For Adrian Callinan: 'His last words on that night were, ’I am so proud of you', by Damian Callinan - 2017

5 July 2017, Greensborough, Melbourne, Australia

Hello friends and family of Adrian. I’m Damian, Adrian’s youngest son & the member of the family least likely to require counselling after a public speaking engagement. I did contemplate turning up this morning and feigning laryngitis just to see their eyes widen … [feigning raspy voice] … ’Sorry, can’t do it guys … one of you will have to step up … Chris where are you going? … Michelle, Net … Paul? … Why are you lying down?

Anyway, one behalf of my Glossophobic siblings, I'd like to welcome you and thank you for coming to pay respects to the wonderful Adrian Paul Callinan.

I did say to dad, only one year ago, if he got to 93, he'd only have to make one more, and then it's just a six to bring up the ton.

[Roll Call & Thankyous]

As most of you would know Mum passed away in 2008 and to be honest dad, you haven't even come close to her numbers … so you need to have a good hard look at yourself … seriously … it was standing room at mums … we even had people dressing up as priests to try to score a seat on the altar.

I also did the eulogy at Mum’s funeral. Dad used to keep copies of it and proudly handed out. Mostly to people he knew, but not always. In fact I took him on tour with me 6 months after mum died & I think it may have led to me copping a fine from that cop who pulled us over just out of Ararat … ’I’ve got this dad …  No, a copy of Mum's eulogy won’t help … alright …double demerits, your most kind officer.’

My friend, writer and Public speaker Tony Wilson used mum’s eulogy to launch his website ‘Speakola’ - a repository of public speeches of all ilks, from all comers … it’s a wonderful addition to the world.

Tony has been kind enough to share some of the stats with me. At 3512 views and 52 shares, Mum's is the second most read eulogy after Eric Idle’s Eulogy of George Harrison. Which means mum, while coming second to the Beatles is more popular than the Rolling Stones. According to Tone, mum’s speech has been more popular than the likes of Martin Luther King & Ted Whitten.

So the pressure is on Adey Babe. My view is why shy way from a winning formula, so I’ll be drawing influence from mum’s speech … here we go …

Adrian Callinan was the eldest daughter of Jack and May Purcell. He attended Santa Maria Ladies College in Northcote where he was captain of the school netball team and … hang on, I probably should have edited this a bit more … I might've have to go off notes

[Put notes aside]

Adrian went by many names … ‘Stringer’ … for which no satisfying explanation was ever been proferred. He was dubbed Adey Babe by dear family friend Jeanie P and he never lost that moniker, did you Adey Babe? He occasionally got Hadrian as in the wall; Hiraji as in 1948 Melbourne cup Winner … & Age, as in the declining Fairfax newspaper.

Mum had a few variations … ‘Oh Adriannn’ the most famous. Used at times of peak frustration, like when dad decided to go to the toilet just as they were about to go out. To understand the scale of her frustration, dad could be in there for considerable periods of time. In 1992 alone, he missed Annette’s birthday, the change of federal government and most of August. But mostly she said his name 3 times with increasing volume until he heard her … ‘Adrian! … Adrian!!! …. Adrian!!!!!!! … you're putting sugar on the salmon patties!’ Some times she truncated all 3 into one ‘Adri … Ade … Adrian!! … the toaster doesn't go in in the fridge!!’

Whatever you called him, you loved him. We often pump up the tyres of the recently deceased but much like mum, that isn’t necessary with dad. He was universally loved and admired. Our family have been inundated with messages this week from so many disparate sources commenting on how dad had touched their lives from our friends, ex-students, winemakers, teaching colleagues the managers at Bundoora Retirement Village, winemakers … actually mainly winemakers … Even the Ararat Police Station gave us a call.

Dad was multi layered as most quality people are. An Educator, son, thespian, husband, welfare volunteer, grand dad, wine connoisseur, great grand dad, confidant, brother, athlete, uncle, mentor, lover of literature & the arts, and of course a purveyor of fashion … which reached it’s high point in the 70’s

Here we see dad and mum at the Cluden Races in Townsville circa 1974. Look at him absolutely owning his batik over shirt with pockets. He also wore a Safari Suit better than Don Dunstan, made walk socks and walk short ensemble his signature look and as you’ll see in the later montage, he didn’t mind popping his leg up to show off his wares … ‘Hi, I’m Adey Babe … Cancer’

Today I’d like to shed light on the different versions of Adey Babe … He is looking a bit mobster up there and that’s not surprising because dad didn't mind getting involved in an under hand negotiations, of which mum may or may not have been aware. t’s become apparent over recent days that we have all been involved that dad was a deal broker.

Paul & Annette - were offered use of the family car of a Saturday in exchange for babysitting the brats … Michelle & I

Chris - in Year 7 Chris was offered financial incentives to read … a shilling a book I think, I’m not sure what currency you used back in your youth … it didn't work. It’s a credit to Chris that he has carved out a 40 year career in education without being able to read a single word … look at him sitting there holding onto the mass booklet… so cute … it’s upside down mate

I was the lucky one.  We 5 are offspring of a mixed marriage. Mum, first cousin to the great Phonse Kyne, had no choice but to barrack for Collingwood. Dad, an early adapter to the use of untested, performance enhancing drugs was destined to barrack for Essendon.

Aged 8 and still trying to squeeze into the Collingwood jumper Nana Purcell had made me, dad took me aside and said ‘if you barrack for Essendon, I’ll take you to the footy every week’ … I didn't concede straight away but over a period of 18 months of watching the Dons get flogged at Windy Hill, I slowly shed by black & white striped skin and awoke black with a red sash. Immediately my teeth stopped aching, my vocab improved & I stopped spitting at strangers. With Chis already a Bomber, Paul was gutted. He was from that day condemned to a life time of going to the footy on his own. Lacking the vocabulary to articulate his pain, he just spits in our general direction from time to time.

Then there was dad the athlete.

That, ladies & gentleman, is the ‘Brunswick Flash’

Dad excelled at sport at school and was a member of the 1st 18 Footy team, 1st 11 cricket team & Senior Athletics team at Parade Christian Brothers. As were Chris and I … Paul also … attended Parade. To be fair Paul was the Due of Latin … Speaking a dead language has been of great solace to him over the years.

Post school years, dad’s sports stories seemed to take on a more epic scale. One Saturday after one of his regular Friday pub sessions with his teaching cohorts, he claims he awoke with a prodigious hangover. Mum made him a bowl of porridge and sent to him off to the game where he proceeded to kick a bag of 8 goals for Bacchus Marsh. One of the goals, said to be roosted from the centre of the ground, was immortalised in the Bacchus Marsh local paper under the head line ‘The Goal That Callinan kicked.’ From then on mum superstitiously made him porridge every Saturday morning but he never got close to repeating his heroics that day at Maddingley Park.

However, his most told story was so full of inaccuracies, that we used to ask him to repeat it just to see how far he could bend reality. The story goes that whilst competing for Brunswick YCW Athletics team in the grand final, the scores were locked together and it was decided that the teams would select their best athlete to race off. The event chosen: the 300m … yeah, not one of the more well known events. Apparently the ‘Between the Legs Javelin’ & ‘Backwards Triple Jump’ were also considered.

Dad put his hand up, for as it transpired, the 300m was dad’s pet event. Despite almost never being added to the card at any meet ever, he had secretly trained for this eventuality. He settled into his blocks, the recently injected pig enzymes taking affect, the gun went off and Dad romped to victory. The winning margin longer with every telling. In the last rending he crossed the line 365 metres in front of his opponent.

This is Airman Adey Babe

Leading Aircraft Man 116548 -
Enlisted - July 31st, 1942
Discharged - September 15th, 1945

This is the version of dad we knew the least. Like many of his generation he kept his war experience close to his chest.

In the footsteps of his brother Tony, already serving as navigator in the European theatre, dad joined the RAAF in the hope of becoming a pilot but due to an inner ear condition and testing positive to Peptides, he became a Radar Operator. He served in Darwin & the Atherton Tablelands. According to his service record we do know that a/ he was rated at of very good character b/ He was ranked as A Class in Trade proficiency 3/ he was wounded in action… though he fact that he could barely change a light blue in civilian life, the wonder was he wasn’t electrocuted more often … what, too soon?

Meet Adrian the Thespian

… that’s dad in Moliere’s ‘Tartuffe’ in 1948

Dad took great delight in telling the story that he was introduced to mum by their mate Tom Duffy after he had played a game of footy for Brunswick YCW. Dad took an immediate shine to her and asked her on date. Unable to think where they should go, he suggested that she come & see him perform in a play the following week. The plays title - ‘He Was Born Gay’ by Auberon Waugh … If mum had seen that photo, it’s unlikely the date would ever have occurred.

Back in the 40’s Dad starred in Melbourne Uni Revues and formed a stage alliance with his good mate Jack Cooper. Together they co-founded the the Cardijnian Players with the likes of author Ron Conway and Tony Coburn who went on to fame as the director of Patrol Boat in the UK. Mum reckoned that when they moved the to the country dad would either join the local Rep group or start one if there wasn’t. Mum would take care of the costumes, host the wrap parties and set up the trundle bed so he wouldn't keep her awake form snoring.

His passion for theatre spilled over into his teaching and he would continue to direct school plays and musicals even after he had become the Principal. On retirement he picked up where he left off and joined the Heidelberg Theatre Company where, amongst other pieces, he starred in Rome & Juliet alongside Dame Judi Dench and Sir John Geilgud … just seeing if you are all still listening.

I never did get to perform with dad but he did do a rehearsed play reading with our nephew David Callinan … & pretty much blew him off the stage … sorry Dave

Meet Adrian the Self Styled Sommelier

He didn't let go of that bottle of Grange all night.

For a man who couldn't so much as prepare a single leaf salad without dressing, Adrian loved to host a dinner party. However mum’s culinary skills paired with his wine knowledge meant they rarely had a knock back. Mum would buzz around the kitchen whipping up a multi feast course feast while dad moved around behind her washing up and putting away everything she didn't want washed up and put away.

So mum would shuffle him off so she could prepare the ingredients for the Fondue or Beef Stroganoff, and dad would repair to the bottom of the linen closet and select the wines for the night. This process could last so long, you would have sworn he was in the toilet. He’d consult his wine magazines, scrapbook journals and then light his pinot infused candle at his James Halliday Altar before lining up the selection for the evening on the ‘buffet’ and begin to decant. The selection would then be logged in their dinner party journal along with mum’s menu and the list of guests, a virgin would be sacrificed, preferably from Bordeaux or Burgundy … and then they'd bring out the cheese board.

And then there is dad the teacher

That’s my sister Michelle & I with dad at his new desk at Greenwood High School. His first gig as Principal

While he flirted with career on the stage, dad never missed a beat once he became a teacher. He was bloody good one too.  Former students would regularly get in contact with dad years down the track to let him know that they has achieved their dream thanks to his support.

On Friday when we sat down down to arrange the funeral with Gabriel Walsh told us that only the week before, a local guy she had dealings with had told her that dad was the reason he was doing what he was doing today. Rod was student at Greenwood & a habitual truent. Dad went around to his house and told him to try to come to school a couple of days a week. He agreed but soon enough his attendance fell way so dad went back & dragged him to school and told him to build a shed. He did and it was a good shed. Rod is now a successful builder & developer.

Even as principal dad got his hands dirty,  directing the school plays and taking remedial English classes for the senior students before hours.

He was loved and esteemed by his colleagues some of whom are with us today Ken Rigby, Glennys & Ian Collis, Geraldine Sullivan

But it wasn't just his students and peers who rated him. Have a listen to these Education Department Review Quotes …

His first school Bacchus Marsh HS 1951-55 — ‘A brisk and vigorous teacher: presents lessons clearly with good use of questioning & blackboard & performs numerous extra-curricular activities including bookstore accounts and dramatic work most efficiently

Then to Warragul HS 1956-59 - ‘A very sincere, thorough & capable teacher. Presents lessons on sound lines securing very good co-operation from his classes. A valuable member of staff.’

Let’s skip forward a few years passed Oak Park HS, Eltham HS & Strathmore HS to when he got his first Principal Job at Greenwood HS

Greenwood HS - ‘Adrian Callinan deserves a sainthood for lasting a single term let alone 5 years. When I walked into the school I had never seen such a feral bunch of long haired, unemployable layabouts and that was just the staffroom. Those teachers are so left wing they make Lenin look like a fascist. I’d burn the place down and start again but most likely one of them will fall asleep at their desk with a spliff in the hands and do it for us. Thankfully Adrian has been able to take refuge from the carnage in a rather good shed built at the rear of the school.

Then there is the husband and father.

If you thought he was good at the other stuff, in this department he was world class!

We all had close but very different relationships with dad and our first memories are telling. Annette recalled dad finding her knickers in his briefcase at a Bacchus Marsh High School Staff Meeting; Michelle getting trinkets from dad after he got home for teaching Night School; Chris hearing dad singing happy birthday through the radiogram; Paul recalls dad’s poor attempts at leg spin in the backyard … & I remember his face through the glass in the line up at the orphanage.

The love story of Adrian & Kathleen reads like an old school Hollywood romance … that keeps going well beyond the credits. Their post war courtship courtship was Gene Kelly & Kathryn Grayson in ‘Anchors Aweigh’… their country years were Eva Gabor and Eddie Albert in Green Acres … their burgeoning family was Clifton Webb & Jeanne Crane in ‘Cheaper By The Dozen’… their dotage ‘On Golden Pond’ with Henry Fonda & Katherine Hepburn

But no Hollywood screen writer would have come up with the the cruel plot twist at the end of their beautiful 61 year relationship.

The unfathomably sad circumstances that took mum away from dad could easily have broken a lesser man. He had every right to wallow in self pity but he actively chose to hold himself together so we wouldn't lose both parents to the same tragedy. Watching that beautiful man apologise to his wife as her live ebbed away is the most profoundly brave and loving act I’ve witnessed. Seemingly from that moment he lifted his head and walked forward to forge a new life without the woman he adored and who adored him.

[Gets out handkerchief from his pocket and finds instead a pair of female undies]

Annette!!!!!

When dad retired mum and he started a very happy phase of their lives together but the School Principal in him was slow to recede and from week one they would schedule weekly ‘Staff Meetings’ of a Monday morning. This sounds like I am making this up but I’m not. On the agenda would be items for discussion such as medical appointments, correspondence to be written, dinner parties to arrange, should we put a phone in the toilet …

Since mum passed away of course the meetings sadly stopped, but you will be pleased to know that as of this Monday passed, the meetings have reconvened and I just happen to have the Minutes from that very meeting … written by mum

Minutes - Kathleen & Adrian Callinan Monday Staff Meeting - July 3rd, 2017

Present - Kathleen & Adrian

Apologies - None

Schedules - 10am

Commenced - 10.38am [Adrian was in the toilet]

Order of Business

•     Join Pearly Gates West Beef & Burgundy Club

•     Locate nearest Dan Murphy

•     Jack Cooper to take Adrian to join ‘Kingdom Come Amateur Theatre Company’

•     Get hearing aid batteries

•     Speak to Dr O’Shea about Adrian’s IBS [I’ve told him that this stuff doesn't matter any more but he won’t be dissuaded]

•     Redo the now more extended Christmas card list

•     Decide on menu for dinner party with the Duffys, Jack Cooper, Jack Leonard, Jesus and Jeanie P - thinking kai si ming and pavlova

•     Adrian is keen to buy a new car … have managed to put this off for the time being

I wrote this reflection about dad the night after he passed away. It was raw and flowed out as if he were over my shoulder helping me find the words. I’ll read it now it sums up best what dad meant too me

The last drizzles of colour cascaded from mid air only to disappear in less impressive drifts of smoke. Horns from boats on the harbour and distant cheers replaced the cacophony of the pyrotechnics and we were able to resume our conversation. The sulphurous hangover lingered as I stood on the balcony and detailed the magic of my night thus far. He hung off my every word in much the way I had done when he read to me of a night in my childhood bed. I loved the longer narratives of Arthur Conan Doyle and the word plays of Bennet Cerf, but it was the magical worlds of faeries conjured by WB Yeats and the canny lasses of Robby Burns that made me sit up and clutch my spare pillow. The accents and oratorial poise he summoned, seemed to take me directly to fog shrouded isles and moonlit corn rows. I loved those nights. But on this night the roles were reversed. The noise & clatter of a Sydney New Years Eve faded in the background as I spoke to him on the balcony of the Opera House amidst the revellers whose post operatic party we had crashed. Still in the glow of a preview performance of ‘The Complete Works of Shakespeare' in the Playhouse, the English Lit teacher in him swooned at descriptions of analysing the Bard's text in rehearsal; The Actor in him delighted in hearing tales of my improvisations during the constructed mayhem of the piece and the Father in him swelled with pride. It remains one of the most profoundly happy conversations of my life. He gushed with envy and I told him how much of an impact his passion for literature and theatre had fundamentally shaped who I am. His last words on that night were … ’I am so proud of you.’ …. A couple of nights ago, in a lucid moment amidst fits of delirium, I held both of his hands and his eyes locked onto mine and he said it again. They were his last words to me … ‘Farewell Adrian, if we do meet again, why we shall smile: if not, then this parting was well made'

In the last year or so I occasionally returned the favour and read to dad. Often choosing every poems and prose he had read to me as a child. With his memories fraying at the edges he would pick up and join in with me on some poems. We both loved Robbie Burns and this was our favourite … so one more time with feeling Adey babe

Corn Rigs & Barley Rigs - Robbie Burns

It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonie,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie;

The time flew by, wi' tentless heed,
Till, 'tween the late and early,
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed
To see me thro' the barley.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,
An' corn rigs are bonie:
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down, wi' right good will,
Amang the rigs o' barley:

I ken't her heart was a' my ain;
I lov'd her most sincerely;
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,
Amang the rigs o' barley.

I lock'd her in my fond embrace;
Her heart was beating rarely:
My blessings on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o' barley!
But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly!
She aye shall bless that happy night
Amang the rigs o' barley.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,
An' corn rigs are bonie:
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

Related speeches: Damian Callinan's eulogy for his mother Kathleen & Damian Callinan's story about loquat jam and his mother's death.

for Paul Cox: "At this stage I believe in nothing and everything", by John Clarke - 2016

filmmaker Paul Cox died on 18 June 2016, Melbourne, Australia

There is no available audio or video of this speech

When Paul Cox was moved from hospital into palliative care, we prepared ourselves for tough news. Paul was getting smaller and weaker, his voice was in retreat and family and friends had attended his bedside to say their goodbyes.

His siblings flew out from Europe. I didn't expect to see him again. A week or so later, Paul decided he was going home and explained to the palliative care people that although he loved them dearly, he would not be dying just yet.

He travelled home in a Popemobile-shaped taxi and began blessing people as he passed them in the street. This cheered him up enormously and when we saw him a few days later he rose to meet us, offered us coffee and sat rather grandly in a chair, chatting for hours with a keen emphasis on the future.

His voice was stronger, his memory was wonderful, his manners were elegant, his talk was clever and in some cases what he said was astonishing.

At 7 o'clock each evening, for example, he went out on to his little balcony in Melbourne and raised both arms high in the air in order to receive healing waves being beamed to him by a woman in Uzbekistan.

Paul was very amusing about all this but as he said, 'at this stage I believe in nothing and everything'.

A few years earlier, the first time he was going to die, he received a liver transplant and, in a state of profound gratitude, he continued writing and making films.

