THE MALONEY SCRAPBOOK

  Snippet of Family History - " We are born with a History, and we live to tell another Story " (Warren Maloney)   Snippet 12 - “Just another Prisoner of War” (Remembering Alan Stowell Cox in this Snippet of January 2019 written by Warren Maloney)   The rolling of the dice of life is often out of our control.  Alan Stowell Cox was born in Subiaco, Perth, on ANZAC Day, 25 th April, in 1917.  He was 3 years old when his father, Henry Blomfield Cox , committed suicide. Henry was 23 years older than Mary Ellen Cox (nee Marshall) [1] . They had lived together for over 4 years before their 2 nd child, Alan, was born. With 2 children under 6 and another one on the way, Henry and Mary returned to Sydney where they decided to marry; but within a year, the pressures of life became too much for Henry and he took poison to end it. Mary, despite her young age as a widow, just 31, and despite having now 3 child...

  A COUSIN I WOULD NEVER KNOW (Written by Warren Maloney about Alan Stowell Cox for Face Book – 25 th April 2017) [1] Alan Stowell (Al) Cox was born on ANZAC Day 1919, six months after WWI finished. He was three years old when his Father suicided. From there on, it was survival with his Mother and two Sisters  through the Depression. The textile factories were the families only income possibility.   He died in 1944 at a WWII Burma POW Camp hospital (of meningitis), less than 25 years later.  Some lives seem inevitable.   He was unmarried, unskilled, and unprepared. He enlisted 9 months after the War started, aged 21, and was assigned to the Field Ambulance, given some training, then sent to Singapore. Less than one year later he was part of the Singapore surrender. Two years later he was dead in one of the dreadful Japanese Death Camps. His Mum received a bunch of medals to remember him by. I guess she never got to visit the Burma Camp where ...

  EULOGY FOR OUR FRIEND,  DAVID  HAWKER (Eulogy written and delivered by Warren Maloney on Thursday, 8 th October 2015) [1]   Well, David, our friend, today it is our chance to say goodbye.      I remember back in August sitting with you in your Lumeah Lodge room and how we had wandered, as you do comfortably with old friends, over the usual range of topics from Collingwood and Carlton’s performance (or lack thereof) to Volkswagen cars to hours on the lawn mower to each other’s health (or what health we were prepared to discuss) to why Tiger Woods could not recover the magic; and then we dipped into silence. I remember that it was not the silence of exhaustion – nor was it that hospital silence of awkwardness. No, it was a silence without having to explain.   After a little while you tried to show me that you could stand and move with the aid of the walking frame. You were not successful and we both sat down again. You paused the...