheep.

I was about ten at time, in middle of a huge paddock covered in lush, green grass. I had been bending to pick a fine specimen of a mushroom when Dad called me loudly from fence, “Ronald”.

I merely turned my head in his direction without standing, and was promptly head-butted by a charging ram!

I was laid flat out flat on my stomach, with my face in a still warm “cow pattie” when he came running over to make sure I had survived onslaught. When I came to and he saw I would survive, his concern was over-ridden by tears of laughter as he hugged me hard. Eventually my tears dried and my head stopped aching. I was more peeved at apparent fact that ram hadn’t felt a thing.

To my embarrassment I heard him relate that story many times to his mates, but it was worth embarrassment because it always brought on more of his infectious laughter.

Dads’ relationships with various Catholic priests was over years was always a source of great fun for us. Various priests used to call at our modest house at “55”, usually on Friday nights, with a packet of fish and chips wrapped in newspaper under one arm, and a few bottles of beer under other. They would spend evening joking with Dad & Mum and teasing us kids, telling jokes and laughing a lot.

Of course, inevitable Irish singalong would ensue. Dads’ rendition of “Irish Eyes” kept us enthralled and had priests reminiscing about Eyre. We were so proud that our Dad had such a great voice and with priests as friends to boot. We were in awe that he was held in such respect by these men of cloth, and we were always entertained with humorous stories and friendly banter. We also leaned priests were very human. I sometimes thought that perhaps they envied Dad his family, and I know they respected man for way he conducted himself and his life. The night one of priests told Mum (a converted Methodist) that there was a place reserved for her in heaven because she had borne so many wonderful children “into Gods’ church” (we were all christened Catholics) she laughed and said “right, you won’t be seeing me at church anymore then” Dad laughed fit to cry. Mum, true to her word, didn’t turn up at church much after that, only for weddings and funerals.

But wait a minute!

Remember that unique baby name you choose will help define junior’s life - how they are viewed and accepted - for many, many years. What sounds cute and original for a 5-year-old, may not sound so funky for a 15-year-old…and what about a 55-year old?

Time was when only celebrities could get away with unique baby names (Zowie Bowie, Dweezil and Moon Unit Zappa, etc), but in modern world, individuality is more prized than ever before, and increasingly, this starts with our names. Great idea – but don’t allow a flash of a self-indulgence to condemn your child to a lifetime of problems; it’s reported that a Chinese couple named their child “Saddam Sars” to mark current world events at time of birth! I just hope it means something nice in Mandarin, or Cantonese!

This probably wouldn’t have happened in Germany, where names can only be registered if they recognizable, do not ridicule child and are gender specific. Perhaps there is at least one Chinese child in world, who will grow up wishing he/she were German!

So – assuming you are not German - what should you do if you want to create a unique baby name, without creating too many problems? Here are some tips and some warnings to make process less painful:

1. Anagrams: try creating an anagram of an existing name.

2. Father and Mother: try using derivatives of one of parents’ names, or a combination of both. Alternatively, how does mother’s maiden name sound as a first name?

3. Telescoping: try dropping letters from another name or a word, until you get a nice-sounding name.

4. Spelling: an unusual spelling of a common name creates uniqueness. However, remember that your child will be condemned to a lifetime of “…that’s David spelt D..A..Y..V..I..D…” conversations.

5. Pronunciation: another trick is to pronounce a common name in an unusual way. But this can also lead to a lifetime of corrections and explanations – as well as teasing and accusations of pretentiousness.

6. History: do some research into names that were popular in previous eras, but have become less so.

7. Family History: are there any unusual baby names that can be used to honor family members or ancestors? But beware family politics…

8. Nature: many names come from natural world, particularly flowers (e.g. Rose) and it’s a great source for unique baby names (e.g. Gwyneth Paltrow’s daughter Apple).