Last year he made a movie in which David Wenham played a man who has a liver transplant and falls in love. Paul met his partner Rosie when they were both receiving liver transplants. He was in his late sixties at the time and she is a beautiful Balinese woman of somewhat more tender years.

"I know what you're thinking Johnny," Cox said to me when he introduced us. "Rosie is much younger than I am. But I want you to know Johnny, my liver is younger than Rosie's."

Half a lifetime ago Paul and I wrote some films together and we've always stayed in touch. I'd never written a movie before and I quickly learnt it was no use suggesting to Paul a thematically consistent sequence involving sport, for example. That wouldn't fit in a Cox film. Too healthy. And there wasn't much interest in men who fixed cars and called each other 'mate'.

Paul's films looked like Dutch interiors with dappled light playing through the window and they were full of urban characters who were ill at ease, often slightly wounded or suffering from incongruity of some kind.

As with many collaborations, we wrote by talking a lot together and then writing separately. Paul's house was always full of good conversation. At one stage Werner Herzog was living in a shed in the backyard with a dingo.

Peter Watkins also lived there at some point, while he and Paul were discussing a film project. Peter had made the brilliant 1964 docudrama 'Culloden' in which 1960s British journalists report live from a battle which occurred in 1745. This strategy of anachronism was new in 1964 and the effect in 'Culloden' was terrifying.

Paul's public presentation was that of a serious artist but he was nevertheless given to fits of amusement which produced a snuffling and rumbling sound such as might occur if a badger were attempting not to explode. When he regrouped, he expressed matters once more in his formal mode, which was not unlike an antiques catalogue.

A suggestion which would solve a problem was 'good,' a great idea for a scene was 'fine,' and if he completely approved of a whole section of plot and dialogue he would pronounce it 'very fine'; as in 'I read that section again last night Johnny. That really is very fine.'

When Lonely Hearts, the first film we wrote together, was about to be released 35 years ago, Paul wrote me a letter which I have always kept. In the last line of the letter he said he hoped that having worked on this film together and seeing it come to fruition, would 'strengthen our shy human friendship'. It did.

Having received blessings from Uzbekistan, Paul announced he was going to America. The only people who thought this wouldn't happen were those unfamiliar with Paul's willpower. The doctors wouldn't allow him to fly across the Pacific for 14 hours so he'd negotiated overnight stays in Bangkok, Dubai and Frankfurt and then a trip across the Atlantic to Chicago.

His film Force of Destiny was to play at the Ebert Film Festival and Paul had been invited to speak. Rosie would go with him and make sure he rested, ate the right food and took his tablets. The couple left on April Fool's Day and that night Rosie, whose canonisation is imminent, sent a message reporting that Paul had gone out to dinner in Bangkok. This was probably a PB for the palliative care unit at the Austin but Cox was just limbering up. After Dubai and Frankfurt the official party arrived in Chicago and Paul made a gracious, honest and very engaging speech to an audience who couldn't believe quite what they were watching.

Following the festival, Paul and Rosie made their way home and Paul was planning another movie. The fact that he died on Saturday will probably slow him down a bit although I expect he'll call sometime during the next week or so with a revised schedule. "I'm still going to do it," he'll say. "Why not? I have some good ideas. I want to talk about it. Come to dinner."

for Michael Gurr: 'Thank you, Michael. You were the light', by Steve Bracks - 2017

15 May 2017, Malthouse Theatre, Southbank, Melbourne, Australia

Steve Bracks is a former Premier of the State of Victoria. Michael Gurr, was Bracks' speechwriter and a much loved Australian playwright. He died 2 May 2017. There is no available audio or vision of this speech.

Michael once wrote, 

‘Political speechwriters dream the Gettysburg Address but wake up to the Cheltenham Chamber of Commerce.’

I suspect he was referring to state politics.

What that quote doesn’t tell you is how often Michael made those of us who had to speak to the Cheltenham Chamber of Commerce feel a little like Abraham Lincoln. 

My point: politics mattered to Michael. 

It mattered deeply.

It wasn’t a game.

It wasn’t beneath him.

It was worth the fight. 

Politics was – and is – the stuff of life. 

Yes, it’s messy. 

Yes, it involves compromise. 

But public life is a calling worthy of the efforts of our best and brightest – people like Michael.

That’s what Michael believed.

That’s why he dedicated his considerable talents to the collective effort for progress. 

And I am here to tell you that Michael’s contribution to the fight for progress counted. 

He made a difference.

I first met Michael in 1999.

I had just become Leader of the State Opposition.

Labor was – according to the experts – unelectable. 

Michael didn’t agree. 

Michael had volunteered his speechwriting services to my predecessor, John Brumby, in 1996.

He didn’t want anything in return for his efforts. He just wanted to get rid of Jeff Kennett.

Over the next three years, Michael was one of the true believers who – bit by bit – pulled Labor back from the abyss. 

He was one of the reasons why we won in 1999.

Much has been written and said about the 1999 election.

Especially the one-word speech Michael wrote that was to be delivered if – against all the odds – we won.

That one word was ‘F.U.C.K.'

What hasn’t been widely acknowledged is how important Michael was to me at the time – not just as a speechwriter, but as a voice of reason and a friend who helped us find the words that led us to the light on the hill.

As I said, Michael made a difference.

That’s why, after we won, I asked Michael to come in from the cold – to work as my speechwriter in government. 

He declined the offer. 

I understood why Michael said no. 

He wasn’t in politics for personal gain. 

He just wanted to put his shoulder to the wheel.

He just wanted us to get to the top of that hill.

That was why – whenever the contest was fiercest – whenever the outcome was in question – I found Michael was standing beside me.

He worked for us in the 2002 election and the 2006 election:

Advising me, 

Making me laugh, 

Helping us find the words that led to the light on the hill.

All of which is why it’s hard to believe he’s gone. 

I last saw Michael at St Vincent’s.

It was the day the Paul Keating was visiting Melbourne – and Keating had given a sparkling interview to Jon Faine on 774.

Michael and I spoke about Keating. 

And we spoke about 1999.

And – at one point – Michael thanked me for letting him work on those elections.

And I had to respectfully disagree with my old friend. 

He didn’t have to thank me – but I had to thank him for helping us find that light on the hill.

Thank you, Michael.

You were the light.

Barack Obama: 'Can we find the character, as Americans, to open our hearts to each other?', Memorial to slain Dallas policemen - 2016

12 July 2016, Interfaith service, Dallas, Texas, USA

Thank you. Thank you very much. (APPLAUSE)

Mr. President and Mrs. Bush, my friend the vice president, and Dr. Biden, Mayor Rawlings, Chief Stiller (ph), clergy, members of Congress, Chief Brown. I'm so glad I met Michelle first, because she loves Stevie Wonder.

(LAUGHTER)

(APPLAUSE)

Thank you.

But most of all, the families and friends and colleagues and fellow officers.

Scripture tells us that in our sufferings, there is glory, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. Sometimes the truths of these words are hard to see. Right now, those words test us because the people of Dallas, people across the country are suffering.

We're here to honor the memory and mourn the loss of five fellow Americans, to grieve with their loved ones, to support this community, and pray for the wounded, and to try and find some meaning amidst our sorrow.

For the men and women who protect and serve the people of Dallas, last Thursday began like any other day. Like most Americans, each day you get up, probably have too quick a breakfast, kiss your family goodbye, and you head to work.

But your work and the work of police officers across the country is like no other. For the moment you put on that uniform, you have answered a call that at any moment, even in the briefest interaction, may put your life in harm's way.

OBAMA: Lorne Ahrens, he answered that call. So did his wife, Katrina, not only because she was the spouse of a police officer, but because she's a detective on the force. They have two kids. Lorne took them fishing. And he used to proudly go to their school in uniform.

On the night before he died, he bought dinner for a homeless man. And the next night, Katrina had to tell their children that their dad was gone. "They don't get it yet," their grandma said. "They don't know what to do quite yet."

Michael Krol answered that call. His mother said, he knew the dangers of the job, but he never shied away from his duty. He came 1,000 miles from his home state of Michigan to be a cop in Dallas, telling his family, this is something I wanted to do.

And last year, he brought his girlfriend back to Detroit for Thanksgiving. And it was the last time he'd see his family.

Michael Smith answered that call. In the Army, and over almost 30 years working for the Dallas Police Association, which gave him the appropriately named Cop's Cop Award. A man of deep faith; when he was off duty, he could be found at church or playing softball with his two girls.

Today, his girls have lost their dad, for God has called Michael home.

Patrick Zamarippa, he answered that call. Just 32, a former altar boy who served in the Navy and dreamed of being a cop. He liked to post videos of himself and his kids on social media. On Thursday night, while Patrick went to work, his partner, Christy, posted a photo of her and their daughter at a Texas Rangers game, and tagged the department so that he could see it while on duty.

Brent Thompson answered that call. He served his country as a Marine. And years later, as a contractor, he spent time in some of the most dangerous parts of Iraq and Afghanistan. And then a few years ago, he settled down here in Dallas for a new life of service as a transit cop.

And just about two weeks ago, he married a fellow officer, their whole life together waiting before them.

Like police officers across the country, these men and their families shared a commitment to something larger than themselves. They weren't looking for their names to be up in lights. They'd tell you the pay was decent, but wouldn't make you rich. They could have told you about the stress and long shifts. And they'd probably agree with Chief Brown when he said that cops don't expect to hear the words "thank you" very often, especially from those who need them the most.

No. The reward comes in knowing that our entire way of life in America depends on the rule of law, that the maintenance of that law is a hard and daily labor, that in this country we don't have soldiers in the streets or militias setting the rules.

Instead, we have public servants, police officers, like the men who were taken away from us. And that's what these five were doing last Thursday when they were assigned to protect and keep orderly a peaceful protest in response to the killing of Alton Sterling of Baton Rouge and Philando Castile of Minnesota.

OBAMA: They were upholding the constitutional rights of this country.

For a while, the protests went on without incident. And despite the fact that police conduct was the subject of the protest, despite the fact that there must have been signs or slogans or chants with which they profoundly disagreed, these men and this department did their jobs like the professionals that they were.

In fact, the police had been part of the protest planning. Dallas P.D. even posted photos on their Twitter feeds of their own officers standing among the protesters. Two officer, black and white, smiled next to a man with a sign that read "no justice, no peace."

And then around nine o'clock, the gunfire came. Another community torn apart; more hearts broken; more questions about what caused and what might prevent another such tragedy.

I know that Americans are struggling right now with what we've witnessed over the past week. First, the shootings in Minnesota and Baton Rouge, the protests. Then the targeting of police by the shooter here, an act not just of demented violence, but of racial hatred.

All of it has left us wounded and angry and hurt. This is -- the deepest faultlines of our democracy have suddenly been exposed, perhaps even widened. And although we know that such divisions are not new, though they've surely been worse in even the recent past, that offers us little comfort.

Faced with this violence, we wonder if the divides of race in America can ever be bridged. We wonder if an African American community that feels unfairly targeted by police and police departments that feel unfairly maligned for doing their jobs, can ever understand each other's experience.

We turn on the TV or surf the internet, and we can watch positions harden and lines drawn and people retreat to their respective corners, and politicians calculate how to grab attention or avoid the fallout. We see all this, and it's hard not to think sometimes that the center won't hold and that things might get worse.

I understand. I understand how Americans are feeling. But Dallas, I'm here to say we must reject such despair. I'm here to insist that we are not as divided as we seem. And I know that because I know America. I know how far we've come against impossible odds. (APPLAUSE)

I know we'll make because of what I've experienced in my own life; what I've seen of this country and its people, their goodness and decency, as president of the United States. And I know it because of what we've seen here in Dallas, how all of you out of great suffering have shown us the meaning of perseverance and character and hope.

OBAMA: When the bullets started flying, the men and women of the Dallas police, they did not flinch and they did not react recklessly. They showed incredible restraint. Helped in some cases by protesters, they evacuated the injured, isolated the shooter, saved more lives than we will ever know.

(APPLAUSE)

We mourn fewer people today because of your brave actions.

(APPLAUSE)

"Everyone was helping each other," one witness said. And it wasn't about black or white. Everyone was picking each other up and moving them away.

See, that's the America I know. The police helped Shetamia Taylor as she was shot trying to shield her four sons. She said she wanted her boys to join her to protest the incidents of black men being killed.

She also said to the Dallas P.D., thank you for being heroes. And today, her 12-year-old son wants to be a cop when he grows up. That's the America I know.

(APPLAUSE)

In the aftermath of the shooting, we've seen Mayor Rawlings and Chief Brown, a white man and a black man with different backgrounds, working not just to restore order and support a shaken city, a shaken department, but working together to unify a city with strength and grace and wisdom.

(APPLAUSE)

And in the process, we've been reminded that the Dallas Police Department has been at the forefront of improving relations between police and the community.

(APPLAUSE)

The murder rate here has fallen. Complaints of excessive force have been cut by 64 percent. The Dallas Police Department has been doing it the right way.

(APPLAUSE) And so, Mayor Rawlings and Chief Brown, on behalf of the American people, thank you for your steady leadership. Thank you for your powerful example. We could not be prouder of you.

(APPLAUSE)

These men, this department, this is the America I know. And today in this audience, I see people who have protested on behalf of criminal justice reform grieving alongside police officers. I see people who mourn for the five officers we lost, but also weep for the families of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile. In this audience, I see what's possible.

(APPLAUSE)

I see what's possible when we recognize that we are one American family, all deserving of equal treatment. All deserving equal respect. All children of God. That's the America I know.

Now, I'm not naive. I have spoken at too many memorials during the course of this presidency. I've hugged too many families who have lost a loved one to senseless violence. And I've seen how a spirit of unity, born of tragedy, can gradually dissipate, overtaken by the return to business as usual, by inertia and old habits and expediency.

OBAMA: I see how easily we slip back into our old notions, because they're comfortable, we're used to them. I've seen how inadequate words can be in bringing about lasting change. I've seen how inadequate my own words have been. And so, I'm reminded of a passage in John's Gospel, "let us love, not with words or speech, but with actions and in truth."

If we're to sustain the unity, we need to get through these difficult times. If we are to honor these five outstanding officers who we lost, then we will need to act on the truths that we know. That's not easy. It makes us uncomfortable, but we're going to have to be honest with each other and ourselves.

We know that the overwhelming majority of police officers do an incredibly hard and dangerous job fairly and professional. They are deserving of our respect and not our scorn

(APPLAUSE)

When anyone, no matter how good their intentions may be, paints all police as biased, or bigoted, we undermine those officers that we depend on for our safety. And as for those who use rhetoric suggesting harm to police, even if they don't act on it themselves, well, they not only make the jobs of police officers even more dangerous, but they do a disservice to the very cause of justice that they claim to promote.

(APPLAUSE)

We also know that centuries of racial discrimination, of slavery, and subjugation, and Jim Crow; they didn't simply vanish with the law against segregation. They didn't necessarily stop when a Dr. King speech, or when the civil rights act or voting rights act were signed. Race relations have improved dramatically in my lifetime. Those who deny it are dishonoring the struggles that helped us achieve that progress. But we know...

(APPLAUSE)

But America, we know that bias remains. We know it, whether you are black, or white, or Hispanic, or Asian, or native American, or of Middle Eastern descent, we have all seen this bigotry in our own lives at some point. We've heard it at times in our own homes. If we're honest, perhaps we've heard prejudice in our own heads and felt it in our own hearts. We know that. And while some suffer far more under racism's burden, some feel to a far greater extent discrimination's stain. Although most of us do our best to guard against it and teach our children better, none of us is entirely innocent. No institution is entirely immune, and that includes our police departments. We know this.

OBAMA: And so when African-Americans from all walks of life, from different communities across the country, voice a growing despair over what they perceive to be unequal treatment, when study after study shows that whites and people of color experience the criminal justice system differently. So that if you're black, you're more likely to be pulled over or searched or arrested; more likely to get longer sentences; more likely to get the death penalty for the same crime. When mothers and fathers raised their kids right, and have the talk about how to respond if stopped by a police officer -- yes, sir; no, sir -- but still fear that something terrible may happen when their child walks out the door; still fear that kids being stupid and not quite doing things right might end in tragedy.

When all this takes place, more than 50 years after the passage of the Civil Rights Act, we cannot simply turn away and dismiss those in peaceful protest as troublemakers or paranoid.

(APPLAUSE)

We can't simply dismiss it as a symptom of political correctness or reverse racism. To have your experience denied like that, dismissed by those in authority, dismissed perhaps even by your white friends and coworkers and fellow church members, again and again and again, it hurts. Surely we can see that, all of us.

We also know what Chief Brown has said is true, that so much of the tensions between police departments and minority communities that they serve is because we ask the police to do too much and we ask too little of ourselves.

(APPLAUSE)

As a society, we choose to under-invest in decent schools. We allow poverty to fester so that entire neighborhoods offer no prospect for gainful employment. We refuse to fund drug treatment and mental health programs.

(APPLAUSE)

We flood communities with so many guns that it is easier for a teenager to buy a Glock than get his hands on a computer or even a book.

(APPLAUSE)

And then we tell the police, "You're a social worker; you're the parent; you're the teacher; you're the drug counselor." We tell them to keep those neighborhoods in check at all costs and do so without causing any political blowback or inconvenience; don't make a mistake that might disturb our own peace of mind. And then we feign surprise when periodically the tensions boil over.

We know those things to be true. They've been true for a long time. We know it. Police, you know it. Protesters, you know it. You know how dangerous some of the communities where these police officers serve are. And you pretend as if there's no context. These things we know to be true. And if we cannot even talk about these things, if we cannot talk honestly and openly, not just in the comfort of our own circles, but with those who look different than us or bring a different perspective, then we will never break this dangerous cycle.

OBAMA: In the end, it's not about finding policies that work. It's about forging consensus and fighting cynicism and finding the will to make change.

Can we do this? Can we find the character, as Americans, to open our hearts to each other? Can we see in each other a common humanity and a shared dignity, and recognize how our different experiences have shaped us? And it doesn't make anybody perfectly good or perfectly bad, it just makes us human.

I don't know. I confess that sometimes I, too, experience doubt. I've been to too many of these things. I've seen too many families go through this.

But then I am reminded of what the Lord tells Ezekiel. "I will give you a new heart," the Lord says, "and put a new spirit in you. I will remove from you your heart of stone, and give you a heart of flesh."

That's what we must pray for, each of us. A new heart. Not a heart of stone, but a heart open to the fears and hopes and challenges of our fellow citizens.

That's what we've seen in Dallas these past few days, and that's what we must sustain. Because with an open heart, we can learn to stand in each other's shoes and look at the world through each other's eyes. So that maybe the police officer sees his own son in that teenager with a hoodie, who's kind of goofing off but not dangerous.

(APPLAUSE)

And the teenager -- maybe the teenager will see in the police officer the same words, and values and authority of his parents.

(APPLAUSE)

With an open heart, we can abandon the overheated rhetoric and the oversimplification that reduces whole categories of our fellow Americans, not just opponents, but to enemies.

With an open heart, those protesting for change will guard against reckless language going forward. Look at the model set by the five officers we mourn today. Acknowledge the progress brought about by the sincere efforts of police departments like this one in Dallas. And embark on the hard, but necessary work of negotiation, the pursuit of reconciliation. With an open heart, police departments will acknowledge that just like the rest of us, they're not perfect. That insisting we do better to root out racial bias is not an attack on cops, but an effort to live up to our highest ideals.

