One of my rules of life is to do things differently. If someone jumps a fence a certain way, then I’ll go out of my way to do it another — sometimes no doubt to my detriment. But I was brought up to be creative and unique. It’s important to push the boundaries of thinking, challenge the way things are done and question everything.
It’s not about being an exhibitionist or trying to stand out from a crowd for the sake of my ego — it’s about not becoming one of the masses. It’s about not conforming or being told what and how to think. It’s a fairly typical Australian trait — and my childhood in the bush encouraged that independence, the desire to do things my way.
Well, when it came to making Jenny’s and my relationship official, I thought I’d like to do something different. It occurred to me that with Jenny being on the radio, I had a glorious opportunity. So I put my thinking cap on and came up with an idea.
But first I needed to speak to Jenny’s parents, Norman and Noelene. I knew that at our age I wasn’t expected to ask them for her hand in marriage — a lot of people didn’t any more. But I wanted to because I thought it was the right thing to do, and it was what all my mates had done. In fact, they’d described it as one of the most traumatic things they’d ever had to do. Even though I’d heard this over and over from different friends, I’d been sure they were as weak as water. ‘Oh, you bloody pussycats. What’s wrong with you?’
Now it was my turn to find out how I would cope. An occasion presented itself within weeks. Jenny’s parents were going to be showing their Cairns terriers at a dog show at Manilla, half an hour north of Tamworth. The same weekend Jenny was attending an art workshop at Barraba, passing through Manilla on the way. It was the perfect opening.
Everything went according to plan. Jenny dropped me off in Manilla, no doubt wondering why in the world I’d want to spend the whole day at the dog show. An hour or two was one thing, but a whole day?
All I had to do was enjoy a yarn, watch a few parading dogs, pop the question and the task was complete. But it turned out to be easier said then done. All day I sat there, biding my time, waiting for the right moment. There were several occasions when Jenny’s mother, Noelene, was there but Norman wasn’t, or vice versa. Or they’d be talking to their friends and other dog breeders. It was right on the tip of my tongue a couple of times but then we’d be interrupted or the conversation would lead in another direction. By the end of the day I was like a tightly wound pocket watch — time was ticking away and I wasn’t getting anywhere. Finally I knew what my mates had been talking about.
There was no other choice but to try again. I told Jenny I’d had so much fun I’d decided to spend another day at the dog show. She couldn’t believe it. Neither could her parents. The next day too drained away. It was already lunchtime and I was no closer to asking the big question. Was my second opportunity slipping through my fingers? Suddenly there was a pause in conversation. I sat there like a sheep hesitating at a gateway. Then I plunged on through, with a pounding heart and deep breath.
‘I was wondering how you guys feel about me asking Jenny to marry me?’ I said.
Noelene answered immediately. ‘It’s okay with me.’
Norman took a little longer. ‘No …’ He paused. I couldn’t believe my ears.
‘… I don’t …’ Another pause.
He’s going to say no!
‘… see anything wrong with it.’
Talk about giving me a heart attack. I’d have broken out in a cold sweat if I had been able to. If a moment ago I had been that sheep baulking in panic at the gateway, I’d just made the sanctuary of the mob. My relief was overwhelming, palpable. I could taste it, smell it, breathe it in.
The laconic Norman apologised profusely. He hadn’t meant it to come out that way and we all laughed. Me loudest of all.
Until that day I’d occasionally wondered how Jenny’s parents felt about me being in a wheelchair. I know it was something that worried my father. He said he tried to imagine himself in their shoes. He said, ‘If Kate came home and said, “I’m going to marry this bloke in a wheelchair”, you’d have some second thoughts, wouldn’t you? I just hoped Jenny’s parents were okay about it. I wondered what they thought.’
But the Blacks say they had no reservations whatsoever. They were thrilled that we were going to become engaged because they knew how happy our relationship had made their daughter. According to Noelene, she wasn’t at all surprised. She remembered when Jenny met me, how she rang home at the first opportunity to tell her about this ‘wonderful person’ she’d interviewed. ‘I hope one day, Mum, you’ll get the opportunity to meet him,’ she had said.
Amazingly, Noelene suspected then that Jenny had special feelings for me. ‘With that mother’s instinct, I thought, Jen really likes this fellow … mothers know these things sometimes.’
