Gregory Michael Cannon was born on 13th May 1916 to May and Pat Cannon, who owned a property near Forbes called “Silver Row”.
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Greg was one of a family of seven boys and one girl.
These were the survivors of a family of eleven, two of whom died of pneumonia, for which there were no antibiotic drugs available in those days to treat it.
The third death, Terry aged five years, died of tetanus.
Growing up on “Silver Row” involved a lot of hard yakka, as farm work in those days involved a good deal more physical labour than it does now, as what mechanisation was available was still fairly primitive by today’s standards.
Along with working hard on the farm, they also played hard on the tennis court, and many tournaments were won and trophies brought home.
Gradually time went by and all but one of the boys got married. Harry, who remained single all his life, took up residence with his mother when she eventually left Silver Row” and went to live in Queen Street Forbes, while the others, including Greg and his wife Audrey, moved on to farm properties surrounding Forbes.
Molly, the only girl in the family got married to Darda Walker, and they bought a house in Farrand Street where Darda established a shop for agricultural supplies.
When the Second World War began, three of the “Silver Row” family joined the Armed Services.
Greg was keen on joining the Air Force, but instead got called up for National Service in the Australian Army, and it was at this time he met Audrey at a local dance.
By and by they married – their wedding was held at St Laurence O’Toole’s Catholic church in Forbes, along with Molly and Darda Walker’s wedding, just before Darda went to serve in Egypt as one of the “Rats of Tobruk.”
Greg and Audrey then bought a property about 20k north-west of Forbes, which they named “Binalong”.
They had their first child, Peter, in October 1943, Carol a couple of years later, then Marion, then me (Robert), then Christine.
During his years at Binalong, Dad continued to both work hard and play hard.
I remember the many tennis trophies he continued to bring home up until he reached his late thirties or early forties, when he finally hung up his tennis racquet and took up bowls.
Aside from his sporting talents, however, he also had another great talent, which was writing. I remember when he first started writing - it was back in about 1967.
He had his first book printed in May 1968, a little book titled: The Wearin’ of the Green”, which actually contains a poem with that title.
He subsequently produced four more books, some of which had second and third editions published. Each of these books contain a colourful mixture of poetry, yarns and stories.
One of the books, titled “Under Rural Skies” contains a rich and colourful history of the Cannon ancestry beginning with William Cannon, the original patriarch of the Cannon Clan, who migrated to Australia from Ireland back in1848.
My father was the strong male presence in our family, that is so necessary in a child's upbringing. He provided us with a keen knowledge of right and wrong. He taught us that desires fulfilled by usurping the rights of others was wrong.
Eulogy compiled by his son Robert Cannon
Related
For your enjoyment, two of Mr Cannon’s poems …
Rough rider
Booted and spurred
Astride the wild horse
An eye to the thews of his foe.
Like a rock that is cast and moulded in iron
Superbly he sits, his skill on the line,
Committed and waiting to go.
Away in a whirl
Of splendid eruption
Horse and the ride explode.
Respond to the wild and savage desire
For action, their spirits afire
At trespass of sinew and bone.
Through thunder and thud –
And flurry of hoof,
Tortured he clings to the leather,
While turbulence rolls in oceans of shock.
Pounds at his flesh to weaken the lock
That holds him fast at the whither.
Rough rider – rough rider,
Why do you ride?
Why do you reckon to dare?
Is it because of the challenge to win –
Or is it an inexplicable whim,
Just because it is there?
Death of a tree
I was a seed,
An elementary speck,
Spawned by the kiss of a wandering wind.
Cupped in my green cocoon,
The sap that arose
Had aroused within me
The spirit that tugged at my bonds
And I longed to be free.
“Alunga” the sun, Then severed my ties
And old Mother Earth
Had cradled me deep, In the mould of her forest floor.
I felt the patch of nomadic feet, The scorch of primitive fire
Corroborree stamp.
Then had the spears of the rain
Split open my skin
And the germ of my life released
Thrust down in the dark
Of the pregnant earth.
So had my roots clawed deep,
Welding the soil
And holding it fast
From the pilfering rat of erosion.
While over the generations.
The shaft of my soaring trunk
Reached out with its sheltering
Yes – I had sustained the land,
Clothed it in beauty,
Lifting my shawl to the wind,
Beckoning you.
Yet has the steel of your juggernaut,
Mighty with blade
And sickle of death,
Rolled over my forest.
My trunk is battered and bruised
And riven asunder.
My roots erupt to the thunder
That echoes my countless years,
As I come tumbling down.
In squandered heaps we lie,
My brothers and I.
The sap and the green of the arches are gone.
No more do I lift to the challenge of storm,
Nor can I sing
Of a timeless beauty.