(APPLAUSE)

And I understand these protests -- I see them. They can be messy. Sometimes they can be hijacked by an irresponsible few. Police can get hurt.

(APPLAUSE)

Protesters can get hurt. They can be frustrated. But even those who dislike the phrase "black lives matter," surely, we should be able to hear the pain of Alton Sterling's family.

(APPLAUSE)

We should -- when we hear a friend describe him by saying that, whatever he cooked, he cooked enough for everybody, that should sound familiar to us, that maybe he wasn't so different than us. So that we can, yes, insist that his life matters.

OBAMA: Just as we should hear the students and co-workers describe their affection for Philando Castile as a gentle soul. Mr. Rogers with deadlocks, they called him. And know that his life mattered to a whole lot of people of all races, of all ages, and that we have to do what we can without putting officers' lives at risk, but do better to prevent another life like his from being lost.

With an open heart, we can worry less about which side has been wronged, and worry more about joining sides to do right

(APPLAUSE)

Because the vicious killer of these police officers -- they won't be the last person who tries to make us turn on one another. The killer in Orlando wasn't nor was the killer in Charleston. We know there is evil in this world, that's why we need police department departments.

(APPLAUSE)

But as Americans, we can decide that people like this killer will ultimately fail. They will not drive us apart. We can decide to come together and make our country reflect the good inside us, the hopes and simple dreams we share.

We also glory in our suffers because we know that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance character, and character hope. For all of us, life presents challenges and suffering. Accidents, illnesses, the loss of loved ones; there are times when we are overwhelmed by sudden calamity, natural or man-made. All of us, we make mistakes, and at times we are lost.

And as we get older, we learn we don't always have control of things, not even a president does. But we do have control over how we respond to the world. We do have control or how we treat one another.

America does not ask us to be perfect, precisely because of our individual imperfections, our founders gave us institutions to guard against tyranny and ensure no one is above the law. A democracy that gives us the space to work through our differences and debate them peacefully, to make things better, even if it doesn't always happen as fast as we'd like. America gives us the capacity to change.

But as the men we mourn today, these five heroes knew better than most, we cannot take the blessings of this nation for granted. Only by working together can we preserve those institutions of family and community, rights and responsibilities, law and self-government that is the hallmark of this nation.

It turns out we do not persevere along. Our character is not found in isolation. Hope does not arise by putting our fellow man down, it is found by lifting others up.

(APPLAUSE)

And that's what I take away from the lives of these outstanding men. The pain we feel may not soon pass, but my faith tells me that they did not die in vain. I believe our sorrow can make us a better country. I believe our righteous anger can be transformed into more justice and more peace. Weeping may endure for a night but I'm convinced joy comes in the morning.

(APPLAUSE)

OBAMA: We cannot match the sacrifices made by Officers Zamarippa and Ahrens, Krol, Smith and Thompson, but surely we can try to match their sense of service. We cannot match their courage, but we can strive to match their devotion.

May God bless their memory. May God bless this country that we love.

Tony Walsh (Longfella): 'This is the place', Manchester bombing vigil - 2017

24 May 2017, Manchester, UK

This was a vigil in honour of the victim of the Manchester terrorist attack on 23rd May 2017 at Manchester Stadium.

It falls to me to sum up what makes this city, its people, its communities, so great, with a poem. It's called 'This is the Place'.

This is the place

In the north-west of England. It’s ace, it’s the best

And the songs that we sing from the stands, from our bands

Set the whole planet shaking.

Our inventions are legends. There’s nowt we can’t make, and so we make brilliant music

We make brilliant bands

We make goals that make souls leap from seats in the stands

And we make things from steel

And we make things from cotton

And we make people laugh, take the mick summat rotten

And we make you at home

And we make you feel welcome and we make summat happen

And we can’t seem to help it

And if you’re looking from history, then yeah we’ve a wealth

But the Manchester way is to make it yourself.

And make us a record, a new number one

And make us a brew while you’re up, love, go on

And make us feel proud that you’re winning the league

And make us sing louder and make us believe that this is the place that has helped shape the world

And this is the place where a Manchester girl named Emmeline Pankhurst from the streets of Moss Side led a suffragette city with sisterhood pride

And this is the place with appliance of science, we’re on it, atomic, we struck with defiance, and in the face of a challenge, we always stand tall, Mancunians, in union, delivered it all

Such as housing and libraries and health, education and unions and co-ops and first railway stations

So we’re sorry, bear with us, we invented commuters. But we hope you forgive us, we invented computers.

And this is the place Henry Rice strolled with rolls, and we’ve rocked and we’ve rolled with our own northern soul

And so this is the place to do business then dance, where go-getters and goal-setters know they’ve a chance

And this is the place where we first played as kids. And me mum, lived and died here, she loved it, she did.

And this is the place where our folks came to work, where they struggled in puddles, they hurt in the dirt and they built us a city, they built us these towns and they coughed on the cobbles to the deafening sound to the steaming machines and the screaming of slaves, they were scheming for greatness, they dreamed to their graves.

And they left us a spirit. They left us a vibe. That Mancunian way to survive and to thrive and to work and to build, to connect, and create and Greater Manchester’s greatness is keeping it great.

And so this is the place now with kids of our own. Some are born here, some drawn here, but they all call it home.

And they’ve covered the cobbles, but they’ll never defeat, all the dreamers and schemers who still teem through these streets.

Because this is a place that has been through some hard times: oppressions, recessions, depressions, and dark times.

But we keep fighting back with Greater Manchester spirit. Northern grit, Northern wit, and Greater Manchester’s lyrics.

And these hard times again, in these streets of our city, but we won’t take defeat and we don’t want your pity.

Because this is a place where we stand strong together, with a smile on our face, greater Manchester forever.

And we’ve got this place where a team with a dream can get funding and something to help with a scheme.

Because this is a place that understands your grand plans. We don’t do “no can do” we just stress “yes we can”

Forever Manchester’s a charity for people round here, you can fundraise, donate, you can be a volunteer. You can live local, give local, we can honestly say, we do charity different, that Mancunian way.

And we fund local kids, and we fund local teams. We support local dreamers to work for their dreams. We support local groups and the great work they do. So can you help us. help local people like you?

Because this is the place in our hearts, in our homes, because this is the place that’s a part of our bones.

Because Greater Manchester gives us such strength from the fact that this is the place, we should give something back.

Always remember, never forget, forever Manchester.

To read more poetry from Longfella, visit his website.

For Lou Richards: 'Lou is bigger than a legend', by Ron Joseph - 2017

Richards' funeral: Joseph's speech - collingwoodfc.com.au

18 May 2017, St Paul's Cathedral, Melbourne, Australia

Lou was right. He told me his farewell would be bigger than Texas. He also told me that I would have to speak at his funeral.

"All the other people I know are dead,” he said.

"You better start thinking about what you are going to say, because it will be a bloody big funeral. Harold Holt’s will have nothing on mine. I had a house down at Portsea near him, you know. He didn’t drown. He took off with a sheila.

"It will be a state funeral, just like his. So that’ll give Jack and Bobby Davis the shits.

"Don’t let them have it at Jeff’s Shed. That is a cold hole, like Jeff. It will be a telecast around Australia, it might even be around the world. So you better be ready to talk on national television, Ronnie, and don’t stuff it up. You’re bloody lucky to get this opportunity, you know. No one else would give it to you.

"Tell Nicole and Kim to make sure that they get a good quid for the television rights. If Seven are covering it, tell the girls to charge double. Casey paid me bugger-all for all the time I spent with him at 3DB and Channel 7. He was a good bloke, Case. Edna and I loved our time with Ron and Pauline, but he was tight, tight as a fish’s ...

“EJ’s was a state funeral too. I’m bigger than Ted ever was. I nicknamed him Mr Football and he believed it for the rest of his life.

“I called Barassi Mrs Football. Of all the blokes I have nicknamed over the years Barassi is about the only one that ever lived up to his moniker.

“And if that Mike Fitzpatrick’s at my funeral, you know the bloke who used to play for Carlton, the Rhodes Scholar — Rhodes Scholar, my bum — tell him he spent too much time at Oxford and Cambridge and can’t recognise a legend when he sees one.”

So Lou leaves us after 94 marvellous years. With memories that will last our lifetime. There would be few people in this church who wouldn’t have their own special story of Lou and his ability to warm up an event, a lunch or a dinner, with laughter and fun. You could almost say that Lou knew it was expected of him.

I remember as a young upstart at North in my early years having my first visit to Channel 7 and Ron Casey’s World of Sport. Uncle Doug Elliot was presenting an ad for Ballantyne’s chocolates, reading his lines off an idiot sheet, a piece of butcher paper held by two members of the Seven camera crew. Live on TV Uncle Doug was halfway through his ad, staring intensely, glasses over his nose, reading the idiot sheet when up came Lou and set the butcher paper alight. I couldn’t believe it.

Jack Dyer, Bob Davis, Neil Roberts, Skeeter Coghlan, Bill Collins and Bruce Andrew fell around laughing. It took a stern Ron Casey to get World of Sport back on track.

And who could ever forget the Phoenix Hotel? As legendary as the Flinders St Herald Sun building alongside. Sir Henry Winneke was Victorian governor in the ’70s and after a VFL dinner at the Southern Cross, Lou invited him back to his hotel for a drink. Sir Henry, the great man that he was, obliged. When I made it back to Lou’s pub at one in the morning there was the Rolls-Royce, numberplates VIC 1, double-parked in Flinders St outside the Phoenix. Upstairs, Sir Henry was the centre of attention. Lou came up and asked him if he would mind staying because Edna wouldn’t believe that royalty had visited his hotel and he wanted Edna to meet him. Lou was gone for five minutes and then reappeared.

“Governor,” he said, “Sir Henry, your Excellency, I never know what to call you, but Edna is in bed upstairs. She has rollers in her hair and she said is to tell you that she couldn’t care if you are the king of England, she’s not coming down to meet you.”

What a beautiful marriage Lou shared with Edna. They were inseparable. They shared a wonderful marriage and friendship. When Edna went into care, Lou didn’t leave her bedside. When Lou died last week he had endured 3350 days without her. It was only after Edna had gone that you could get Lou out for a coffee, a lunch, a footy match or a drive in the car. He could still laugh, there was some special events — his 90th birthday at Kim’s, the unveiling of Lou’s statue at Collingwood — but his darling Edna had left his life. You knew that deep down all Lou was ever thinking was, “Where’s Edna?”.

Having read, observed and listened to all the glowing tributes that have been printed and aired on the radio and TV since last week, it is easy to overlook the depth of the man himself. A character on the footy field, as a tough, take-no-prisoners captain, and a character off it as a person with a rare knockabout charm and sense of fun — as well as a generosity of spirit and a strong sense of doing the right thing.

The National Trust in 1982 went as far as classifying Lou as a national treasure. But Lou is much, much more than that.

First and foremost, he was a devoted husband, father and grandfather, brother to Ron and Glenys, and an uncle. And regardless of all the fame that came his way, Edna, Nicole, Kim, with the grandkids, were always his pride and priority.

How lucky were we at North. Shirley Trainor, the wife of our ’60s president Tony, was a close friend of Edna. They were best friends. Inevitably the Trainor family introduced Lou with Edna to a football club that wore blue and white, not black and white stripes.

After some hits and misses in the early ’70s, North started to get its show on the road. They were heady days. Fundraisers and functions that rolled from one week to the next, and Lou was always there. People attended just to be in the room with him. Six successive Grand Finals and in 1975 the inaugural premiership.

Then the famous draw and replay of 1977. The VFL competition was on its way to being a national competition. The Grand Final was televised live and in colour, and Ron Casey and Lou Richards led the way. For 40 years, Lou would be up on Grand Final day at 6am to host North’s Grand Final breakfast, that through his brilliance became its own institution.

Lou would then leave the Southern Cross to call the Grand Final with Mike Williamson or Peter Landy. Prime minister Hawke never missed one of those breakfasts and Lou never missed giving the PM his famous line, “Bob, the only thing you haven’t done for the workers is become one”. With Allen Aylett, Albert Mantello and Ron Barassi, it seemed that Lou was also a part of the executive team at North. Lou loved his involvement and North loved him back.

Out of all of this grew great friendships like Shirley’s and Edna’s that stood the test of time. It would be wrong to say that North was the only beneficiary of Lou’s generosity. Lou had friends at every club and he delighted in helping them all with his presence and star quality. Today we say farewell. Lou is a legend. Who else gets an eight-page wraparound in the Herald Sun that is as much a part of this city as Lou and the MCG.

So Lou Richards leaves us after 94 marvellous years, with memories that will last our lifetime.

Lou might not have kicked as many goals as Tony Lockett or Peter Hudson but he is a legend. Lou might not have won as many Brownlow Medals as Haydn Bunton, Bob Skilton, Dick Reynolds and Ian Stewart but he is a legend.

And if his game as a player was just a little short of the class of the great EJ or the dynamic Ron Barassi, Lou is still a legend. In fact, Lou is bigger than a legend. Decency, loyalty, gentleness, warmth, kindness, integrity, humility, cheek and fun all in equal parts gave us Lou Richards.

Our love and thoughts are with Kim and Nicole and their families. Their loss first of Edna and now Lou is immeasurable. I thank them for the honour of speaking here today, I thank them for sharing Lou with us and, on behalf of all of us and our marvellous sport, I thank Lou for all that he gave.

We remember Lou with affection, admiration, gratitude and delight

For David Goldberg: 'Let's just kick the shit out of Option B', by Sheryl Sandberg - 2015

5 May 2015, Stanford University Memorial Auditorium, California, USA

This was written as a Facebook post by the Facebook COO, and posted on the day of her husband's funeral.

I want to thank all of our friends and family for the outpouring of love over the past few days. It has been extraordinary – and each story you have shared will help keep Dave alive in our hearts and memories.

I met Dave nearly 20 years ago when I first moved to LA. He became my best friend. He showed me the internet for the first time, planned fun outings, took me to temple for the Jewish holidays, introduced me to much cooler music than I had ever heard.

We had 11 truly joyful years of the deepest love, happiest marriage, and truest partnership that I could imagine ... He gave me the experience of being deeply understood, truly supported and completely and utterly loved – and I will carry that with me always. Most importantly, he gave me the two most amazing children in the world.

Dave was my rock. When I got upset, he stayed calm. When I was worried, he said it would be ok. When I wasn’t sure what to do, he figured it out. He was completely dedicated to his children in every way – and their strength these past few days is the best sign I could have that Dave is still here with us in spirit.

Dave and I did not get nearly enough time together. But as heartbroken as I am today, I am equally grateful. Even in these last few days of completely unexpected hell – the darkest and saddest moments of my life – I know how lucky I have been. If the day I walked down that aisle with Dave someone had told me that this would happen – that he would be taken from us all in just 11 years – I would still have walked down that aisle. Because 11 years of being Dave Goldberg’s wife, and 10 years of being a parent with him is perhaps more luck and more happiness than I could have ever imagined. I am grateful for every minute we had.

As we put the love of my life to rest today, we buried only his body. His spirit, his soul, his amazing ability to give is still with it. It lives on in the stories people are sharing of how he touched their lives, in the love that is visible in the eyes of our family and friends, in the spirit and resilience of our children. Things will never be the same – but the world is better for the years my beloved husband lived.

This later post from Sandberg was posted 4 June 2015

Today is the end of sheloshim for my beloved husband—the first thirty days. Judaism calls for a period of intense mourning known as shiva that lasts seven days after a loved one is buried. After shiva, most normal activities can be resumed, but it is the end of sheloshim that marks the completion of religious mourning for a spouse.

A childhood friend of mine who is now a rabbi recently told me that the most powerful one-line prayer he has ever read is: “Let me not die while I am still alive.” I would have never understood that prayer before losing Dave. Now I do.

I think when tragedy occurs, it presents a choice. You can give in to the void, the emptiness that fills your heart, your lungs, constricts your ability to think or even breathe. Or you can try to find meaning. These past thirty days, I have spent many of my moments lost in that void. And I know that many future moments will be consumed by the vast emptiness as well.

But when I can, I want to choose life and meaning.

And this is why I am writing: to mark the end of sheloshim and to give back some of what others have given to me. While the experience of grief is profoundly personal, the bravery of those who have shared their own experiences has helped pull me through. Some who opened their hearts were my closest friends. Others were total strangers who have shared wisdom and advice publicly. So I am sharing what I have learned in the hope that it helps someone else. In the hope that there can be some meaning from this tragedy.

I have lived thirty years in these thirty days. I am thirty years sadder. I feel like I am thirty years wiser.

I have gained a more profound understanding of what it is to be a mother, both through the depth of the agony I feel when my children scream and cry and from the connection my mother has to my pain. She has tried to fill the empty space in my bed, holding me each night until I cry myself to sleep. She has fought to hold back her own tears to make room for mine. She has explained to me that the anguish I am feeling is both my own and my children’s, and I understood that she was right as I saw the pain in her own eyes.

I have learned that I never really knew what to say to others in need. I think I got this all wrong before; I tried to assure people that it would be okay, thinking that hope was the most comforting thing I could offer. A friend of mine with late-stage cancer told me that the worst thing people could say to him was “It is going to be okay.” That voice in his head would scream, How do you know it is going to be okay? Do you not understand that I might die? I learned this past month what he was trying to teach me. Real empathy is sometimes not insisting that it will be okay but acknowledging that it is not. When people say to me, “You and your children will find happiness again,” my heart tells me, Yes, I believe that, but I know I will never feel pure joy again. Those who have said, “You will find a new normal, but it will never be as good” comfort me more because they know and speak the truth. Even a simple “How are you?”—almost always asked with the best of intentions—is better replaced with “How are you today?” When I am asked “How are you?” I stop myself from shouting, My husband died a month ago, how do you think I am? When I hear “How are you today?” I realize the person knows that the best I can do right now is to get through each day.

I have learned some practical stuff that matters. Although we now know that Dave died immediately, I didn’t know that in the ambulance. The trip to the hospital was unbearably slow. I still hate every car that did not move to the side, every person who cared more about arriving at their destination a few minutes earlier than making room for us to pass. I have noticed this while driving in many countries and cities. Let’s all move out of the way. Someone’s parent or partner or child might depend on it.

I have learned how ephemeral everything can feel—and maybe everything is. That whatever rug you are standing on can be pulled right out from under you with absolutely no warning. In the last thirty days, I have heard from too many women who lost a spouse and then had multiple rugs pulled out from under them. Some lack support networks and struggle alone as they face emotional distress and financial insecurity. It seems so wrong to me that we abandon these women and their families when they are in greatest need.

I have learned to ask for help—and I have learned how much help I need. Until now, I have been the older sister, the COO, the doer and the planner. I did not plan this, and when it happened, I was not capable of doing much of anything. Those closest to me took over. They planned. They arranged. They told me where to sit and reminded me to eat. They are still doing so much to support me and my children.

I have learned that resilience can be learned. Adam M. Grant taught me that three things are critical to resilience and that I can work on all three. Personalization—realizing it is not my fault. He told me to ban the word “sorry.” To tell myself over and over, This is not my fault. Permanence—remembering that I won’t feel like this forever. This will get better. Pervasiveness—this does not have to affect every area of my life; the ability to compartmentalize is healthy.