In fact, Jenny often mentioned to her parents that she’d spoken to me and she’d inevitably end the conversation by saying how much she liked me, and her mother thought again there was something there. ‘One Christmas after they met, Sam rang to wish Jenny a Merry Christmas and I answered the phone and spoke to him for while. As I called Jenny to come to the phone, I remember thinking … I’ve never met this fellow but I feel as though I’ve known him for years.’
So it seems my request for Jenny’s hand in marriage wasn’t such a big surprise for her parents, although the fact I asked was a shock. That made me feel particularly glad I had. And their answer was such a bloody relief. Although I must admit, I haven’t been to a dog show since.
Once I had the green light from Jenny’s parents I began organising my surprise. Each weekday morning the ABC did a brain teaser, where the breakfast presenter asked listeners a quiz question right after Jenny’s rural report and people would phone in with the answer. Perhaps I could ring in with a question of my own. First I got in touch with the breakfast presenter, Bill Gleeson. He was immediately enthusiastic and thought my idea would work. We started planning it, speaking on the phone a number of times. Then Bill had to take sick leave. Disaster. One minute it was all coming together, the next it was all falling apart.
I was so disappointed I nearly gave up on the idea then and there. That weekend I packed a champagne bottle and couple of glasses in my suitcase. I was going down to Tamworth to help Jenny paint a room in her house. I thought, ‘I’ll send her out of the room and paint “Marry me?” on the wall.’
But fate, in the form of Marg Warden, stepped in. I happened to call in on her and Mike on my way to Jenny’s place and told them how my well-laid plans had come unstuck. When I told them what I was going to do instead, Marg wouldn’t have a bar of it. She couldn’t see why my original plan wasn’t still possible. ‘Why not talk to the station manager, Jackie Bowmer, instead? Here, let me take the champagne bottle and glasses out of your suitcase while you think about it.’
The following week I rang Jackie. She was every bit as excited as Bill had been about my idea. We worked out a scheme and had it all sorted out when we hit another snag. Unexpectedly, Jenny was asked to do the Country Hour, which went to air between noon and 1pm. She was to do the statewide program from the Tamworth studio all of the following week, which meant she didn’t have to start work until seven. She was so excited. I wasn’t. Again my plans were thrown out the window.
I called Jackie urgently. Luckily, she didn’t want to give up the idea either. We’d just have to figure out a way to get Jenny on the breakfast program. But how?
So the following week Jenny presented the Country Hour. Meanwhile, I’d told her I was off to Brisbane to catch up with friends. I didn’t want her suspecting anything. In reality, on Thursday afternoon I drove to Tamworth. As I was driving into town I phoned Jenny on my mobile.
‘Gidday, Jen.’
‘Hi, Sam. How’s Brisbane?’
‘I had a great trip up … what’s happening down there?’
‘Oh, Sam, you wouldn’t believe it. Just when I thought I was going to have the luxury of doing the Country Hour and no early starts, Jackie rang to say she’s not feeling very well and could I go in and do the breakfast program in the morning. I can’t believe it, although I must admit she did look off-colour today.’
I smiled to myself. Finally, things were falling into place. We chatted, and then I said, ‘Look, Jen, I’ve got to go. My mates are waiting and we’re about to go down to the pub. Catch you later.’
‘Bye, Sam. See you tomorrow.’
I hung up. There I was sitting in my car just outside Tamworth and she was sure I was in Brisbane. I spent the night with Mike and Marg, and hardly slept at all. I couldn’t wait to get to the studio the next morning.
By 6. 30am I’d had breakfast and was on my way to the studio with Marg and her eldest son, Jeremy. Bill Gleeson and the news journalist John McFarlane met us at the front door — what a surprise, I didn’t expect to see them. They helped me up a flight of stairs and whisked me into Jackie’s office, a small distance away from the studio.
Jenny was having a shocker of a program. There had been a power surge overnight and the highly computerised, hi-tech studio was experiencing a few glitches. The fact Jenny had had less than twelve hours’ notice — little time to prepare the program — probably wasn’t helping either.
It was approaching the seven o’clock news bulletin and the final music track started going to air. Jenny had completely forgotten the brain teaser. Suddenly Bill ran into the studio waving a piece of paper. She looked up, surprised. Bill had been off sick all week with the flu. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
He mumbled something about needing to do a few things before the weekend, then said, ‘Don’t forget the brain teaser.’ And he handed her the piece of paper with the day’s question. The music faded into Jenny’s voice: ‘Here’s this morning’s brain teaser. In which year did Australia bring home no gold medals from the Olympics? If you know the answer, give me a call after the news. It’s news time now on ABC Radio New England Northwest, it’s seven o’clock.’
