From A Child’s Eyes

One day the boy sat in the car, watching Roger drive. The Chev had a crash gearbox, the gear stick rising from the floor. The boy studied the movement — the hand on the stick, the timing, the sound of gears that didn’t always quite meet.

“I reckon I could drive this car,” he said.

They were on a bush track. Roger glanced across and replied, “Alright. Let’s see you try.”

—

That small moment in the narrative stirred my memory.

I can still see that gear stick rising from the floor, still hear the gears protesting as Roger guided it through. Sounds belonging to a time long ago, sounds that still resonate.

It was early — very early — when we set out. We left our home in Guildford Rd, Kingswood and travelled east — along the Great Western Highway, then only a single lane each way. past Kingswood. The road felt long then. The world felt larger.

The sun began to rise as we moved along Parramatta Road, the sun — an uncompromising orange glow spread across horizon and cut through the morning, piercing the windscreen. It is a scene I can still see clearly, even now.

We arrived while most of the city was still waking.

The Sydney Markets were already alive. Men in leather aprons moved quickly through the chaos, pushing wooden trolley with metal wheels, lifting bags of potatoes, hauling wooden crates of fruit. There were voices everywhere — loud, urgent, and often unfamiliar. It was noisy, physical, assured.

I knew where we were. I knew why we were there. I was only 5 years old!

Roger had left teaching. He was trying something else — something less certain. The trip was part of that. We were buying produce for the fruit shop in High Street, Penrith.

It was a long morning — felt like the entire day had passed. But I wasn’t tired. I felt… included. Trusted, perhaps. Part of something that mattered.

I understood what we were doing.

I just didn’t understand what it meant.

—

It was only much later that I began to see it differently.

At the time, it was a trip to the Markets. An early start. A day that felt bigger than most.

But it was more than that.

It was a man stepping away from something secure and into something uncertain — and doing so without hesitation. Treating it not as a risk, but simply as what needed to be done.

And without knowing it, I was seeing more than the work itself.

I was seeing where he stood in the world.

And, in some quiet way, something about where I stood as well.

—

To some, it might seem ordinary.

It was anything but.

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Related Material

• Roger Cowan — a portrait, Part 5 of The Series.
• Roger Cowan OAM — a structured biographical overview.

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