For me, starting the transition back to work has been a savior, a chance to feel useful and connected. But I quickly discovered that even those connections had changed. Many of my co-workers had a look of fear in their eyes as I approached. I knew why—they wanted to help but weren’t sure how. Should I mention it? Should I not mention it? If I mention it, what the hell do I say? I realized that to restore that closeness with my colleagues that has always been so important to me, I needed to let them in. And that meant being more open and vulnerable than I ever wanted to be. I told those I work with most closely that they could ask me their honest questions and I would answer. I also said it was okay for them to talk about how they felt. One colleague admitted she’d been driving by my house frequently, not sure if she should come in. Another said he was paralyzed when I was around, worried he might say the wrong thing. Speaking openly replaced the fear of doing and saying the wrong thing. One of my favorite cartoons of all time has an elephant in a room answering the phone, saying, “It’s the elephant.” Once I addressed the elephant, we were able to kick him out of the room.

At the same time, there are moments when I can’t let people in. I went to Portfolio Night at school where kids show their parents around the classroom to look at their work hung on the walls. So many of the parents—all of whom have been so kind—tried to make eye contact or say something they thought would be comforting. I looked down the entire time so no one could catch my eye for fear of breaking down. I hope they understood.

I have learned gratitude. Real gratitude for the things I took for granted before—like life. As heartbroken as I am, I look at my children each day and rejoice that they are alive. I appreciate every smile, every hug. I no longer take each day for granted. When a friend told me that he hates birthdays and so he was not celebrating his, I looked at him and said through tears, “Celebrate your birthday, goddammit. You are lucky to have each one.” My next birthday will be depressing as hell, but I am determined to celebrate it in my heart more than I have ever celebrated a birthday before.

I am truly grateful to the many who have offered their sympathy. A colleague told me that his wife, whom I have never met, decided to show her support by going back to school to get her degree—something she had been putting off for years. Yes! When the circumstances allow, I believe as much as ever in leaning in. And so many men—from those I know well to those I will likely never know—are honoring Dave’s life by spending more time with their families.

I can’t even express the gratitude I feel to my family and friends who have done so much and reassured me that they will continue to be there. In the brutal moments when I am overtaken by the void, when the months and years stretch out in front of me endless and empty, only their faces pull me out of the isolation and fear. My appreciation for them knows no bounds.

I was talking to one of these friends about a father-child activity that Dave is not here to do. We came up with a plan to fill in for Dave. I cried to him, “But I want Dave. I want option A.” He put his arm around me and said, “Option A is not available. So let’s just kick the shit out of option B.”

Dave, to honor your memory and raise your children as they deserve to be raised, I promise to do all I can to kick the shit out of option B. And even though sheloshim has ended, I still mourn for option A. I will always mourn for option A. As Bono sang, “There is no end to grief . . . and there is no end to love.” I love you, Dave.

for Xavier Jugelé: 'I suffer without hatred', by Etienne Cardiles - 2017

Xavier, Thursday morning, as usual, I went to work and you were still asleep. We exchanged over the course of the day on our holiday project, in a country so far away that you had told me you were very impatient [because] you had never been this far. Visa details, our accommodations. These concerns invaded our messages with a frenzy all the more joyful as our airline tickets were booked since Tuesday.

You left for work at 2 o’clock in the orderly policeman’s outfit that you were so careful about because your presentation had to be irreproachable. Your comrades and you had the mission of joining the police station of the 8th arrondissement, where, as often, you had to ensure the safety of the public on this beautiful avenue, the Champs-Elysees. You had been designated a parking spot at 102 Avenue des Champs-Elysees, in front of the Cultural Institute of Turkey. This type of mission, I know, pleases you, because it was the Champs and the image of France, because it was also the culture you were protecting.

At that moment, the worst arrived for you and your comrades. One of those events that everyone dreads and hopes will never happen. You were swept away without knowing and for that I thank your good star. Your comrades were wounded, one of them seriously. They are recovering gradually and we are relieved. All were shocked.

I came home in the evening, without you, with extreme and profound grief, which may perhaps be calmed one day, I do not know. This pain made me feel closer than ever to your comrades who suffer, like you, silently; like me, silently.

And, as far as I am concerned, I suffer without hatred. I borrow this formula from Antoine Leiris [whose wife, Hélène Muyal-Leiris, was killed at the Bataclan on November 13, 2015] whose immense wisdom in the face of pain I have admired so much that I read and re-read his lines a few months ago. It is a lesson in life that has made me grow so much that it protects me today.

When the first messages were published informing Parisians that a serious event was taking place on the Champs-Elysees and a policeman had lost his life, a small voice told me that it was you, and I recalled this generous and healing formula: “You will not have my hatred.”

This hatred, Xavier, I do not have because it does not resemble you, because it does not correspond to anything that made your heat beat, or what made you a gendarme, then a guardian of peace. Because the general interest, the service of others and the protection of all were part of your education and your convictions, and that tolerance, dialogue and temperance were your best weapons. Because behind the policeman there was the man. You become a policeman or gendarme only by choice. The choice of helping others, protecting society, and fighting injustices. This noble mission, which the police and the gendarmerie ensure, and which are regularly undermined.

I, as a citizen, before I even knew you, I admired it already. This policing profession is the only one to which the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen refers. Article 12 states that “the guarantee of the rights of man and citizen requires a public force”, with useful precision in this politically important period: “This force is instituted for the benefit of all, And not for the particular utility of those to whom it is entrusted.” This was the vision we shared of this profession, but only one facet of the man you were.

The other facet of man was a world of culture and joy, where cinema and music played an important part. Five cinema sessions on a beautiful sunny August day did not scare you. And of course, the original versions were privileged for the purist you were and for that language, English, that you wanted to speak to perfection. You followed the concerts, sometimes following the artists on a complete tour. Céline Dion was your star, Zazie, Madonna or Britney Spears and so many others made our windows vibrate. The theater transported you and you lived it fully. No cultural experience made you back down. Even the worst of the films was seen the day of its release, to the end, whatever its quality. A life of joy and immense smiles in which love and tolerance reigned as undisputed masters. This life of stars, you leave it like a star.

I would like to tell all your comrades how close I am to them. I would like to tell your police hierarchy how much I have seen sincerity in your eyes and humanity in your gestures. …..

…I would like to say to all those who are struggling to prevent this from happening, that these events are happening, that I know their guilt and their sense of failure, and that they must continue to fight for peace. I would like to say to all those who have shown us their affection, to their parents and to me, that we have been deeply aware of it. I would like to tell your family that we are united. And to all those closest who have been so anxious about me, who have been so anxious about us, that they are magnificently worthy of you.

To you, I would like to tell you that you will stay in my heart forever. I love you. Let us all remain worthy and watch over the peace. And keep the peace.

transcript & video, full text

for Martin McGuinness: 'He risked the rejection of his comrades and the wrath of his adversaries', by Bill Clinton - 2017

23 March 2017, St Columba's Church, Derry, Northern Ireland

Bernie, Grainne, Fionnuala, Fiachra, Emmett: members of the McGuinness family, honoured clergy, President Higgins, Taoiseach, Gerry, former Prime Minister Ahern, former President McAleese, First Minister Foster, thank you for being here, to John Hume, Peter Robinson, and all who were part of the amazing unfolding of Martin McGuinness's life.

I was thinking about it: after all the breath he expended cursing the British over the years, he worked with two Prime Ministers and shook hands with the Queen, four Taoiseachs, navigating the complex politics of the North.

As an American, I have to say a special word of appreciation to the sitting Taoiseach for what he said in the United States on St Patrick Day on behalf of the Irish immigrants.

As someone who spent sleepless nights in the beginning of the ceasefires and dealing with the aftermath of them and the Good Friday accord, I want to say a special word of appreciation to First Minister Foster for being here, because I know, and most people in this church know, that your life has been marked in painful ways by the Troubles. And I believe the only way a lasting peace can take hold and endure is if those who have legitimate griefs on both sides embrace the future together.

I learned this from Nelson Mandela who was a great friend of mine, who called me one day complaining as the president of South Africa that he was getting so much criticism. I said, "from the Afrikaners?". He said "no, from my people. They think I've sold them out." After all, he won 63% of the vote, it's inconceivable in a western democracy to do such a thing now. And I said, "what did you tell them?" and he said "I spent 27 years in jail, and they took all my best years away and i didn't see my children grow up and it ruined my marriage, and a lot of my friends were killed and if i can get over it, you can too. We've got to build a future."

Now, I want to say something about Martin McGuinness. I came to treasure every encounter. I liked him. They asked me to speak for three minutes, he could do this in 30 seconds. I can just hear him now: "Here's my eulogy: I fought, I made peace, I made politics, I had a fabulous family that somehow stayed with me and endured it all. I had friends (I was married to Gerry almost as long as I was married to Bernie). It turned out I was pretty good at all this and we got a lot done - but we didn't finish, and if you really want to honour my legacy, go make your own, and finish the work of peace so we can all have a future together."

He was only four years younger than me. He grew up at a time of rage and resentment; not only in Ireland, but across the world. And it was pronounced here: one of seven children in a Bogside family without an indoor toilet. (That's a great political story, I'm the last American president to ever live in a house without an indoor toilet and it's very much overrated except for its political value.) He was part of the rage of his time, he hated the discrimination and he decided to oppose it by whatever means available to the passionate young, including violence.

Somewhere along the way, for whatever reason, he decided to give peace a chance. Some of the reasons were principled, some were practical, but he decided. He was good about sticking at something he decided to do, and he succeeded because his word was good, his listening skills were good, he was not afraid to make a compromise, and he was strong enough to keep it if he made it.

And finally, he realised that he could have an Ireland that was free, independent and self governing, and still inclusive. That the dreams of little children were no more or less legitimate, just because of their faith background, or their families' history, or the sins of their parents. In American law, there is a phrase that comes from the 18th century, called "corruption of the blood", that the sins of the parents used to be visited on their children, and their grandchildren, and their great grandchildren, and we specifically prohibited that; easy to say, hard to do. He was trying to do it.

Most of the publicity Martin got as a politician was the very absurd notion that he actually got along with Ian Paisley. I thought it great that he got a word in edgeways, I never could! But the thing I think he was proudest of that I loved to listen to him talk about, and we talked about it again three years ago this month when we walked across the bridge here with John Hume, was when he became education minister in the transitional government. His first budget recommended a more than generous allocation in aid to the poorest schools in the protestant neighbourhoods, because he thought those children would be just as a crippled by ignorance as catholic children would, and that the only way out of poverty, and the only way to give people the emotional space to live together, work together, and share the future together, is if they could have the dignity of a decent job, and the empowerment of knowing they can take care of their families and give something more to their children. I could tell he was proud as punch with himself. Normally it's not a good thing to be proud of yourself but I think if there's a secret category of things you can be proud of, taking care of the children of people with whom you had been at odds is surely on that small list."

So that's what he did, he persevered, and he prevailed. He risked the rejection of his comrades and the wrath of his adversaries. He made honourable compromises and was strong enough to keep them, and came to be trusted because his word was good. And he never stopped being who he was; a good husband, a good father, a faithful follower of the faith of his father and mother, and a passionate believer in a free, secure, self-governing Ireland. The only thing that happened was: he expanded the definition of "us" and shrank the definition of "them".

The world in every period of insecurity faces a new wave of tribalism. If you really came here to celebrate his life, and to honour the contribution of the last chapter of it, you have to finish his work, a great son of Derry. Our friend Seamus Heaney in his Nobel prize speech, said that the secret of his success was "deciding to walk on air against your better judgement". Believe me; when the people who made this peace did it, every single one of them decided to take a flying leap into the unknown against their better judgement. It's about the only thing aside from your faith and your love which makes life worth living.

Our friend earned this vast crowd today. Even more; he earned the right to ask us to honour his legacy by our living. To finish the work that is there to be done.

God bless you.

for Judith Mary Martin: 'I just don't want to die on anyone's birthday', by Jennifer L Martin - 2017

27 January 2017, Melbourne, Australia

“Some people make things happen, some people watch things happen, and some people wonder what happened” to paraphrase Jim Lovell, Apollo 13 astronaut.

Judith Mary Martin – whose life we celebrate today – unquestionably falls into the category of people who made things happen. Mum may not have flown to the moon, but she most certainly reached for the stars.

Born in 1934 in country Victoria, Judy had an older sister Faye, and a twin sister Joy. When still a little girl, her parents separated, and she moved with her mum and two sisters to Melbourne. It was the middle of the depression era: they lived in abject poverty, surviving on bread & dripping at times, doing midnight runners to avoid paying rent, and going to the pawnbrokers to get items out of hock when her mum – a factory worker - got paid. As a young girl, mum had already decided she would never work in a factory; she would get educated, work hard, and make sure that her family would have a stable and loving home life. She achieved all that and much more, despite seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

Having to leave school at grade 8 – aged 14 - wasn’t a great start. Mum’s first job was at the Imperial War Graves Commission, but she really wasn't cut out for office work. She toyed with the idea of becoming a nun, but in the end chose nursing as her vocation. Once the decision was made, she then made it happen. Trouble was, nursing training couldn’t begin till she was 18, and mum was just 16. So she hounded the nursing director till she got a job as a probationer and then after significantly more hounding, she entered nursing training at the tender age of 17 years and 5 months. She was in her element, she loved the work, and she loved the girls she worked with. She said that those years were the best of her life, the most carefree, and loads of fun.

She worked hard, was determined to succeed, and eventually became Nurse Unit Manager (Charge Nurse) of the entire operating theatre department at a major Victorian Hospital. Although she left school at 14, she returned to study part-time aged 52, first to complete her VCE and then to graduate with a Bachelor of Nursing in 1992 aged 58; all the while working, and caring for her youngest children. She was still working two nights a week at the age of 72.

Life was anything but plain sailing. Two weeks after she started as a nursing probationer, her adored father died – he was 42 and she just 16; still a child.

Mum married twice, had 10 children and 8 grandchildren. For much of the early years, there was very little money, and life was a constant struggle. By mum’s account, her first marriage was very unhappy and didn't last long. In her second marriage, it was mum that mostly set the family goals, she who made things happen to achieve her aspirations. She orchestrated family moves upward, including from a “hovel” to a housing commission home (the “lap of luxury”) in country Victoria, by literally begging the local MP who she collared at a school function. She also triggered a later move by reporting the house we lived in to the local council, who swiftly condemned it as unfit to live in.

Meanwhile, there were personal misfortunes to contend with. As an infant, Geoff nearly died from an infection in the mid-60s. Later that same year, Dad was also in hospital for months after a terrible logging accident, leaving mum with a family of 6 kids and one on the way, with no income and no insurance. On Christmas Day 1979, a car ploughed through a red light into ours and mum and dad ended up in hospital for many weeks. Much, much worse though was the loss of two children: in 1973, mum’s 10th child Gerard died in childbirth. And in 1991, her 7th child Peter died aged 25, in a car accident. These tragic events nearly broke her heart. But as she said in her own words many years later:

“There are always things in life you wish you didn't have to go through, because they hurt so much. But you know what? That’s part of the journey too.”

“Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and move forward.”

Mum did what she could, with the few resources she had, to improve the family’s lot: buying Lan Choo tea because it came with coupons to claim gifts in the store in town; getting her driver’s licence, and then helping teach many of her kids to drive – even if that did include falling asleep in the passenger seat with Steven at the wheel. In the 1970s, mum’s name was picked out of the barrel to spin the wheel on the Ernie Sigley Show. She won a TV, we think - and a trip to Sydney after Ernie found out she had so many children. Asked what message she wanted to send her family on national telly, mum famously said:

“I just hope someone remembers to make the school lunches”.

Perhaps it was the Ernie Sigley trip that started the travel bug: she began taking road trips with youngest children Jan and Cally – to the Great Ocean Road, Adelaide, Sydney. She took her first overseas trip when she was 47, with Cathy to visit Tony and Olga and grandson Eann in Israel and then on to Italy and the UK. Because she was going to be away such a long time, she left us a long list of things to do. Including a fire drill every evening. Which we promptly ignored. Mum took to the jetset life with gusto, soaking up history and cultures, and traveling around the world into her 70s. On one notable occasion, and despite family misgivings, mum set off to Bangkok, by herself, just after 9/11 – aged 67. She was on her way to visit Ian and Cally in London, and nothing was going to stop her from doing that.

One of her greatest delights was creating things for others. After knitting her first jumper at age 11, the knitting needles hardly ever stopped. Look at any family photo from the 60s through to the 80s, and you’ll inevitably see kids sporting mum’s handmade knits. She was a prolific letter-writer too. Seeing her beautiful handwriting on a newly arrived envelope when you were far from home, was certain to lift the spirits - with family news, photos and mum’s life advice. In the 1990s, mum discovered patchwork quilting after a visit to an Amish Village in the USA. She created over 100 exquisite quilts, that are now our treasured heirlooms.

Mum didn’t just create tangible things like jumpers, letters and quilts, she also created intangibles - memories, moments, merriment – especially around celebrations of birthdays, Easter, and Christmas. She truly cared about people, and she enjoyed having a bit of fun too! She loved movies and music, and would sing or dance at the drop of a hat.

“Life is to be lived” she said, “to be enjoyed right to the end. Make the most of every moment.”

Coming from good Irish stock, Mum had a fine sense of the absurd. When Tony Abbott announced that he was bringing back Knights and Dames, mum’s planned morning tea morphed into a Royal Tea Party and she crowned herself Lady Muck of ...... Some years before, she came to my New York–themed fancy dress party in QLD when I was about to leave for America. There was King Kong, Crocodile Dundee, several movie stars, and as guest of honour I was Madonna. Much to my embarrassment, the guest-of-honour’s mother turned up as a New York bag lady. Oh how she laughed remembering that story recently! Going back even further, when we as kids would ask how old she would be on an upcoming birthday, it would always be 29. Or 28. Or 25.

When mum first let me know a few years ago that she wanted me to give the eulogy at her funeral, I wondered if there was anything particular she wanted me to say.

Mum simply said: “Don’t sugarcoat it; just tell it like it is”.

Me: “OK….. so you don’t want me to say you were perfect?”

Mum, after a moment’s pause: “Hmmm, well, let’s say 99% perfect”

I asked what she was most proud of achieving in her very full life. This time without hesitation, she said

“My family. I feel very, very fortunate with my children. I have a very blessed life. And I love my grandchildren to bits. There’s not a one of them – kids or grandkids - that you wouldn’t be really glad to know. So I am twice blessed.”

Always fiercely independent, after succumbing to side-effects of treatment for multiple myeloma, mum had to let go, to allow her children to arrange her affairs, chauffeur her, take her to appointments, feed and look after her, as she had done singlehandedly for all of us so many years ago. What she didn’t seem to understand was that far from being a burden, doing these things for her was a privilege and an honour. Looking after each other – well you taught us that mum, that is what families are for.

Despite being in constant pain, mum accepted her lot, remaining positive and curious about the world, right to the end. She was anxious about one thing though. Late last year, when Christmas was coming up, followed soon after by several family birthdays, she said:

“I’m looking forward to Christmas so much, seeing everyone together again. It’s extra special this year as I wasn’t meant to be here for this one.  I just don’t want to die on anyone’s birthday.”

Well, mum, you successfully navigated that minefield. Your death was the way you wanted it, peaceful, quick and not coinciding with a family birthday. You were ready to go, even if we weren’t ready for you to leave. We will be reminded of you every day by the simple things you always loved: a Richmond scarf, a cake stall, a flower garden, an old movie, a cup of tea with sympathy.

Personally, I will treasure the times spent together recently, especially our last day – when you laughed over taking selfies. How many other 82 year olds have an iPhone, I ask you?

