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 Robert McGregor: 'Dear Dr Pop', by Tim (on behalf of baby Tom) McGregor - 2013

23 August 2013, Brighton, Melbourne, Australia

Tom was worried about being asleep during the ceremony and so wanted me to pass on a special message to Dad, or Dr Pop as he was known to Tom.  We sat down to write a letter and this is what Tom said [play Iphone raspberry noises].  I translated all that as follows:

Dear Dr Pop

I’ve only known you for about 8 ½ months, but I think I’ve figured out some important things about you that will help me in the future.

First, you liked Jags a lot.  Dad had a Jag because he wanted to impress you.  I liked being driven around in that car.  Now we have an Audi because Mum wanted a sensible, family car.  I don’t think Germans are sensible.  I think Jags are sensible…and cool.  I will demand to be driven to school in a Jag and I will also drive one when I am older.  I’ll wear Ray Bans like you too because they are also sensible…and cool.

Secondly, you really liked Essendon.  I have been conflicted.  Mum likes Buddy Franklin so I have a lot of Hawthorn stuff.  Then Mum found out that Dad started barracking for Hawthorn because his Grandad did, so Mum decided I should barrack for Essendon because you did.  Dad got a big shock when he took me to visit you in hospital and unwrapped my blankets to find me dressed in an Essendon jumper.  Oh, how we laughed.  Since then, Dad keeps randomly saying things like “peptides”, “amino acids”, “denial” and “Demetriou” whenever I wear my jumper.  I wish you were around to explain what that means.  Essendon definitely seem very fit.

Thirdly, you liked Victoria and insisted that it is the greatest country on earth.  I now understand that there are too many New South Wales players in the Australian cricket team, that it is really Victorian rather than Australian Rules Football and that all the best wines are from Rutherglen, not the Barossa.

Fourthly, you had a beautiful baritone singing voice and were quite an actor with the Peninsula Light Operatic Society.  Dad has been singing and playing some guitar tunes to me recently which, frankly, I humour him into thinking he’s doing a good job.  I also hear Dad tried to be an actor like you but wound up on Neighbours.  Look, in deference to you, I will encourage Dad to keep at it, even if it is tough to watch.

Fifthly, you really loved Granny Mac a lot.  Even when you were sleeping last Saturday, I could see you were holding her hand.  I hope Mum and Dad always hold hands like that too.

Sixthly, you were amazing at English and helped dumb kids and dumb teachers get really smart.  I already know that Mum is bad at English but, so far, she can read me books.  Dad is good at English but probably overplays his hand in dinner conversations and seems a bit of a try hard.  I think you may have come in handy for when I am at school.  If I am running into difficulties on that front, I will say the following to Mum and Dad: “Gee, imagine if Dr Pop was here and how much better my grades would be.  What’s wrong with you two?”.

Finally, you were a really good Dad to Macca, Andy, Dad & Matty and a great Grandad to me.  If I am running into difficulties with Dad, I will say the following to him “Gee, are you sure that’s what Dr Pop would have wanted”?  Hopefully this will help him to be as good a Dad as you were.

Yours sincerely

Tom Robert Dodger McGregor

The McGregor boys also lost their mother to cancer just weeks later. Tim and Rohan McGregor's eulogy for Margaret McGregor is also on Speakola.

For Ger 'Farmer' Foley - 'The most appropriate song that you could ever get for this man is Mr Brightside', Irish pub wake, by Brian O'Sullivan - 2016

24 March 2016, Falvey's Bar, Killorglin, Kerry, Ireland

Mr Brightside is the song Brian O'Sullivan sang with his friend Ger Foley every New Year's Eve. Foley died of kidney failure and the success of this viral video has raised awareness in Ireland for organ donation.

Ger Foley

He is salt of the earth. He will never be replaced.

We will remember him forever in our lives.

And I’ve been doing this song for a few years, I haven’t done it for a couple of years, up on this fucking counter, and I think that the most appropriate song, that you could ever get for this man, is Mr Brightside.

Are you ready!

Are ye fucking ready!