Luckily Jenny didn’t come out of the studio or she would have discovered an unexpected hive of activity. She was too busy preparing the music and community notices for the next segment of the breakfast program. At eleven past seven she went back on air, read the brain teaser again and the day’s weather forecast. The phones started ringing.
Normally a producer answered the callers, typing names and towns of residence on a computer in the production suite, which also came up on the screen in the studio. But that day the computer wasn’t working. Instead someone had to furiously write the information on a piece of paper and run it into the studio. I told Bill to give Jenny a false name for me. He ran into the studio and handed her the paper. It read, ‘Line 1 — David from Manilla.’
Jenny hit the button for line 1. ‘Hello, David from Manilla?’ All she got was a busy tone.
‘We seem to be having problems with our phone lines this morning as well. If I can get someone up for the brain teaser I will.’ As she spoke she hit line 2, planning to put whoever it was straight to air. Busy. Each time Jenny hit a line it was the same. It was every radio broadcaster’s nightmare — live radio at its worst. Jenny thought it was due to failing technology, but unbeknown to her, the staff were dumping the outside calls because she was meant to get me.
Meanwhile, I was sitting there listening to all this — the frantic activity and voices in the production suite yelling, ‘Line 1, line 1, pick up line 1 … no, line 2, pick up line 2 …’ Poor old Jenny was on air apologising, on the verge of abandoning the brain teaser completely, and I was thinking it wasn’t going to happen. I was about to storm into the studio and yell, ‘Marry me,’ when finally my call got through.
‘Hello, I think we’ve finally got David from Manilla back on the line …’
‘Hello, Jenny Black, this is Sam Bailey from Croppa Creek.’
For a moment Jenny was completely stumped but then a small, surprised voice said, ‘Hello, Sam.’
‘Jenny, I’ve got absolutely no idea of the answer to your brain teaser this morning, but on New England Northwest radio I’ve got a brain teaser for you. Will you marry me and spend the rest of your life by my side?’
Silence. Giggle. Then she said, ‘I can’t believe this.’ Giggle.
‘Jen, I led you to believe I was going to be in Brisbane yesterday and today but in actual fact I’m making this call from the ABC office and here I have a big bunch of red roses, an ear tag with Sam on it and a bottle of that bubbly stuff. I was wondering if you’d like to join me.’
Still no reply, which was surprising because normally Jenny could talk under wet cement. But she just giggled and kept saying, ‘I can’t believe this … I can’t believe this.’
‘But first you’ve got to give me an answer to my question.’
Finally she replied. ‘Yes, Sam. Yes, I’ll marry you.’
She put on a music track and almost ran out of the studio. The first person she saw was a very hale and hearty Jackie. And then there was Bill, who was meant to be off sick, and John McFarlane, who was meant to be on the afternoon shift. ‘You were all in on this!’
They hugged and congratulated her and then she ran to me. It was such a fantastic moment. We wrapped our arms around each other and kissed. And it was all captured on video. Completely by chance was a young guy doing work experience there that week and he brought in his video camera. He videoed the whole thing, which was pretty amazing. It was particularly lucky because in all the rush that morning Jenny had forgotten to put on the logger tape — which normally records everything that goes to air — so we hadn’t managed to catch it on audio.
Then the most unexpected thing happened. The phone lines all lit up and the fax machine started going flat out. In fact, it ran out of paper, as dozens of listeners wrote to congratulate us. We were taking calls for three hours — it was overwhelming, mind-blowing.
I’d been ready for a couple of calls. I’d told my parents and Jenny’s of my intentions and mentioned to a few friends I was going to talk to Jenny on the radio that morning. But I didn’t anticipate such an outpouring of emotion, mostly from complete strangers. What I hadn’t factored in was the power of radio.
One guy called and told Jenny, ‘I’ve been listening to you for years. You don’t know me but I feel like I know you and I just had to call and tell you, that’s the best bit of radio I’ve ever heard.’
People seemed genuinely moved. Some — men included — even said my proposal brought tears to their eyes. To this day we still meet people who vividly remember it. We might be having a hamburger in a café at Narrabri and someone will recognise us, and reminisce about hearing the radio that morning.