Mum, I will never forget that it was you who inspired me to reach for the stars, you who put that first precious sprinkle of stardust into each of your children’s hands, so that we too could aspire to be people who make things happen.

Judith Mary Martin, Judy, Mum, Granny;

What an extraordinary life you lived, a life that touched so many;

Now you are, without doubt, forever 29 years old, and 99% perfect.

For Ben Cowen: 'My husband had a magical cape', by Lahra Carey - 2016

11 January 2017, Temple Beth Israel,  Melbourne, Australia

My husband had a magical cape.

He would wear it with arms outstretched as he walked around, and into it he would sweep anyone in his path – bewitching them with a kind of intoxicating power that would make us believe he was heroic, invincible and capable of anything.

We were bedazzled, and anything seemed possible.

My closest friends know that living with a larger-than-life wizard could be irritating. There was never a life lesson because the plane would always wait, the phone would always be returned, the keys would always be found and we would always forgive him.

I called it “the magic of Ben”, and went along for the ride.

I got used to him inviting random strangers he met in a queue to come for dinner… finding out the life story of his taxi drivers… I became close friends with his ex-girlfriends, and agreed to take the kids to places barely back on DFAT's list.

Some of you here made friends with people you didn’t previously know over one of his campfires. Others got horribly drunk (or worse) under his influence. You hiked with him, travelled with him, flew with him and spent time at his favourite place in the world – Timbara with him – and all the while you felt the magic. And you felt good about yourself.

You listened to his jokes – probably more than once. You learned to recite slabs of Monty Python, the Godfather, or Fawlty Towers. If you ever watched a movie with him that involved an actor from another country, you had to speak in that accent for the rest of the night.

We all knew him because he let everyone in.

I could go on and on – and over the coming weeks, months and years I will. Because we all want to tell our stories of Ben, and nobody wants that light to be put out.

So that brings me to the real reason i have chosen to speak today.

You have all reached out to me in sympathy… in shock, in confusion, in denial and grief and loss and pain. We all stand here together bound by this bottomless pit of hopelessness, and you all keep saying “let me know what I can do”.

So i will tell you. I am recruiting you all into Ben’s army.

And here are your instructions –

I need you to collect up all of your Ben Cowen stories. I need you to write them down so that when we’ve healed a bit we can meet to share them with each other – and our children.

I need Mitch to be supported for the rest of his years into adulthood by you strong male role models. And it will take a squadron of you to fill his father’s schedule of bike riding, kicking the footy, cricket on boxing day, footy on Anzac day – and any Carlton match. We also need volunteers for Sunday footy goal umpiring, continuing his musical education – only rockers need apply… and FIFA, cooking, camping, how to shave and a list of other activities these two best buddies shared.

But if all that activity isn’t your speed, you can volunteer for the Alex brigade. For her you need to be a good listener – willing to address complaints about her mother with kindness and love, a constant stream of compliments at the ready about her appearance and her brains, and a love of discussion on any topic from politics to ethics. Ben was also passing onto Alex his love and knowledge of photography. You will be challenged and exhausted – but please know that it will be worth the effort if you are adored even a tiny bit as much as Alex loves her father.

Or you could sign up to Charley’s platoon – but only apply if you are gentle and kind – because that is what Charley is used to from her father. You need to have a great imagination because this job requires taking over Ben’s duties relating to naming each of Charley’s 100-plus plush toys, and making up animated stories using said toys (which you must call friends) – and helping Charley take care of her new puppy Billie who will join our family on Saturday.

And for me? I need you include me in your adventures. I need your help unravelling the complicated financial structure that Ben executed so seamlessly behind the scenes. I need you to help me plan for the future of my children – and for myself to make sure I execute Ben’s legacy of ensuring i am never a burden on them. I need date night once a week and that’s where I need to hear how fabulous our children are.

I need you to encourage all of my dreams… tell me I'm the most beautiful woman in the world – and mean it. And above all – remind me constantly that everything will be ok.

Baby – i know you would have loved all of this drama. And I hope you can see the enormous impact you have had on the lives of all of those you loved, worked with, became friends with and collected up under your magical cape.

I cannot imagine how on earth we go on without your powerful life force. But even in the midst of this terrible pain i know that if i had my time again, I would do it all again exactly the same way with you.

Lahra Carey is a guest on episode 51 of the podcast.

A year after this amazing eulogy, Lahra spoke again at the graveside consecration of Ben's headstone.. "

"I don’t want to be here.

I had a sense that if I came, I would have to accept that this is all true- and that you are never coming back ..."

For Barry Deane: 'He loved to see the world in motion', by Tim Deane - 2017

19 January 2017, St Brendans, Shepparton, Victoria, Australia

 Barry loved a short Mass.

He was a regular at St Mel’s on Sunday evenings.

And he may have had a stopwatch on every Mass in Greater Shepp and found the shortest and sharpest—but by the book—sermon was over there.

With that in mind, I’ll be keeping this eulogy to the point.

We’re pleased that Barry’s funeral is here at St Brendan’s.

Speaking for Penny, Liza, Joel, Gemma and Camille—together with our spouses and children—we’re pleased because this feels like the spiritual home of the Deanes.

This is the place where – as a toddler – Barry crawled around the altar while the Mass carried on above his head.

This is the place where Barry served as an altar boy.

This is the place where the funerals of Barry’s parents – Pat and Jean – were held.

And this is the place where we’ve come to say goodbye to Barry.

In saying goodbye, this won’t be a chronology.

This won’t be a walk through his times as a clerk of courts … an insurance collector … a milk bar owner … a fruit picker … a real estate agent … a newsagent … a salesman … a taxi driver … or a Bunnings elder statesman.

Instead, there’ll be a couple of stories to get a sense of him. A sense of the man who was the eldest child of Pat and Jean; had eight brothers and sisters – Peter, Ann, Paul, Patrick, Denis, Jan, Kay, and Margo; married Penny; and had five children – myself, Liza, Joel, Gemma, and Camille.

Barry grew up not far from here – at Orr Street and then Oram Street

He was – according to reliable reports – a tearaway.

In the late ‘40s and early ‘50s – when Barry was knocking around with his brother Peter – Orr Street was a riot of kids. 

And Barry was usually in the thick of it – especially if there was trouble.

That’s because Barry loved action and was good at making things – the kid who could make a pile of junk into a billycart fit for Stirling Moss.

Peter said, Barry was a leader. That he was king of the kids.

And he always kept that kid-like quality.

Maybe that’s why he loved cars.

He’d always be asking about your car.

How was it driving?

Have you checked the oil, the water, the tyres?

‘You know they drive faster when they’re clean.’

The classified car ads and classic car catalogues were his Catechism.

 They were too many cars to count. But he did. He owned everything from Citroens to Sprites to a Fiat Bambino (a second car mind and ‘ran it for a dollar a week’) to Valiants and Chargers to V8 Commodores to Holden utes to South Korean creations which he made a solemn duty of convincing us were the best deals in town.

And he drove those cars for work and for pleasure and for escape.

Barry’s yellow Charger – in which he had a rare accident when driving the wrong way up St Georges Road in North Fitzroy – it was the other bloke’s fault – the Charger turned heads when Joel and I attended St Kevin’s, Toorak.

Yes, Toorak.

My schoolmates thought the Charger was cool. Or at least unusual.

I took a young woman to my Year 12 formal. Barry, me, yellow Charger, mag wheels, red stripe, picked her up from home. A night was had. She talked while Barry, me, yellow Charger, mag wheels, red stripe, dropped her back home.

She got out.

The door closed.

We drove off.

“She’s not for you, pal.”

Another example.

One Sunday Joel slept in and missed a bus.

No big deal – except this bus was heading to Horsham for a rock climbing camp at Mount Arapiles.

This was Barry’s one day off for the week.

What did he do?

He drove Joel to Horsham, drove back to Melbourne, then got up and went back to work the next day.

Barry loved his cars.

He loved his boats, too.

But they didn’t always love him back.

He launched one of his boats into Lake Nagambie without the plugs in. One of the kids saw it. Liza? I can’t remember who. And the day was saved. This was not to be spoken of again. But we often did.

Or the time we ran out of petrol on Port Phillip Bay. Also not to be spoken of again. But we did.

He loved his boats.

And I’m glad Barry took a final spin around Shepp lake with Peter Barker without coming to grief.

And I’m glad that he kept making plans, too.

A few weeks before he died, the old man decided to move down the end of Guthrie Street.

I understood it when I saw it. ‘Flat roof’ meant ‘modern’ in Barry speak. He wasn’t sentimental. And he’d take modern any day. – Which was an extra reason you’d find him at St Mel’s by the way.

And the upstairs balcony at this new place had a view of the bush and a view of the freight train line.

You see, Barry loved trees – wherever he lived he planted them– Especially Silverbirch. I always think of him whenever I see one.

And he loved to see the world in motion.

… needed it to be in motion.

… and he loved to be in motion.

So we’ll remember him on the move, in his cars, in his boats, making plans, happiest talking about them, about fishing, the Murray River, talking about his Labrador Buster and any of his dogs, about Dookie, about Waranga Basin, about prospecting, about the ol’ man, about the ol’ girl, about Pop, and laughing easily.

Now he is still.

Now he is at rest.

And now he is at peace with God.

He was a man of faith and knew God loved him. We entrust him to God, and with all our love we say good-by

for Coretta Scott King: 'Together at last, together at last. Thank god, almighty, together at last', by Rev Joseph Lowery - 2006

6 February 2006, New Birth Missionary Baptist Church, Georgia, USA

Sit down before I take up an offering.

(LAUGHTER)

I am neither a gambler nor better. But who could have brought this crowd together except Coretta?

(APPLAUSE)

LOWERY: I'm going to behave.

(LAUGHTER)

Lord have mercy.

(APPLAUSE)

How marvelous that presidents and governors come to mourn and praise. But in the morning will words become deeds that meet needs?

(APPLAUSE)

Leave me alone, Sharpton.

(LAUGHTER)

Shut up, Jesse.

I've been asked to recognize the board of directors of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference and president Steele who are here.

Would you stand?

(APPLAUSE)

Coretta was the first lady of SCLC. What a family reunion, Rosa and Martin reminiscing.

They'd just begun to talk when Martin seemed to not to listen. He started to walk. The wind had whispered in his ear, "I believe somebody is almost here."

"Excuse me, Rosa," Martin said as he did depart. His soul was on fire, he just couldn't wait. His spirit leaped with joy as he moved toward the pearly gates.

Glory,, hallelujah. And after 40 years, almost 40 years, together at last, together at last. Thank god, almighty, together at last.

(APPLAUSE)

Thank you, Coretta.

Didn't she carry her grief with dignity?

(APPLAUSE)

Her growing influence with humility? She secured his seed, nurtured his nobility. She declared humanity's worth and vented their vision, his and hers, for peace on all the earth.

She opposed discrimination based on race. She frowned on homophobia. And gender bias she rejected on its face. She summoned the nations to steady war no more. She embraced the wonders of a human family from shoulder to shoulder.

Excuse me, Maya.

She extended Martin's message against poverty, racism and war. She deplored the terror inflicted by our smart bombs on missions way afar. We know now there were no weapons of mass destruction over there.

(APPLAUSE)

But Coretta knew and we know that there are weapons of misdirection right down here. Millions without health insurance, poverty abound. For war, billions more, but no more for the poor.

Well, Coretta had harsh critics, some no one could please. But she paid them no mind. She kept speaking for the least of these.

Now I'm about through.

As we get older, or so I'm told, we listen into he heaven like the prophets of old.

I heard Martin and Coretta say do us a favor, Joe. Those four little children I spoke of in '73, they are fine adults now as all can see. They already know but tell them again, we loved them so dear.

Assure them we'll always be near, their troubles to bless and sanctify to them their deepest distress. Tell them we believe in them as we know you do. We know their faith in god and their love for each other will see them through.

Assure them at the end of the tunnel awaits god's light, and we're confident that they will always strive for the right. Tell them don't forget to remember that we're as near as their prayer and never afar, and we can rest in peace because they know who and whose they are.

(APPLAUSE)

What a family reunion.

Thank you, lord.

Just the other day I thought I heard you say, Coretta, my child, come on home. You've earned your rest. Your body's weary. You've done your best.

Her witness and character always strong, her spirit a melody from heaven's song. Her beauty warm like the rays of the sun.

Good night, my sister. Well done. Well done.

For Peter Hutchinson: 'He was the best hugger ever'. by John, Mandy and Gwen - 2016

24 September 2016, Powerhouse club house, Albert Park, Melbourne, Australia

John Hutchinson - son

Greg and I were in Berlin when we heard of dad’s passing. We thought long and hard about putting a post on Facebook to let our fiends know what had happened – was it a bit tacky? Is that what people did these days? What would Mandy and Mum think? But boy are we glad we did. It gave people an opportunity to pass on their condolences and to also tell us stories that reminded us of the “old” Hutchy.

Something that consistently came up was the kind of man Dad was, a gentleman, a gentle giant, a generous, kind and loving man. It made me think about the topic of masculinity that has been discussed a lot recently and how it wasn’t the fact that Dad was big and strong and handy in a fight that made people react like this.

I’m sure Allanis Morisette would agree that its ironic that we choose a gay pub in Berlin to discuss masculinity, but its there that Greg told me how his father Bob had taken him line by line through a poem written by Rudyard Kipling called “If” as an instruction on how to be a man.

We ignored the international roaming fees and googled it, read it and cried. And reflected how even though it was written way back in 1895 as an instruction on how to be a man there was nothing traditionally masculine in it, it was an instruction on how to be a good person.

So I’ll read it now with thanks to Bob, and Carroll, for raising such an amazing person and thinking that Beryl could well have read through it line by line with Dad as it reflects the kind of person he was and the comments about him on Facebook from many of you:

If you can keep your head when all about you  

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,  

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;  

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

 

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;  

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;  

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;  

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,  

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,  

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,  

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,  

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Mandy - daughter

Dad was the most beautiful wise encouraging positive patient loving father. He was the best hugger ever. He taught me to give 100% in everything I do.  A most fun and scrumptious grandfather- a Somers father to so many, and a particularly beautiful father figure to my lovely Dom.

Dad was so loved as a child that it seemed so effortless for him to love. He had an endless well of love. I think John and I have this well, we love easily. Thank you for sharing this with us Dad.

I have these little snap shots of Dad at:

Easter Camps- - sleeping in the Medium Room, Dad as the ultimate decider of the wobbly slice award (thanks for that memory Jim Paxford), cooking Chinese food, Hutchy’s  infamous meatloaf, Swannees – wherever it was Dad would be there, checking with Harry to see if Heather and I were in our hut.

Driving our Patron Dorothy McAdam down to Lady Somers Camp every January. She thought he was very special indeed.

The beautiful letters I got from him when I was in Brasil

Arriving back from Brasil to see that had bought a car so luminously green it was so embarrassing We named it the Pea green machine

His Story telling was legendary, and often quite long.

His little sayings: spurkling bargandy. Fit dit, foot, His prolific apple tarts.

Demonstrating how to roller skate - zoom zoom

Football- the smell of linament, mud and sweat and the loud war cries

Love of people and fun, parties, undies in the lemon tree- wine bottling in the back yard, singing – so much singing

Dad would enter our 4 ft Clark rubber pool, by launching himself over the edge- the joy we felt as the enormous tidal wave would crash all around us.

His love of my great ability in Chemistry- he is not here to dispute it

Taking me to the Turf Club for a counter meal after my last HSC exam

Dad was brought up by strong women, his Mother Beryl was deliciously naughty and wise. He married a strong beautiful woman, and then had a daughter, just like many of his friends, Woots, Harry, Johnno and Dake to name a few– Lady Somers Camp was born with the love and support of all these wonderful men.

Mum and Dad were our cheer squad. I mean who would have pictured me milking cows?! - Dad milked cows- though I think he enjoyed bringing beer to the shed more. Dad and Mum came to every event our children starred in, and enthusiastically supported and were embraced by our lovely friends in our community, who also in turn loved them. Thank you for being here today.

Kim Wootton described my mum as the most graceful woman she has ever met. She then said that I was nothing like that! I do think though that it sums up mum’s approach to Dad and the slow pervading relentless alzheimers disease. 

Dad never lost his love of people and would greet everyone with his famous smile and cuddle.

He went into Windmill Court in April. It was the hardest thing we have ever had to do.

However his simply remarkable ability to turn any subject back to football continued on.

He also continued to be highly competitive, and so was so impressed when Mum was able to trounce the other residents at the nursing home in trivia competition one day. She’s my wife he would say, proudly. In true Hutchy fashion he won the footy tipping competition this year!

They said he was the most popular resident they ever had.

Thanks to all of you who visited him there.

He slipped away so quickly and quietly it took us by surprise. 

Thanks my beautiful brave Mum, who seems to have an endless amount of resilience, compassion, and as Kim says, grace. Thanks for looking after my beautiful Dad. She loved him so… and he loved her.

My Aunties, Aunty Margaret and Aunty Mary Took Dad to his appointments with Mum and were Mum’s go to people. Mary sat with my Mum all day Saturday until I could get there.  Mary gave me the best advice. –Just close your eyes, and listen- it’s still his voice.

John and Greg – the rock has lived up to his great reputation and has been seriously the most wonderful support to Mum and Dad. Bravo John Ronald, and thanks to Greg for loving him so well.

Dom, Sam, Paddy and Jem – thank you for being my rocks. For understanding when I have been sad, and for making me laugh. For being by my side. For loving our Hutchiano as much as me.

Finally thanks to all of you for your support over the last week and the beautiful help in getting us ready for today.

Peter Hutchinson, a great servant and player with Powerhouse FC

Gwennie Hutchinson - wife

What a lucky girl I was to meet Pete and then for him to marry me.

We’ve had 51 great years with not too many hiccups along the way, rewarded with 2 of the best children ever, who in turn chose great partners and presented us with 6 lovely grandchildren to share his love. 

 You will be[have been] reminded of his sporting prowess, his teaching, his community service, his family and how the wonder of his personality affected such an amazing number of people, who passed through his life.

AD is hideous:  to affect such a personality as Hutch - but he took up conversation in a big way, unfortunately we lost the knack of understanding too much of it - but that did not worry or deter him at all.  He’ll be missed at Windmill Court as he saw himself as the Assistant Manager to Rachel – who will fold the laundry in the middle of the night? who will visit all those bedbound – he sometimes spent time with them by having a snooze on the next bed – who will challenge their emergency plans by setting off the fire alarm – what a dilemma he leaves behind.

There are many people to thank for easing especially his last months: his sister Mary who remained a constant to us both, the lovely staff at Cumberland View whom I could not fault, Harry, Ray, Rick, and Ish’s regular contacts as they were geographically distanced, Ross & Lee, Barb and Glen, John and Bev plus so many of you who visited, cared, prayed and quietly supported all of us, our sincere thanks.

Dom has a great story about coming to meet Pete and I for the first time.

Dom - son in law

Thank you Gwennie and all the wonderful previous speakers.

The first time I met Hutchy and Gwennie, I’d been going out with Mandy for a few months, and as it happens with these things the time comes when you have to meet the parents.

In fact I remembered this story when looking through photos with Paddy who noticed that Hutchy was a very rather large and imposing figure

He asked “Dad were you a bit scared when you met Hutch for the first time?’

Well he was rather an intimidating figure.

But after the initial introductions and chit chat, he asked Would you like a beer, Pete bought out pewter mugs, there couldn’t be much harm in that could there?

