We moved to Ipswich in the late 1970s. We’d bumbled about south-east Queensland after moving from New Zealand, until we finally settled on the outskirts of arguably Queensland’s second-most-important town (at the time, at least), in a caravan park in the suburb of Tivoli.
It wasn’t a great caravan park, all told, but I was 5 or 6 so what did I care?
Not long after, we moved to a house in North Ipswich, a suburb across the bridge from the main center of Ipswich City.
Growing up in Ipswich in the 1980s was, it feels weird to say, a very 80s experience. The wide streets - it is a country town, after all - gave it a vast vibe, and the bustling shopping district smack in the middle of the town was a hub of activity for anyone.
I first remember that town centre, getting the bus there with my father to get my hair cut at the barber (but only once; after that my mother cut my hair, so it was either too expensive, or they did a shit job). The business, the brilliant summer sun dampening colours, the strangers everywhere.
My father worked in Waltons, a department store, where we would go and see him now and then. My parents co-ran (or so I remember) a country music club called Dusty’s, where they would take us with them and my brothers and I would fall asleep under tables while the adults drank, sang and laughed above us.
We moved away briefly in the mid-80s, but came back and stayed - me until the mid-90s when I moved to Brisbane to be closer to work (having graduated High School in 1989).
A lot of stories in that town to be told. I’ll share them here along with other vignettes now and then.