It’s obviously something that stuck in people’s minds and even if they didn’t hear it they might recall their mother or grandmother or friend saying, ‘We heard a fantastic thing on the radio this morning.’ One of those things you remember, like man walking on the moon. The response was humbling and unexpected.
Later I tried to put my finger on why it touched a nerve with people. Perhaps it was because a proposal was normally a private, yet very special moment in someone’s life and they got to share ours that morning. Perhaps it was because people were relieved to hear something positive, a good news story. They normally tuned into the radio and heard about wars or murders or car accidents or some other chaos. That day people were lying in bed, getting ready to face the day and all of a sudden they heard something uplifting and happy.
Maybe it’s because deep down inside most people are sentimental; and the male listeners responded as much as the women did. Many people thought it was romantic. Funny, I wasn’t thinking about romance when I was planning it. I just wanted to do something different and memorable. Once I’d planted the seed, I was too busy trying to make it grow to think about anything else. I imagined I’d jump off the tractor, hop in the car, drive down to Tamworth, pop the question, have lunch with Jen and be back on the tractor that afternoon.
How wrong I was. Prime Television and the local newspaper, the Northern Daily Leader, wanted to do a story, and we ended up in Column 8 of the Sydney Morning Herald the next day. Jenny was supposed to be riding at a one-day event that weekend, but she never made it. It was far too extraordinary a time to want to rush away to other things.
After the proposal quite a few people said to me quite seriously, ‘Sam, what were you going to do if she said no?’ I had no qualms about that. I knew it would probably stump her, but I had been one hundred per cent sure she’d say yes.
I guess the really terrific thing about it was that some people knew I had had a car accident and was a quadriplegic and that threw a whole different light on it. They knew I’d been to hell and back, so I think it was a great uplifting moment for us all. My little trick worked, way beyond my wildest imaginings.
The time between becoming engaged and marriage was one of the most wonderful in my life. There were engagement parties, a buck’s party and a chance to catch up with old friends I hadn’t seen in quite a while. It was also exciting because we were making plans for our future together.
Jenny and I discussed the idea of moving into the old house at Pine Hills. It hadn’t been lived in for eight years and had fallen into some disrepair, so we decided to go over to check it out. What a sight it must have been — the two of us, a wheelchair and our dogs — as we piled onto the four-wheel bike and headed off.
The house, built in 1916, had been quite grand in its early days with wide sweeping verandahs and large timber casement windows. But it was only a ghost of its former self. The gutters were hanging sadly, the verandah boards were rotting away and when I sat inside in my wheelchair, it rolled across the room all of its own accord. Part of the roof had blown off a small two-room building behind the house and its floor was covered in sheep droppings. A nearby timber car shed had completely collapsed. The once impressive garden was long since gone. Sheep and cattle had grazed most of the garden plants to the ground, and they’d been replaced by overgrown grass and weeds. It was going to need some serious repairs and maintenance.
When we got back it was lunchtime and Mum — who was keen to know the outcome of our visit — was in the kitchen preparing a salad. ‘Hi, Libby, can I help?’ said Jenny.
As the two of them chopped away, not a word passed Jenny’s lips about our trip over to see the house at Pine Hills. Mum went on cutting up carrots on the chopping board, waiting. Finally it got the better of her. ‘What did you think of the house?’
Jenny paused and then said in a rather offhand manner, ‘Oh, I think I’d put a bulldozer through it.’
Mum saw red and started fuming. She found herself thinking, ‘I don’t know why I’m getting lunch for you … you little twerp.’ She almost broke the chopping board as she finished cutting up the salad, she whacked the knife down so hard. ‘I reckon it’d probably be just as easy to put a match to it …’ Jenny added. But then the look on Mum’s face got too much for her. She lost it completely, bursting into peals of laughter. ‘I’m only joking … I absolutely loved it!’
A few months later, when Jenny arrived the week before the wedding, I wasn’t so sure how she felt about it. She had just driven down our driveway — five kilometres of partly blacksoil bush track — to deliver her final carload of goods and chattels. She walked onto the verandah and burst into tears. There she stood at the top of the back stairs, a pile of rocks and cement and rubble, with tears pouring down her face, sobbing her heart out.
Beside her on the verandah, where the local wildlife had regularly sheltered from the weather, lay a scattering of roo droppings. Before her stood her new home. By then basic repairs were done. The building had been restumped, verandah boards had been replaced, the kitchen and bathrooms given a basic overhaul and new gutters now meant the rainwater tank might actually catch some runoff.