Many people here would know the danger of the pewter mug- Hutch kept topping them up with long necks.

I thought I could handle myself pretty well.

I was Having a very enjoyable night listening to stories- footy featured highly - little did I know that this would continue for the next 26 years

We were having a Beautiful meal- Gwennie clearly wanted to marry mandy off

Next thing Hutch asked if I’d like a Red Wine? Truthfully I hadn’t drunk a lot of red wine, being an innocent country lad.

One bottle came and went,  another bottle,  there could have been more….

I started Losing touch with reality….

Pete being the great host out came with the port

Things started going downhill

I had drunk port before in little glasses, Pete utilised these pewter goblets.

I was hitting my straps becoming quite witty.

Then I heard a couple of statements I was to hear consistently over the next 26years.

‘Well that’s the end of the port, ‘what about a cleansing ale?’’

I thought to myself ‘Cleansing ale’ Cleansing ale!!!??

The second one was “Oh Peter, leave the Boy alone”

I was a little seedy the next day, and mowing lawns was not fun

Hutch however was up and going the next day, he never showed any sign of a hangover, ever.

For when the One Great Scorer comes

To write against your name,

He marks-not that you won or lost-

But how you played the game.

In honour of Hutchy’s fine tradition at the conclusion of this celebration at 5pm, we invite you to have a cleansing ale at the PHFC club rooms, Ross Gregory oval. Please join us

In a final tribute to Hutchy please join with us in singing 'The Game Song'

For Peter Hutchinson: 'All that mighty heart is lying still', by Ian Mason - 2016

24 September 2016, Powerhouse clubhouse, Albert Park, Melbourne, Australia

When David Dyer became Headmaster in 1966, he was determined to take CGS to the forefront of private schools in this state, if not in Australia. Vital to the achievement of this goal was the securing of appropriate staff.  By appointing Peter Hutchinson to the staff in 1967, he selected a man who was to become an integral part of the journey towards recognition, his contribution to the School in keeping with a man of his stature.

Hutchie enjoyed teaching; he enjoyed being in the classroom. It mattered not whether it was with a lowly stream of Year 9 Maths or a Year 12 Physics class; he loved it all. He was an excellent judge of his students, and they responded well to his encouragement and motivation. In 1984, he became Head of Science, much to the delight of his colleagues, who appreciated his style of leadership. The David Danks Science Laboratories were in the planning stage, and, until their opening in 1991, Hutch attended many meetings with the architects and builders, being closely involved in the creation of what were to be outstanding facilities.

In 1973, when David Dyer wanted to increase the number of Houses from four to six, to meet the demand of burgeoning numbers, it was a move he could not make without being absolutely certain he had the right people to fill the new positions. Hutchie became the inaugural House Master of Schofield, his house rapidly becoming a force to be reckoned with. As Housemaster, first of Schofield and later Bridgland, he earned the trust and respect of his charges; they knew they could always come to him for advice, for a fair hearing and support, and literally hundreds of boys have cause to be grateful for his tutelage.

Hutchie excelled, not only in the class room, but also on the sporting field. He had joined Power House Football Club when he first came to Melbourne in 1956 to pursue his Science degree at Melbourne University, and over the next twenty years, played 363 games with the Club, being Captain for six seasons and winning its Best and Fairest Award a record seven times. He was declared a VAFA Legend and awarded Life Membership of the Association. After many years of football and cricket, Hutchie took up tennis. A keen player, he became President of his local club, steering it through the difficult years of massive water restrictions, obtaining grants from the Boroondara City Council, the School and the Bendigo Bank to build water-free courts and then overseeing their construction. When he set his mind on achieving something, he was a hard man to refuse.

At CGS, Hutchie played a vital role in the resurgence of the School’s reputation on the sporting field. As Master-in-charge of Football, he played an important role in creating a strong ethos in the School’s football teams and establishing a style of play that saw the School win the majority of its AGS games during the ‘seventies and ‘eighties, though not even he could break the Assumption hoodoo. In Ron Wootton’s absence at the Olympics in Munich, Hutchie took over the lst XVlll and the School AGS Swimming team. For thirty odd years in the Athletics season, he trained the School’s shot putters, introducing what is still remembered as the Sigalas glide. All this in addition to a seriously full House sport programme, with Schofield being the first of the new Houses to win the coveted Jarrett Cup.  When he retired from playing football with Power House, the Old Camberwell Grammarians Football Club was quick to make the most of his extraordinary knowledge of the game, appointing him as its coach. Hutch quickly took the team to a premiership, ironically disposing of Power House in the preliminary final on the way. His contribution to the OCGA was rewarded later with Life Membership.

Over the years, despite his heavy commitment to CGS, Hutch retained his strong ties with Power House, especially as Chef de Cuisine at Big Camp, Easter Camp, Special Kids’ camps, work camps. In recognition of his dedication, he was awarded Honorary Life Membership of Lord Somers Camp and Power House. He shared his culinary skills with Camberwell Grammar, cooking at all sorts of School camps, many of them at Somers: play rehearsal camps; Art camps; lst XVlll football training camps.

He worked tirelessly as the Common Room Association’s representative on the Superannuation Board, and was directly responsible for many of the improvements that came in staff salaries and conditions. At various times, he was President of both the CGS Past Parents’ and the CGS PastStaff associations, organizing functions as diverse as Croquet days at Kingussie, Frog racing in the Common Room and, in the PAC, a TAB race meeting and auction.

Hutchie loved a good party and had a seemingly endless repertoire of jokes, limericks and songs. Be it in Swannie’s or the Common Room, his love of life was infectious. His singing voice had its own quite distinctive pitch, and many have revelled in listening to such classics as The Little Red Hen’ and ‘Sweet Little Angeline’, a rendition of the former featuring in his commemorative service at Power House Lakeside. Hutch was to say the least, an enthusiastic participant and joined in a number of School productions, most notably the 1986 Centenary Revue at the National Theatre in St Kilda, where he featured in both the show’s opening number and its finale. The revue began with ‘Willcommen’ from Cabaret and there was Hutch in the chorus line, replete with a frilly tutu and fishnet stockings – he made a formidable Grundhilde. And that was not the last the audience were to see of him. The finale included ‘Farewell Auntie Jack’, with the ABC icon being played by Hutch, sidecar, boxing glove, an energetic Kid Edgar, played by Irving Lenton and all. The School magazine for 1986 records the closing of the revue in the following manner:

“Song and dance was plentiful at the conclusion to Act ll … and the cast returned to bid goodbye to Auntie Jack, played by the great, great Peter Hutchinson. Appropriately, in our Centenary Year, ‘The Best of Times is now’ ended a memorable evening’s entertainment.”

“… the great, great Peter Hutchinson” - such was the respect and affection  he had earned from staff and students.

In an attempt to quantify Hutchie’s contribution to Camberwell Grammar over his 33 years at the School, CGS could be compared to an ocean liner: the Headmaster, hand on helm, directing the course; below in the engine room, the likes of Hutch being the source of the power that keeps the vessel moving.

Over the last few tears, Peter traversed fairly stormy seas, but at last he has found his peace and as William Wordsworth would have it,

“… all that mighty heart is lying still.”

CGS is forever in his debt.

for Klaus Fincke: 'But the essence of Dad, I think, was adventure', by Michelle Fincke - 2015

22 June 2015, Williamstown, Melbourne, Australia

This location is full of memories for me. Locals would know that where we’re sitting now was the rifle range for the 1956 Olympics. Off the coast here is a reef, good for whiting. Dad would take us to the pylon out there to fish in his boat and when the red light came on, they’d start shooting at the targets and you’d have to up-anchor and get outta there. Hardly a relaxed morning out.

And in those same waters, back in the early 1960s, Klaus and his brother Jock and a few Jacques Cousteau-loving mates went diving with their dicey home-made SCUBA gear. One day, there was a problem with Dad’s tank, he blacked out and, with weight belt on, went straight to the bottom. Luckily Jock was there to drag him to the surface.

It was a life full of near misses. But more on that later.

Klaus Dieter Fincke was born in Berlin on June 28, 1938. Berlin. 1938. That was quite a time and place to be born. Klaus’s father Paul was a machine-whisperer – an engineer and mechanic who maintained aircraft. He married Lissi and they lived on a good-sized block in Berlin until he was sent, as an aircraft mechanic, to Norway for much of the war. Lissi managed alone in Berlin with young Klaus and a daughter who died, and Jock, born in 1942. She grew vegetables to feed the family and bombs fell.

When the Russians entered Berlin, she ran, pushing her children and treasured belongings in a handcart. Returning to defeated Berlin, the only work Paul could find was hard labour, lugging briquettes. But then then he saw the newspaper ad that changed so many lives: skilled workers wanted for the Snowy hydro project in Australia. Lissi hated the idea but eventually let him go: after all, he’d be home in a couple of years.

So, Klaus was on the loose in bombed out, blockaded Berlin. Lissi was a tough, fiery mum, I gather, but there was still a load of mischief to get into for the resourceful Fincke boys. Kids skated on the frozen lakes, scrounged up goodies brought by the US aircraft constantly overhead. The rubble of bombed buildings was turned into a mountain by bulldozers and, in winter, was a great tobogganing run on which, predictably, Klaus broke his arm.

Imagine how Lissi must have felt when Paul wrote to say that he’d worked and saved hard, bought a farm in the Snowy. ‘Bring the boys to Australia,’ he said. Dad said she was deeply unhappy, leaving her home for a spot on the other side of the world, but the three set sail in April 1953. I asked Dad if he was scared, leaving his home and travelling half-way around the globe. He told me that a margarine company had picture cards to collect, to stick into albums, and he had one about Australia. It had images of strange landscapes, of kangaroos and crocodiles and sharks and everything looked vast and dangerous and exciting.

Was he scared? He couldn’t wait.

On a spring afternoon, 15-year-old Klaus stepped off the boat in Melbourne and into the back of the Holden ute his dad borrowed for the journey. They drove north all night. It was dusty and bitterly cold in the back: Paul stopped by the roadside and made a fire for hot drinks. At around 6.30 the next morning, probably as the sun was rising, they arrived at the farm near Jindabyne. Lissi hated it the land drab, muddy and brown after winter. But Klaus loved it at first sight. He jumped out of the ute and never looked back.

My brother Dale and I spent a beautiful couple of evening hours in hospital with Dad late last week and he told the story of his first car; one of probably a hundred he owned through his life. It was a Land Rover, so clapped out that a farmer had dumped it in the creek. Klaus handed over 50 pounds earned as a kitchen hand and winched it out with some mates. He wanted to learn his father’s craft and over two years they dismantled and rebuilt the beast, with Klaus inhaling Paul’s vast mechanical experience.

By now, Klaus had begun a coachbuilder’s apprenticeship, making snowmobiles in Jindabyne. He’s also fallen in love with motor bikes and made a useful discovery: Snowy workers had money and bikes, but no clue about maintaining them. So Klaus serviced and fixed them, bought and sold them, all the while living the Australian adventure to the max: fishing, shooting, riding fast on icy mountain roads, all sorts of life-threatening hijinks.

Lissi turned the dismal brown land into a farm and grew food. Life was pretty good. Klaus and Paul started a mechanic and towing business and in about 1960, decided to come to Melbourne and bring the business name. I always thought it wonderfully romantic: Snowy River Motor Body Works, opposite the cemetery in industrial West Footscray, next to a radiator repairer and a milk bar.

Dad, who really mustn’t have had a whole lot to do with the sea until the voyage to Australia, become entranced by the water. He fished, mucked about with boats, took to skin-diving and spearfishing. At the Altona Squash Club he met the shy, raven-haired Lynelda, the only child of local small businesspeople Lindsay and Joy. They absolutely adored Klaus. My cheeky little grandfather was in awe of his mechanical knowledge and Joy loved him, despite the terrible tricks he played on her. Visiting the native enclosure at the zoo when we were kids, Dad secretly opened the pack of sandwiches. When Nana turned around, three emus had their heads in her shoulder bag! She took off, trying to outrun them. They chased her! For Dad, that was worth the price of admission.

To digress for a moment, many great Dad stories were about animals. Lion Park visits were a family favourite in the 1970s. Well, for other families. We dreaded them. Dad couldn’t help himself, he had to open the car windows! Klaus and Lynelda married in 1965 and went on a romantic honeymoon to Hayman Island. Dad hunted for cowrie shells by sifting through the sand with his pocket knife; an activity regarded as dangerous. He wore only thongs on the reef; again, against all sensible advice. The knife disturbed a stingray and he was slashed across the arm, soon blacking out from pain and blood loss. My then-pregnant mother had to drag him a couple of kilometres over the reef for life-saving medical attention. His feet were cut to shreds and he got coral poisoning.

This disregard for rules became a familiar theme for her. Klaus was his own man, for better, worse or near-catastrophic. Our family lived in Altona West, overlooking the refineries, and our grandparents lived nearby. Dad worked six days a week, running the busy panel beating business. He took his rye bread open sandwiches every day and the workshop was a hub for a collection of eccentric and interesting local characters. When I think of Klaus at this time, I think of him leaning over an engine, the absolute picture of concentration, the air whistling through the Escort ciggie always hanging off his top lip.

We had a passing parade of cars – I remember a pair of huge, ridiculous Dodges especially. He wasn’t an enthusiast or show off; his interest was entirely practical.

Weekends and holidays were spent on the water, somewhere. He fished the Murray, spearfished amidst waving kelp beds and always had a boat. He water-skied with mates – some of my most terrifying moments were spent watching them compete to get closest to the bank and spray water on the grazing sheep. That was the key to being with Dad. You had to go to him. He did his own thing; you were welcome to join in – if you could keep up!

We went mushrooming with him, the eternal hunter-gatherer, in the nearby fields, always worried because he really just wanted to catch tiger snakes in his bare hands. And he did! It’s hardly surprising that he produced three rather risk averse children. When Dad was 52, a twinge that started on the squash court during his regular weekly game became a heart attack on the golf course days later. I have thought about that time a lot lately, when I’ve felt overwhelmed by the cruel hand dealt him in the last three months. It could have all ended back in 1991. He was lucky, and we’re grateful for the medical technology – and for mum’s tender care - that kept him with us.

But then, it was his turn to provide tender support through mum’s long cancer ordeal. After she died, we wondered how he would manage, but he forged on pretty well alone. He loved cooking for himself and he had many friends. For 20 years, Dad delivered Meals On Wheels, and he loved it. A gregarious, decent bloke, he helped out his clients and relieved them of the fruit on their trees – my father was a champion fruit scrumper, no unclaimed fig or apple was safe.

Klaus was a complex man. He’d come from half a world away yet lived in just three houses, a kilometre apart, for 50 years. Gregarious, friendly and funny, he was also happy alone; company very often had to be on his own terms. A freewheeling, exuberant prankster, he was frustratingly inflexible at times. Authoritarian, yet with scant regard for rules, conventions or authority. He was a quintessential working class man, who applied himself and became a successful stock market trader. He made money by careful study, analysis and calculated action. He also made, it, as many of you would know, by simply not spending it. Crummy coffee, bargain bin snags at Coles …. he hated to part with his hard-earned. But the essence of Dad, I think, was adventure.

He lived for it. He wanted to be moving, active, alive ... The bush camp at Lake Eppalock was legendary. There was sailing, yabbying, fishing, boating and at times it all got a bit tribal. He roamed the outback when he could, and when he couldn’t, there were more sedate trips to the Kimberley and New Zealand – he refused to wear a breathing mask flying over an active volcano, contaminated his airways and was sick for days.

Of course. My Klaus …. knew geography, the weather and had a feeling for tides. He caught crayfish that we ate with white Sunnycrust bread when I was a kid. He loved Johnny Cash and the National Geographic documentary theme, and we polka-ed together at the Eltham Barrel. But he could be a tough parent. Set in his ways. And of course we clashed when I was a teenager. He scared away my friends with the stinky cheese he’d eat for breakfast. His soft heart was exposed around animals and he put away his guns many years ago. I have watched him with the grandchildren he thought might never come…watched him morph into fun, game-playing gentle Opa who will be missed.

We had a new routine, he and I. He wasn’t a café man and I couldn’t stand his horrible coffee, so we’d meet each week at the Altona dog beach. He’d buy real coffee from the cart at Cherry Lake and we’d watch my kelpie chase seagulls. We’d note the weather and tide, watch the pelicans and the fishing boats head out on calm mornings, as we had done together 40 years earlier. Once, I turned around to find him gently holding a seagull I had mistakenly thought dead – Klaus saw it moving and now cradled it in his big hands. Should we take it to the vet, I wondered out loud. No, it’s only a seagull but, he said, he didn’t want it attacked by the dogs. I watched him find it a sanctuary in the soft sand and saltbush, and I marvelled at the tender man he had become.

Auf wiedersehen Klaus.

For Kerryn Baker: 'She will soar as high as we allow her to ascend', by Mark Baker - 2016

16 March 2016, Shira Melbourne, Caulfield, Australia

The video of this hesped /eulogy may be viewed here. from 30 mins

When Kerryn gave her stupendously brave speech at Gabe’s engagement she practised it on me several times so that she could drain herself of the emotion. I’ve only had one chance of reading mine to her and I don’t think I’m ready to get through it - but I’ll do my best (and if I fall asleep or slur it’s because I’m on sedatives, which are on steady tap from my father). You’ll have to excuse me that I have my back to Kerryn but she has heard this eulogy a few days ago. I was given the stamp of approval through her smiles, though she did warn me that she was undeserving of my words and that it was too long. I haven’t changed any of the praise but I’ve cut the words in half, and it’s still too long. So bear with me but brevity feels like an injustice to our darling Kerryn:

Nine months ago on a Thursday night Kerryn and I were eating dinner at one of our favourite haunts, Ilona Staller. It was part of our privileged life, meeting an array of interesting overseas visitors. This time it was dinner with Sergio Della Pergola, the world’s foremost Jewish demographer whose job it is to count every Jew and project how many of us would exist in the future. I never bothered to ask how he accounted for the randomness of life - the calculus that can reduce his figures by a singular one - an infinite one - simply because life catches a person out with unexpected happenings. It was a fascinating dinner, full of laughter and lively conversation, and also my favourite pasta which is a permanent item on the cash register. Kerryn indulged herself with chips and later that night woke groaning to regret her choice of fatty food. Only in the morning did she admit to me she’d been kept up the night before by similar discomfort.

It was from such delights - a charmed life of exciting encounters, travels, dinners, augmented by anticipation of a summer of planned trips to Rwanda and Zanzibar - that prompted Kerryn to check in with a doctor. The doctors were quick to make the diagnosis and by Monday we got the ominous call as Kerryn was exiting what was to become our second home at Cabrini hospital. ‘Come immediately to our office,’ she was told, X-rays at hand. Pause. ‘And can you bring your husband Mark with you.’

We met outside the clinic and and walked through the doors in a numb state, aware that Kerryn’s self-diagnosis of gallstones was more malevolent than anything we could imagine. The doctor broke the news gently with the quizzical words, Linitis Plastica, quickly adding ‘And don’t ask any questions that you don’t want the answers to.’

That in itself was the answer we dreaded most and what followed was a string of phone calls and appointments which landed us in this surreal world that literally turned our lives upside down. The images of that week will always stay with us - poor Gabe, our older son, who believed that by sheer will and love he could fix things and to his credit, his outpouring of tears was almost enough to convince the doctors to alter their diagnosis. Rachel who was the only one living with us in Aroona at the time, in the midst of exams, lifting our spirits with her can-do anything hands - cooking, shopping, comforting. And Sarah, who walked in the house from work and expressed the the only words that could adequately sum up our feelings. Falling into Kerryn’s arms, our doctor intern cried, ‘What the fuck!’

