House of Assembly Fifty-Fifth Parliament, First Session (55-1) 55 1 Parliament of South Australia House of Assembly published Grievance Debate Lines, Mr Percy William Lines, Mr Percy William Ms HOOD House of Assembly Adelaide Ms HOOD (Adelaide) (15:30): While giving a recent tour of Parliament House to members of my community, a local constituent of mine, Lance Wright, mentioned to me that his great grandfather had become a well-known local figure outside parliament in the early to mid-1900s. I was fascinated by his great-grandfather's story and wanted to share it today as an important part of our city's history. What we know about Percy Lines' story is thanks to a feature article about Percy that appeared in People magazine published on 5 December 1951, more than 70 years ago. The article opens as follows: For two generations of South Australians, Percy William Lines, 'the blind man with the accordion', has been as much a part of the City of Adelaide as the town hall clock. But few know who he is and fewer still can remember back to the time when, as a stricken yet determined young man, he first appeared on the streets to earn a living. This is Percy Lines' story: for six days a week for almost 45 years, Percy Lines would play his old accordion on the streets of Adelaide. He first appeared in 1907 at the lower end of Rundle Street. In 1939 he moved to the intersection of King William Street and North Terrace, across from Parliament House where we are today. For six days a week he would leave his home in the outer suburbs early in the morning, walk half a mile to the tram and then would wait at the North Terrace intersection until either a pedestrian or the policeman on the beat would come to assist him to cross the road to the corner of King William. Why? Because Percy was blind. In his early 20s, while working in a mine in Broken Hill, a stick of dead dynamite, that had failed to go off and was considered harmless, had exploded fully in Percy's face, blinding him. He moved to Adelaide for treatment, spending a year in hospital, but the lenses of his eyes had shrivelled, the optic nerves had been rendered useless and he would be blind for as long as he would live. His year in hospital was followed by the Institute for the Blind, earning a small income making mats. He had no compensation and no pension. Those years were hell, Percy says in the article. When the cloud finally lifted, he took his accordion to play on the streets of Adelaide to earn a living for his family of six—five boys and a girl. Placing a sign on display that read 'totally blind' and sitting on his canvas stool, Percy would play his old accordion for the passers by. At lunchtime, he would feel his way along a fence to a cafe nearby where there would be a table waiting for him and he would, and I quote, 'eat with his fingers, his head close to the plate, pausing every few seconds to listen to the conversation around him'. In the afternoon, Percy would wait for one of his regulars to come by and put him on the 5.45pm tram home. To quote Percy himself from the article: When I took my accordion into Adelaide to play on the streets, I knew I was setting out on a hard road, but I knew too that I was spinning for myself and that money or no money I would at least find satisfaction. I found both. The money at first was light, but at least it was enough to live on. When I became better known my income improved and with the improvement came a conviction—the conviction that, though blind, I could provide for my family like any other father—that I could hold my head. At 74 years old, Percy lost his wife, a shock he never fully recovered from. One of his sons lived with him to keep him company. He also had 15 grandchildren. I will end with a quote, from the article, from Percy himself: I have always been independent, always insisted on paying my own way, and I don't intend to stop now. In heart I'm a happy man. I have my pipe, I have my glass of beer and I have my radio. Best of all, I have learned to put up with myself—and like it. Life has been worth living after all. Percy Lines died in September 1952, 10 months after his story was told in People magazine. He was 77 years old. Thank you to my local constituent Lance Wright for allowing me to share his great-grandfather's story and to Percy's extended family for keeping his memory alive. For those listening and who will read this in Hansard, I simply ask that next time you stand on the corner of King William Street and North Terrace please take a moment to imagine Percy Lines there, sitting on his canvas stool playing his old accordion to earn a living, one moment for a man who could teach us so much about true grit, perseverance and pride.