There was no doubting its potential, but at that stage it was still a long way from being a home. A daunting cleaning and renovation job lay ahead. Hornets’ nests snuggled into the corners of the rooms and cobwebs hung like dusty curtains from the ceilings. The windows were covered in dirty skid marks where birds had been throwing themselves at their own reflections in the glass. Jenny’s belongings were in pieces or packed in boxes, scattered throughout the house, delivered hastily a couple of weeks earlier.
Since then she’d been sleeping in her swag and eating out of an esky while she finished painting her house at Tamworth ready for tenants. She had been wielding a paintbrush from dawn until well after dark for days. Add the stress of organising a wedding and it was a fatal mix.
She’d also had to say a few goodbyes. A month earlier she’d farewelled her loyal ABC listeners in an emotional final program. While I don’t think she fully appreciated it at the time, it was a big step giving up her career to move to Croppa Creek to marry me. She was leaving behind a high-profile job that in her mind defined who she was. That was something she didn’t even recognise herself for a long time, but eventually she was able to put that image of herself behind her and find a new sense of who she was.
Not only was she leaving her job, career and house behind, she was also moving away from her friends in Tamworth and further away from her family at Scone. While getting married was an incredibly joyous, wonderful time, it was also a time of grieving — which Jenny, like most people, didn’t realise. She said about her crying, ‘I don’t think I was unhappy … it was just the symptom of being on an emotional rollercoaster. I was really excited about it as well. It was exciting to go and do something different and start a whole new life. It was exciting to be with Sam.’
On 20 March 1999 Jenny and I were married in The Armidale School chapel. I didn’t have any of the nerves many people say they have. I couldn’t wait to get to the church, see Jenny and become her husband. As I waited at the front of the chapel, I felt an overwhelming sense of amazement — disbelief that I was really there waiting for my bride. It seemed surreal that all those people behind me in the pews were there to watch us exchange vows. So many times I’d sat among the congregation and witnessed the wedding of other people, never believing it would ever happen to me. I sat there with four of my best mates and my brother beside me and felt like one of the pack again, surrounded by friends — many who’d sat with the fit, young, physical me in that same chapel throughout my school years. At that moment, it no longer mattered that I was in a wheelchair.
As Jenny walked down the aisle, I made a funny face at her — it was my way of expressing my joy and absolute happiness to her. I wanted to laugh and cry and fly all at the same time.
We turned to face the minister, Reverend Bill Howarth, whom we’d especially invited back for the occasion. Formerly my school chaplain, he’d conducted the eerie prayer service in that very same building all those years before, the night I could have died.
And so the man and the chapel completed the circle. They were the link between the lowest and highest points in my journey as a quadriplegic. It seemed appropriate that it was so.
‘Do you, Sam Alexander Bailey, take Jennifer Maree Black to be your lawful, wedded wife?’
I shouted out ‘I do!’ so loudly it echoed around the rafters. It erupted, exploded from my mouth, propelled by all the love for Jenny I felt inside me. Perhaps, in a way, I was yelling it from my mountaintop. Everyone roared with laughter.
Later Mum and Dad said that moment would stay with them forever. After a twelve-year rollercoaster ride from the depths of despair, to soaring achievements and everything in between, they thought this was by far the highest point — the day they knew their eldest son had finally found true, uninhibited happiness.
For me, my favourite moment was when I took Jenny’s hand after she’d walked up the aisle. I knew than, metaphorically, that I’d never have to let it go. In the weeks leading up to our wedding we’d talked about how wonderful it was going to be not to have to say goodbye ever again. I hated it when I was visiting Jenny in Tamworth and on Sunday afternoons I had to leave.
These days most people live together before they marry — they call it try before you buy — but we never did. Obviously in my situation it was pretty much impossible because I lived with my parents, but I wouldn’t have done it anyway. I think not living together was a bonus because the wedding wasn’t only about having a party and signing a document, it was the beginning of a whole new life for both of us. Now we had our whole lives ahead of us to get to know each other. I couldn’t wait to learn the little things, like how Jenny put the toothpaste on her toothbrush, how she brushed her hair, her likes and dislikes. It was the mundane, everyday things that I looked forward to sharing.
But our marriage ceremony meant much more than that even. It changed my life and gave me an independence and freedom to pursue my own dreams in a way that had never before been possible. It opened another gateway and led me down a new and unexpected path.