Indeed, that word was used more than once, not as an obscenity, not as an accusation with an accusing or belligerent finger held up, for Kerryn never once let go of her equanimity or expressed anger, but something deeper, an acknowledgment of the bewildering mystery of life.

In one such moment when Kerryn was violently vomiting, she was leaning forward on a hospital bed, her back being gently stroked by a nurse who despite her experience on the oncology ward felt a surplus of empathy for Kerryn’s suffering. Soothing her patient lovingly, she whispered gently to Kerryn the only words she could offer in the face of the futility of medicinal healing. ‘We have to pray together,’ she said. ‘Do you pray?’ Kerryn mid-vomit played along. ‘Yes. Sometimes I pray.’ And in perfect poise that ruptured our image of Kerryn’s gentle manner, added: ‘And sometimes I just say Fuck.’

That’s right. Like Primo Levi in the camps who acknowledged that ordinary language like hunger and cold no long make sense to the suffering, Kerryn had to reach deep into a jarring vocabulary to articulate something that expressed our entry into a parallel planet of anguish and apocalyptic eruptions. For our idyllic world was spinning out of control at rapid pace. From that healthy meal on Carlisle Street - not just a meal - from a healthy and vibrant life of work as a family counsellor and doctor, of travel, as an engaged mother, sister, daughter in law, auntie, friend - Kerryn found herself gripped by a dybbuk that was taking over her body. Within days of the diagnosis, she could no longer lift her left leg. After one of a battery of tests on a Friday she insisted to the nurse that she would have to leave early because she had her regular Friday night blow dry at Hollywood Cutters. She made it on time, but as I watched her in the maze of mirrors, I saw her writhe in pain. Where was this monstrous alien coming from and what was it doing it to her?

The weeks ahead that culminated in her first chemotherapy, felt like a war, a metaphor that often accompanies cancer with its reference to patients as warriors and treatments as second and third line battle positions. That day, two weeks after the era that divided time into BC - Before Cancer - to AC - After Cancer - we brought Kerryn home. The family troops all did their bit. Ann came in with supermarket trolleys of fattening food, delivered lovingly to rescue Kerryn. The entrance to our home that greeted us was a shrine of flowers fit for Princess Diana. Baskets of food and kugelhoff were left at the door. We settled Kerryn on the couch to watch Masterchef and within an hour the toxic fluids erupted. Sarah with her medical training came to the rescue, washing towels and helping Kerryn through the throes of nausea. A flash of memory struck me that moment, one of many moments of history repeating itself. Kerryn had been an intern when her own mother was suffering cancer. She had injected her mother with morphine, a fateful act which impacted to some measure on Kerryn’s career choices. I vowed that I would never let Sarah be Kerryn’s doctor - only her daughter - but not before we let Sarah clean up the mess.

My job came at 3 am, the fulfilment of a craving for something totally unprecedented that could only be got from the supermarket. Teddy Bear Biscuits. The cravings recalled an earlier time, when Kerryn, pregnant with Gabe in Jerusalem, sent me on regular missions for blintzes, the best of which came from the terrace of the King David hotel. The mission accomplished yielded nothing more appetising than an ear Kerryn nibbled on, the rest of the teddy bear left forlornly on a plate while we rushed Kerryn to ER to cope with dehydration, nausea and the creeping tumour; well, not creeping - it was more like a rearguard blitz that took at least ten days to quash.

After the seventh day on the fourth floor of Cabrini hospital we were transferred to the remarkable Prahran palliative hospice - on the surface, a cosy B & B populated by angelic legions. ‘We’re not ready,’ I wanted to scream. That was when I had my first death nightmare, sleeping in a low pull out sofa alongside Kerryn. In my dream, I was driving in the dark to Norwood Rd, our first marital home. From behind the front door, near the piano that Kerryn had bought though no one really played it, there was a shadowy intruder. I woke shouting for help in the hospital, my heart racing from the terror of the figure that could only be the angel of death, and woke Kerryn who in her traditional role, comforted me when it was I who was supposed to comfort Kerryn.

That night someone died in the adjacent room, and we sat with the door sealed, our heads bowed and ears capped against the sounds of death - the ziplock bag, the muttering of prayers. It was no dream but a premonition of how our time would inexorably end, as it did literally yesterday, when me and my kids wrapped Kerryn up in a traumatic image that will never leave us.

It took Kerryn another 8 months to have her first death dream. Though I often saw her agitated at night, she woke one night in a sweat. It was after Gabe’s engagement party, in the lead-up to the race to get to the chuppa. She was crying.

Marky, she said. I dreamed we were at the airport at the gate ready to go overseas to America. Just as the gate opened I turned but it wasn’t your face anymore. It was my father Paul. By the time the doors closed I realised I didn’t have insurance. I panicked. I would never be able to get back to you. Days later she had another dream - she was on a train searching for her real father. Rachel was with her and they were being assaulted by a gang of rogues. One of the men unmasked himself behind a white veil. Kerryn was alone to fight the angel. She woke before the train reached its destination, terrified, unable to find her father. Days before her death she would say to me, don’t worry, I’m only going to America - you will find me.

When Kerryn got home after ten days in that first month, alive, though surely a contender for the Guinness book of records for answering all those loving text messages, she was offered all sorts of services from the Palliative care team. Never one to give up a deal, she accepted the offer of a biographer. The biographer would come for 6 sessions, write her life, and then compile it into a book.

I was skeptical from the outset, and made sure that the sessions were conducted in my study next to copies of The Fiftieth Gate. I think I was jealous - who was this stranger who would write my wife’s life?

Despite the most professional and compassionate efforts of the biographer, it was a disaster. Kerryn spent the first session answering one question - when were you born, and just cried and cried. She spent the second session talking about her parents, and barely got past pronouncing their names Sally and Paul. By the third she was despairing. My life is so boring, she would plead, there’s nothing to say.

And yet - Kerryn’s life was the stuff of high tragedy, a life so worth telling that the Shakespearean dramatics of it concealed from her the ability to speak of its significance and enduring impact.

Kerryn was born on 27 October 1960 into a new decade, the hippy era, but she was more of a 70s and 80s child in her dance style which I could never match. Her favourite film which she watched several times in the last months was The Big Chill, for it had all the ingredients for her - an opening scene with a funeral, a reunion of friends, lives full of unfulfilled promise, and more important than anything - great music. When I asked her what she wanted for her funeral she said a song.

A niggun you mean.
No, a song.
And she hummed it for me.
You can’t always get what you want.

Kerryn at the end of her life didn’t get what she wanted, a yearning repeated from an earlier stage of her youth. For this is the theme of her story - what she didn’t get in her life she dedicated herself to giving to others, mostly our children but also me. For a long time, she never spoke about her childhood - it was too painful, and for many it made her a closed book. Only with her cancer, and as a reaction to the silence that shrouded the divorce of her parents Sally and Paul, and the early losses of her youth, did she talk - publicly proclaiming at Gabe’s engagement the difficulties of her adolescence.

The memories of her family home in Miliara Grove with Ann, Bradley and Glenn were filled with happy stories - Kerryn recently reminded Bradley that despite the layers of bitterness that later overlaid their childhood, she remembers good times - Bradley pushing her on a swing in the park, triggering in him a deep love which had him calling his sister my angel in her final months; with Ann, her protector who would always carry her younger sister if she was upset — and of course with their baby brother Glenn. Yet those halcyon years where they worked in Fairways on Elizabeth St selling jeans, where marred by a bitter divorce that in Kerryn’s public words, made the War of the Roses look like a Garden party.

Let me say something at this point about me and Kerryn because it is part of the first act of her life. If family ties and the same school weren’t enough to link us in Grade 2, our classroom teacher might have sealed the deal. In the battle for pushy interventionist parents, of which Sally and my mother Genia were bantamweight matches, my mother got in first and refused my placement in Kerryn’s class with Mrs Yaxley, or Yackabom as we called her. That set off a domino effect where Kerryn went through a different trail of desks and to this day earned the distinction of being able to cite by rote Mrs Fuzy’s catechisms about the Renaissance and weather systems.

It was only in Form 12, as we called it then, that fate reunited us in Nana Newman’s biology class, again because of the intervention of my mother who insisted that a boy with half a brain must be educated in the sciences. Kerryn, was naturally gifted at these things, annoyed by my prankishness, and to my everlasting pride proved that in an era of gender discrimination girls at Scopus could show their mettle by topping HSC general maths. This of course marks the cerebral divide in my family - Kerryn balanced between left and right, and me fuzzy in some other spaced out zone.

Another moment of union took place in a photograph that Kerryn’s school friend Dianne recently brought us. We were visiting Mt Martha in 1977 and sharing a beach towel. I would like to tell my kids that this was the moment of adolescent passion but the reason I had forgotten that moment with Kerryn is that my eyes were fixated on the white bikini of another girl who I fancied at the time. After that, we parted ways - Kerryn starting medicine at Melbourne University, and me off for a year to Yeshiva where my hair was shorn, but grew back to Afro length in the second half of the year after I rebelled and became a Habo boy like her father.
I still recall Kerryn visiting Israel on Academy, the shorter version of the gap year away, and meeting her in a large hall. I approached her with interest - more than just the curiosity of a school reunion. There was something enigmatic about Kerryn even before she started wearing her modest outfits of every shade and cut of black - I associated her at the time with two of the books we had read in the same English class - The French Lieutenants Woman, and Marion from the Go-Between, women who harboured secrets and deep-seated, exotic, almost erotic mystery. This was around the time when I was discovering my own black box of secrets as a second generation Holocaust survivor - a collective story of myths and legends. Her black box of secrets were personal, visceral, something that she found difficult sharing with anyone.
For in addition to the divorce that had so embittered her life, her mother Sally had contracted breast cancer, a tumour that thankfully is totally unrelated to the randomness of Kerryn’s illness. This was the era when cancer was a secret disease, unspoken about. It was an awkward and foreign scene I encountered - something that our gorgeous Ralph and nurturing Tami had known from the outset but which for me was hard to decipher. Who was this Mr Young who had married Sally and was constantly baking apple cakes? Why didn’t anyone talk about the divorce? How was this woman living with cancer? Was she wearing a wig or was it her real hair?

In one of the many ironies, the man who supplied Kerryn with a wig before her first chemo had not only provided the same service for Kerryn’s Mum, but had even dated her once.
I met Kerryn again at a party I gatecrashed, and though my ego likes to say it was she who chased me, it was I who was smitten by her wit, her intelligence, and a poetic side whose output is lost somewhere in a drawer I am determined to uncover. We moved from friendship to love as her mother’s illness progressed.

There are so many memories I would like to recall - the late nights on Fitzroy street talking over pizza, parking the car on St Kilda beach and listening to cassette tapes of Steven Bishop singing Never Letting Go which I played to her only yesterday, and Jim Croce’s Time in a Bottle - how I wish I could get hold of that magic bottle now - and most vividly, racing passionately up a stairwell to the emergency fire exit in the penthouse where I crept past her mother’s sick bed into Kerryn’s bedroom. Kerryn’s Buba, a fierce matriarch, was kept in the dark about many things, including the premarital holiday we took to Noosa, allegedly with her girlfriends.
Like her parents, we never formally proposed, I remember sitting in a car outside Edinburgh and it was just decided. We went into my parents' bedroom and told them, and they were delighted not only that Kerryn was to be their daughter in law, but that I was marrying into a fine family. As for me, the son in law, I know that Sally loved me, but she didn’t quite know what to make of her daughter marrying an Arts student with a miniature crocheted kippa who dreamed of making aliyah. With her powers, she convinced me to see a psychologist - not as therapy, but with someone who might convince me to pursue a more practical career. I obliged for one semester out of obedience and a measure of self doubt, until I abandoned the experimental rats and returned to my set vocation.

Sally fought to make it to our chuppa in November 1982 but ended up in hospital soon after and almost died, only to recover by the sheer force of her will to make it months later to the birth of her first grandchild, Elliot. The story is legendary - she was here for the Friday night shalom zachor serving bobbes, but by the bris she was in hospital and died soon after.
Eleven months later Paul, newly married, strong, with a deep voice that could scare his beloved Carlton players to kick winning goals, had a mild heart attack. He recovered from the elective surgery but after our first visit to the hospital we were called back to be told that he had bled internally and died. Within the space of a year of mourning, Kerryn, Ann, Brad and Glenn were orphaned.

Glenn was tossed from house to house - cared for by Ann and Ralph who parented him lovingly. When finally time permitted Kerryn to take a break from her final year of med - we went on our dream honeymoon with a chaperone - Glenn. Glenn proved to be great company through Vienna where we will always remember asking the waitress what Speck is, to which we were told as though we were unwelcome Jews who had wandered back to reclaim the city, Speck is Speck. Glenn, 8 years younger than me, also trained me for my UMAT test for entry into university, using his logical powers on the back of a Euro train to help me understand what happens if X sits next to Y in a rowboat and Z sits two seats across, who is sitting in the middle seat?

We returned from that trip for the continuation of a Machievallian drama - a fight over a will that I’d prefer not to talk about now, but which formed so much of the drama of Kerryn’s life. The result was a prolonged court case of QC’s, but our real shield then, as always, was Ann - fierce and protective of Kerryn, and Ralph, whose bond with Kerryn is so deep that we have spent many conversations on the phone crying in inappropriate places such as the Coles supermarket. I know, and you know, that Kerryn and I are forever grateful for your mature protection, and for introducing us in our Oxford days to the concept of a fax machine, which could only be found in a post office in far away Reading.

I’m not sure exactly where this long first Act ends - in a courtroom drama, in the loss of two parents - but Victor Hugo would have made much of it in the Wein version of Les Miserables.
I am only partially going to credit myself with Act 2 - the redemption of Kerryn, who in her own right became an accomplished doctor, yet was still locked in an unresolved drama. The key to our escape was to find refuge in another world. That world was fuelled by 1980s fantasies screened on our television sets such as The jewel in the Crown, from which we named our family company Mayapore because it sounded so exotic, and Brideshead Revisited. Guilt ridden Catholics we weren’t, but when faced with the choice of universities, we opted not for America but for Sebastian’s Oxford playground, which is maybe the source of the teddy bear fixation. I went ahead for a term whose name didn’t appear in my shtetl lexicon - Michaelmas - and left Kerryn for a semester at Caulfield hospital where she formed that special bond with my mother. Every lunch, she would go there and smoke cigarettes, or inhale hers passively, and at night she slept in Edinburgh in my brother Johnny’s room, perhaps fulfilling my mother’s dream of a doctor in the house.

I was only reminded of that episode by Kerryn recently, for one of the terrors I’ve had of losing Kerryn, is that I have delegated my memory to her much sharper mind. She is constantly reminding me of events I have forgotten, which I must now scribble down, such as the photographs on our wedding day being ruined and having to pose in full regalia the next day, or the 21st surprise party I organised for her on the banks of the Yarra. Amongst the 60s floral wallpaper in our family kitchen, my mother and Kerryn formed a bond which only strengthened through time, and though my mother will always say that a mother-in-law can never replace a mother, my mother was more than a mother-in-law and Kerryn more than a daughter. One can only weep at the tragic loss of my mother, a theme repeated from her own childhood, who though supported by Johnny and Anita whom she loves and love her, has lost - in her words - her best friend and lifeline to old age.

Act 2 opens on the train to Oxford, our first view of the spires and the Sheldonian Theatre, our entry into our new home at Wolfson college. Kerryn enrolled at Lincoln College and took up a research position at the Radcliffe infirmary, writing a paper with a distinguished scientist on inflammatory bowel disease. She was rewarded with a research trip to Basle, which I thought I deserved because it was the site of the first Zionist congress, and then she took an even better trip with our new found Canadian friends on a cordon bleu cooking class in Paris well before reality TV chefs become the rage. The lifelong friendship was recently reciprocated when our friends the Fish’s visited us and were blown away by how Melbourne breakfast culinary skills outdo bad Parisian coffee.

It was a crazy time for us, a mad hatters tea party from a period novel - punting on the Isis, dressing for drunken balls, Shakespeare performances in the college gardens, starring our Shylock friend Mark then Philips now Brozel, and trips to northern England where the colours of our school pencils dazzled us in their reflection between water and sky. During those times, we travelled extensively to London where we scoured the Camden Lock markets for furniture, even though we didn’t have a permanent residence, and then further afield with Kerryn’s best friends, Buba and Zaida.

A cruise to the Baltic states was cancelled because of the hazards of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster, so we substituted it for a holiday to Marbella, where a band of Basque teerrorists decided to blow up our hotel, sending my dad into a pre 9/11 frenzy that landed us in the safer zone of Monte Carlo and Lake Lugano. Apparently Mark Brozel, who shared a room with us, recalls me and Kerryn having our one and only fight, though I do recall that in our early years of marriage Kerryn would often use her foot to kick me under the table, until she either tired of training me, or my behaviour changed, or she just got used to the man she married.

We actually contemplated a life in idyllic Oxford, where we would send our unborn children to the prestigious Dragon School, Oxfords answer to Eton, before ideology beckoned and we set off with our newly conceived son to fulfil the dream of a different aliyah. I always like to tell my kids that we look back on those travels as landmark chapters in the story of our lives - without them our life story would be one flat line.

So our next chapter was Israel, Rehov Shahar adjacent to a wadi that overlooks the Hebrew University where I would walk each day to research my doctorate. Kerryn had many talents, but an agility for language was not one of them and for all the years we spent in Israel she never did her Scopus Hebrew teachers proud. I remember us spending many nights watching Dallas on TV, and LA Law, making new friends, and Kerryn rushing to sew a dressing gown in time for Gabe’s birth, prompting my mother to kvell her refrain – ‘What can’t our Kerrnyu do!’

I can’t keep you here with every detail of our lives, but while the sum of a life is all of its parts, it is the overall effect that I want to convey of a period lasting decades of significant transitions.
Gabe’s birth was in Jerusalem’s oldest hospital, Misgav Ladakh, where my mother ran up and down the stone corridors declaiming in a Hebrew she learned in a DP camp in Germany, Lesavta me-Oystralia yesh neched, ‘the Buba from Australia has a grandson,’ to which the nurses lallallallad in celebration.

The lure of family ties, and a job for me, ended our aliyah dash, and we returned home to Norwood Rd, where over the next five years Kerryn gave birth to our golden Sarah, who resembles her mother in more ways than one. My mother will always remind us that as tough as Sarah is, she was always a Mummy’s girl, and cost her a fortune when she was whisked away on a holiday to Surfers, but took every opportunity while Buba went for a smoke on the balcony to call home and cry, ‘I want my Mummy, I want my Mummy.’ Sarah, for all her passion and zeal, not only resembles Kerryn, but still cries for her mother all the time.

Then there is Rachel, our chandelier, pragmatic, present, social in life and on social media, capable, health conscious, and always our moondust baby with a maturity beyond her years, who played their song to Kerryn in her last hours, Close to You, hoping she could still hear it.
How blessed we are to have three children who care for each other, and who we trust to make decisions that will lead them on exciting adventures.

Then there was the transition to a different kind of work - from a hiatus as a doctor, Kerryn retrained as a family therapist and went on to work at the Alma Rd clinic. Kerryn increasingly developed an interest in couples therapy and attachment theory, and spent many nights trying to explain to me and our kids what it all meant, though it was clear she could lay claim to being the primary attachment for all three of our kids. It was very hard for her to give up this work - and her patients wrote her the most loving notes about how she had transformed their lives. There was a period of two days recently when former patients kept popping out of nowhere, like TV plants for a commercial to express gratitude. They would reveal themselves to me and the kids, saying your mother is the best, and as our kids will attest, she must have been for Kerryn had patience - infinite patience especially for listening and for old people, and a wisdom that could cut through a person’s life with deep empathy.

Our holidays also transitioned in these decades - from Club Med to our annual retreats to Noosa, which climaxed on News Years Day when we celebrated Rachel’s birthday by enlisting all the kids on the beach to make her a giant sand cake. While there were always more places to travel to - Kerryn always wanted to go to Japan - we were more than satisfied with our journeys to fill a myriad of bucket lists - the mohitas and salsa dancing in Cuba, the trips to India north and south, the safaris to Kenya where Kerryn broke her foot and almost drowned in the waters of Llamu. Skiing holidays to Vermont where we almost lost Sarah on a chairlift in the fog of night; a trek through the Moroccan desert where Rachel celebrated her birthday in a tent with the best present of all - a Freddo Frog and a can of coke; trips to Vietnam where I got drunk one night on a bus, New Zealand adventures where we crazily went canalling, very sunburned summers on the Gutman’s boat on the Hawkesbury, and more recently a trip to St Petersburg and Sweden where Kerryn fell in love with the stylish fashion of the tall Viking men. We stayed up all night to watch the same white nights that Dostoevsky and Nabokov must have witnessed, and ate food in a restaurant named for Pushkin. These holidays - excursions to every part of the world - were so special to us - and formed peak landmarks in our life where Kerryn always returned with a wooden tchotchke - a souvenir that frustrated me because it always extended our time in the customs line on our return home. At Positano we made friends with a new honeymoon couple who turned out to be Katie Lowe from Scandal, and recently I took Kerryn to the holiday of holiday destinations - Auschwitz with our friends, where we stood in all the spots that generations of Bakers have claimed as their memorial of resilient survival.

But in recent times our travel became more purposeful, and Kerryn became an indispensable part of our university student trips to sites of trauma, replacing our beach holidays. Over the course of several years we took students to South Africa and Rwanda, Europe to study the Holocaust, and Israel and Palestine to solve the conflict, an item that is high up on my bucket list. The students all turned to Kerryn for psychological guidance as they navigated their way through these conflict zones. On our last trip to Europe the students formed a train of honour and lifted Kerryn like a bride into the elevator as a gesture of gratitude and affection. In the message book they wrote for her, they thanked her for being the figure of motherly love they all needed. I know that I could never do these trips without her support and feel so gratified that our paths over time intersected, and that our professional interests dovetailed so perfectly.

Religion was also a marker of transition. While Kerryn did spend a day or two toying with religious observance after Year 10 Counterpoint, she came from a secular traditional home. At first when we had kids I would stay at home on my own on Shabbes while she would take them to Prahran market on a merry go round. You can guess whose practices were more exciting for the kids. It was only after our second trip to Israel in 1995 that things began to change. Kerryn out of her own volition enrolled in a Beit Midrash for women and the two of us shared Talmud classes at our apartment which had once belonged to the first Sephardi Chief rabbi of Israel. One festival our friend, who was later tragically killed in a car accident, encouraged Kerryn to get an aliyah from the Torah. She was reluctant; it felt strange but she went along and from thereon embraced Orthodox feminism. Returning home a year later to more conservative circles at Mizrachi, she found herself at the centre of a storm dancing with a Torah on Simchat Torah only to have it wrested from her arm by a panicked rabbi like a Cossack from the Ukraine. From there we shared the journey through our religious evolution - she always rescuing me from my extreme tendencies, anchoring me and always giggling with the Tamirs at the charlatan rabbis who managed to twist an ancient text into a lewd sexual innuendo. She knew better - and I have to say, that my mother was right that Kerryn has always been the one who saved me from myself.

It was from there that we together found peace and a community home at Shira, though Kerryn never relinquished the hat from her Mizrachi days. For ten years Kerryn made her famous cholnt there, delivering it herself, and helping many people through a crisis in her discreet way. Shira was our shared venture, a coming together of 30 plus years of marriage to discover deep meaning and common values. Kerryn’s new found skill at leyning extended to Purim and Simchat Torah, where she chanted the last portion of the Torah, VeZot Habracha, This is the Blessing, and while the Torah was rolled back, I would take up on the first portion of Bereishit, which I had only merited because my mother, like all her other school interventions, demanded for me because it contained the seminal story of creation.

And so our stories were joined in the scroll of life, from beginning to end, and climaxed one year when Shira honoured us with the role of Bride and Groom of the Torah. Thirty years after our marriage we unpacked our wedding gear stored in boxes on top of a cupboard. The wedding dress fit with some effort; sadly had we done it recently the white gown would have been oversized. I still wore pyjamas under my itchy suit and together we mock married each other again before the Torah.

There are so many other things I could list here in this Act - not just transformations, but friendships that stretch back a long way, of steadfastness, loyalty and also fluidity. My kids like to say that I went through two phases Mark 1 and Mark 2 - but Kerryn all along was the rock and anchor for our family, managing the kids, being there for them always, as a sister, sister in law and as a daughter in law. I could read you Kerryn’s CV but that wouldn’t do justice to the way life is lived - the flesh and blood moments of a life. Perhaps Andre Shwartz Bart had it right that the only way we can memorialise a person is to say their name over and over - to see in the repetition of the name the choreography of a whole life, lived moment by moment. Yisgadal. Kerryn Veysikdadah. Kerryn. Shmei. Kerryn.

Which leads me to Act 3 of Kerryn’s life, an unexpected dark curtain that suddenly descended on our lives, giving her a wristband, with its in-built internet code, that turned her into Patient 1232983. Perhaps more than any time this was the moment when the story of Kerryn revealed itself, when the threads of her life came together. How I wish they could have found other ways to express themselves, ways that would have found meaning through the routines of a life lived for another 30 or 40 years to allow us to reap the naches of becoming grandparents. If there is one silver lining, as Kerryn said, she can safely delete the Lumosity app from her iPhone, though her daily crosswords and Sudoku puzzles have continued with more consistency than anything else, her head bent over the kitchen table in flowing hair, then flowing wig, then cancer cap.

How blessed have our years been. That is our consolation. When Kerryn cried tears for her unwritten life what she couldn’t see was that in her narrative was a story of love and relationships, of dedication and service. And if there is one value we must cherish, its not the ambition driven by ego, the things we do, but its the grace, the chen, the eidelkeit or delicacy, the humility, the patience for people, the listening ear, the wise tongue, the mediator, the love she elicited from her family, the overwhelming sense of grief that she has generated in this community, a steady outpouring of love.

There is a torn family scattered across this cemetery - her father Paul on one end far away, her mother at the entrance with Buba Esther and Zaida Moishe, and now Kerryn here with us. You were always a peacemaker Kerryn, and in your middle place of eternal rest where I shall one day lie alongside you in the position of our bed - me to the right, you to the left - you will continue after death to bring reconciliation to our shattered souls.

We talked a lot about death during the past months. We were on the same page. Don’t go looking for me on a ouija board, she told our kids in her last hours. For me and Kerryn, the afterlife has only one address. It resides in the souls of the living and will cradle Kerryn deep inside each of us. As she said to each of us in her final words of consolation, ‘Don’t worry, I will always be inside you.’ Kerryn will be watching over our every simcha because the doors of our souls will never shut her out. She will soar as high as we allow her to ascend. That is the most powerful afterlife I can imagine, or at least its the only one I can believe in. Kerryn is listening to every word - I am listening to her voice now and I know what she is thinking. Why do I deserve this love? I’m so sorry, she is saying for making you - my children and husband - suffer, when we should be begging forgiveness from you.

And then there is that other thing. Last year she was initiated into the Buchenwald club, transcending her prewar Flinders Lane origins to make it to the Holocaust survivor club. She as much as anyone absorbed the lessons of my family who she adored. She almost singlehandedly organised the 70th anniversary of the ball, and learned the lesson that the boys taught - trauma does not silence you but we dance through it. I have repeatedly told my kids that. As Gabe before his engagement lay on our bed holding his mother, he said, I’ll never be happy again, I’ll never dance again. And Kerryn said, you will. Dad will show you how and you did and you will one day soon on your wedding, as will your sisters.

Kerryn used to say, I don’t believe there is only one person you are destined to marry but she never regretted marrying me - I think - and she was certainly more than happy to count Gabi as a new daughter and repeatedly expressed confidence in the choices that Sarah and Rachel will one day make. For more than anything, she loved her kids. It became a refrain. The kids would say, I love you Mum and she would answer, I love you more. She meant it because her love was boundless and she wanted you all to know not only how she loved you, but that her love will sustain you forever. Those were her last words, and even when she was unconscious, her eyes would sparkle with a tear when we flooded her with expressions of our devotion to her. She never wanted any of you to build a tombstone of rock for her but a living fluid monument that would become our lives. And our lives, she knew would be a dance. How fitting that for Gabe and Gabi’s wedding she wanted Buba and Zaida to dance Rock around the Clock. There is no year to that clock, there is just the endless turning of the clock around and around, in a circle dance, where the seasons come and go, and we’re lost, all of us, in a circle game of time.

There is an astonishing line at the end of one of my favourite Holocaust memoirs, Fatelessness by Imre Kertesz, where after everything he endured upon returning home he expresses nostalgia for the camps. I shall never be nostalgic for the things Kerryn endured - not the pain, the constant discomfort in her stomach, the existential angst that she suffered, the fear of the operations, but one thing I will forever remember and long for. Cancer, for one day only, is a gift. The taste of black milk gives you the gift of living life to its fullest because you know it will one day be robbed from you, it restores the buried layers of love that are encrusted in the routines of a marriage and life, it forces you to confront one another with honesty and to admit to the question that Tevye asks Golde in Fiddler on the Roof - Do you Love Me? It would help if we could all ask that question of one another without the shadow of death hanging above us, but cancer forces an honest and truthful answer. And if you’re lucky enough to know that after 25 years, in our case 32 years, there is love, then the ability to put everything aside and just be present - to say Omm as I have recently learned through yoga with my children - that is the most sublime gift you can have.

But for now, we must be gravediggers, cartographers of Kerryn’s soul travelling the orbits of our journeys with her. Our hearts are heavy but our hearts, as Kerryn showed us, are infinite, and they will awaken our stifled souls to choose life. We have grieved a lot, but you know, you can’t always get what you want - and in life, let’s admit it, we had a lot. Not quite the number of verses of Dayenu we all yearn to sing, but so many measures of satisfaction we can count. For me and Kerryn, 32 wonderful years, for the kids a lifetime of love to set you up as the most wonderful adults, a sister who adored her, a brother who regards her an angel, another brother whose whole world is shattered yet has the comfort of twins and a barmitzvah we will celebrate this year, in-laws and nieces and nephews who adored her and shared their secrets with her. And you - our friends - our dear dear friends who have nurtured us, dined with us, holidayed with us, lived life to the fullest with us, schmoozed and laughed hysterically with us, offered expert medical counsel at any hour of the night- you know who you are - you are our blessing.

No, You can’t always get what you want, and you can’t always finish what you start, but I want us to know that there is nothing piteous about Kerryn’s life or ours. We are amongst the blessed and let this blessing sustain us, sheheyanu and let it bring us life - vekimanu - and hold us together - on this day, on this present sublime moment that is a time for tears.
For too many months, I have been holding onto the plaits of hair cut off from Kerryn after her first chemo. Now I must pay heed to my own words and not turn her into a material monument. Like in Paul Celan’s poem Todesfugue, I must return to the grave that which belongs to my wife, and begin the process of growing accustomed to an empty pillow, and a life filled with the spirit of one who we will all bear in our living souls for the remainder of our finite days.

Kerryn's beautiful speech for Gabe and Gabi's engagement is also on Speakola, delivered less than three months before she died.

For Warren Zevon: 'Enjoy every sandwich', by David Letterman & Paul Schaeffer - 2003

7 September 2003, New York City, USA

Letterman and Schaeffer refer to the 'Enjoy Every Sandwich' appearance from Zevon some months earlier, when he talked about his diagnosis.

30 October 2002, New York City, USA

You heard about the flu? Yeah

Yeah well it’s true.

How did I learn about it. First of all let me saythat I might have made a tactical error in not going to a physician for twenty years.

It was one of those phobias that really didn’t pay off.

Teh only person that I ever go to is DrStan, you know Dr Stan, the dentist, and I always said if he can’t fix it, I’m screwed.

And I told Dr Stan that I was having shortness of breath, I had it for months, I did a short tour, went to Canada, and I would only hire people who would tell me it was stress.

Flunked out medical students who became musicians, I’d say ‘Imshort of breath ... all the time’, and they’d say, ‘dont you ever watch the Sopranos?’

I said, ‘No’

But when Dr Stan the dentist heard about it, he said, ‘it sounds like congestive heart failure or something, ‘ so he made me go to a doctor the next morning after he heard it.

Letterman: ‘Oh my god, and it turned out not to be congestive heart failure ... ‘

No, it’s lung cancer that’s spread.

Letterman: That’s tough.

Well it means you better get your dry cleaning done on special.

Letterman: To me, you look and seem remarkably healthy.

Well don’t be fooled. Don’t be fooled by cosmetics.

Letterman: How do you feel?

I don’t feel as bad as they say I am. So that’s a good deal.

They certainly don’t discourage you from doing whatever you want?

How is the work now, living with this diagnosis?

I’m working harder. I mean, you put more value on every minute. You do live. I mean I always thought I did that, I always enjoyed myself, but it’s more valuable now. You’re reminded to enjoy every sandwich, and every minute playing with the guys, and being with the kids and everything.

for Melville John 'Jack' Wade: "What the eyes don't see the heart doesn't grieve", by Leticia Keighley - 2015

10 September 2015, Springvale Crematorium, Melbourne, Australia

Eulogy first published on Embracing Wade webpage, dedicated to Jack's grandson Wade.

What the eyes don't see the heart doesn't grieve,

I remember being at nan and pop's one night for tea. Nan was cooking dinner and she was cutting up onions and garlic.

"I thought pop didn't eat onions and garlic" I said,

"What the eyes don't see the heart doesn't grieve" was her response with a wink.

For as long as I can remember my eyes have seen some wonderful times with my pop. My memories of these events will never fade because the stories have been shared around like prized treasures to any one who will listen like Sammy and I running in to his room and nearly breaking his bones as we jumped on the bed with him still in it. Or the time I marched with him on Anzac Day and saw the pride he had in his eyes for his mates and for me being there.

I saw little things like sitting at the old laminate table in the kitchen watching pop peel a whole apple with a knife as the peel fell away in one long ribbon from beginning to end. I remember picking passionfruit off the back fence and the smell of the jasmine and Hoya that grew all over the front porch.

I saw the look of respect in the eyes of anyone who spoke of pop.

I have fond memories of pop before he had the stroke but it was my time with him afterwards where I learned the most about him. Yes, a lot of the old Jack was gone afterwards, his body wouldn't move in the same way and he was muddled by the medication some of the time but I saw that a lot of the old Jack was still in there. I used to visit him most Fridays for the last 3 or 4 years and I saw a man who was living a life he never wanted to live but still retained the strength, determination and gentlemanly qualities of old. He still cracked a joke and flirted shamelessly with nurses. He could still pull names and dates from deep within the recesses of his mind without pausing for breath and he still marched on believing that this was a problem to be fixed and something to be conquered. I’ll never forget the time he thought I was one of the physios and set about showing me how he could get up and take a step. Around 400 serious OHS violations were committed until he worked out who I was…he thought it was hilarious.

I saw that his right arm barely changed and every time I looked at it I was transported back to the times he used a spade or a pick in his garden. That right hand never lost its strength and even up to his final days he still had a vice like grip.

I saw the love he had for Wade and the understanding we shared about raising a child with extra needs. Sometimes we would have a whole conversation with our eyes and he would end it with a slow nod and a long blink which said, I believe in you. I saw that no matter how sad or frustrated he felt on any day, he always raised his hand for a little wave to Wade and listened as he tried to entertain him with the latest song and dance routine. I saw how much he loved watching him grow and reach new milestones all the time.

I saw how hard it was at times for him in the home but I also saw my nan by his side 6 days a week almost every week for 5 and a half years.

I saw his final breath and I saw a 70 year marriage of total love and devotion come to an end and because my eyes saw all of those things, my heart is grieving today.
 

for John F Kennedy: 'America's leaders must be guided by learning and reason', Response to violence, by Leonard Bernstein - 1963

25 November 1963, Madison Square Garden, New York City, USA

On the 24th of November 1963, two days after the assassination, Bernstein conducted Mahler's Second Symphony in JFK's honour. The night after, he addressed United Jewish Appeal of Greater New York 'Night of Stars' fundraising appeal, and read these famous remarks.

My dear friends:

Last night the New York Philharmonic and I performed Mahler’s Second Symphony-- The Resurrection-- in tribute to the memory of our beloved late President. There were those who asked: Why the Resurrection Symphony, with its visionary concept of hope and triumph over worldly pain, instead of a Requiem, or the customary Funeral March from the Eroica? Why indeed? We played the Mahler symphony not only in terms of resurrection for the soul of one we love, but also for the resurrection of hope in all of us who mourn him. In spite of our shock, our shame, and our despair at the diminution of man that follows from this death, we must somehow gather strength for the increase of man, strength to go on striving for those goals he cherished. In mourning him, we must be worthy of him.

I know of no musician in this country who did not love John F. Kennedy. American artists have for three years looked to the White House with unaccustomed confidence and warmth. We loved him for the honor in which he held art, in which he held every creative impulse of the human mind, whether it was expressed in words, or notes, or paints, or mathematical symbols. This reverence for the life of the mind was apparent even in his last speech, which he was to have made a few hours after his death. He was to have said: “America’s leadership must be guided by learning and reason.” Learning and reason: precisely the two elements that were necessarily missing from the mind of anyone who could have fired that impossible bullet. Learning and reason: the two basic precepts of all Judaistic tradition, the twin sources from which every Jewish mind from Abraham and Moses to Freud and Einstein has drawn its living power. Learning and Reason: the motto we here tonight must continue to uphold with redoubled tenacity, and must continue, at any price, to make the basis of all our actions.

It is obvious that the grievous nature of our loss is immensely aggravated by the element of violence involved in it. And where does this violence spring from? From ignorance and hatred-- the exact antonyms of Learning and Reason. Learning and Reason: those two words of John Kennedy’s were not uttered in time to save his own life; but every man can pick them up where they fell, and make them part of himself, the seed of that rational intelligence without which our world can no longer survive. This must be the mission of every man of goodwill: to insist, unflaggingly, at risk of becoming a repetitive bore, but to insist on the achievement of a world in which the mind will have triumphed over violence.

We musicians, like everyone else, are numb with sorrow at this murder, and with rage at the senselessness of the crime. But this sorrow and rage will not inflame us to seek retribution; rather they will inflame our art. Our music will never again be quite the same. This will be our reply to violence: to make music more intensely, more beautifully, more devotedly than ever before. And with each note we will honor the spirit of John Kennedy, commemorate his courage, and reaffirm his faith in the Triumph of the Mind.

Script of JFK's undelivered Dallas speech.