Coming out of my cage
And I've been doing just fine
Gotta gotta be down
Because I want it all
It started out with a kiss
How did it end up like this
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss
Now I'm falling asleep
And she's calling a cab
While he's having a smoke
And she's taking a drag
Now they're going to bed
And my stomach is sick
And it's all in my head
But she's touching his chest
Now, he takes off her dress
Now, letting me go

I just can't look its killing me
And taking control
Jealousy, turning saints into the sea
Swimming through sick lullabies
Choking on your alibis
But it's just the price I pay
Destiny is calling me
Open up my eager eyes
Cause I'm Mr Brightside1

I'm coming out of my cage
And I've been doing just fine
Gotta gotta be down
Because I want it all
It started out with a kiss
How did it end up like this
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss
Now I'm falling asleep
And she's calling a cab
While he's having a smoke
And she's taking a drag
Now they're going to bed
And my stomach is sick
And it's all in my head
But she's touching his chest
Now, he takes off her dress
Now, letting me go1

'Cause I just can't look its killing me
And taking control
Jealousy, turning saints into the sea
Swimming through sick lullabies
Choking on your alibi
But it's just the price I pay
Destiny is calling me
Open up my eager eyes
'Cause I'm Mr Brightside
I never
I never
I never
I never

For Marcelle Loughnan: 'An altogether softer chorus awaits people who work tirelessly to protect and preserve', by son Chris and granddaughter Amy - 2013

16 October 2013, St Mary of the Angels Basilica, Geelong, Victoria, Australia

Chris (son):

Mum. We have come here today to celebrate and honour Marcelle’s, my mum’s, life.

Mum to me was a constant source of love and unconditional support.

She supported me even if I was wrong, my enemies were her enemies.

I think it first dawned on me that she was more than a mother when we visited her sister Mary and our cousins in the country. Together they were like two laughing schoolgirls. Our cousins would say how wonderful she was and could we swap. We would say how wonderful Mary was and could we swap. The truth is they were both wonderful mums.

Mum was getting very tired toward the end but still maintained a dry sense of humour and flashes of that old sparkle in her eyes. Mum was at home in a familiar environment thanks to Gen and Sue’s gift of care to her and the whole family. Thanks Gen and Sue.

Amy my daughter wrote a tribute for me, to her Nana which I would like to share with you.

Amy (granddaughter):

Creating something is difficult. Protecting it can be near impossible.
 
A creator is met with fanfare and accolades.

An altogether softer chorus awaits people who work tirelessly to protect and preserve.

Perhaps because of this, there is a quiet dignity to those who stand guard.

Theirs is a delicate business, which spans a lifetime.

It is difficult to recognize a protector at work, so soft is their guiding hand and light is their touch.

It is only clear eyes that reveal all things treasured and precious are marked
with their fingerprints.
 
Nanna was a potter, a gardener, a grandmother, sister, mother in law, wife, friend and mother to six. More than anything, she taught me the value of taking care of something. She was one of the best protectors I have ever known.
 

Mum knew at the end that the time was coming to rest and stand down.

Thanks mum, I love you and god speed

For Ruby Carter: 'To call Ruby Carter larger than life would be to give life too much credit', by Jane Clifton - 2015

19 December 2014, The Memo, St Kilda, Melbourne, Australia

In Melbourne, Glasgow born singer Ruby Carter was known as the 'Godmother of Jazz'. Another great singer, Jane Clifton, was celebrant at her colourful, traffic-stopping funeral. There is no video or audio of the speech.

This is a sad day. Usually I would say that we are here to celebrate a life – and there will be a celebration of Ruby’s life here today – but it is a sad day.

Because it has come as such a shock. Ruby’s passing was so sudden. It’s almost impossible for us to imagine our lives without her presence in it. The streets outside are resounding with the silence of her absence. It’s eerie. It feels wrong.

We knew she was ill.

She’d been battling illness, been in and out of cancer, for a year or so now. Long hard years of debilitating treatment that saw her in and out of hospital, but still managing to crack hardy, still managing to do gigs, still managing to belt out the odd song or three.

This recent round with brain cancer did seem very serious indeed and she’d started to ask me about doing her funeral.

Never an easy conversation to have.

So, a couple of weeks ago I managed to steer her away from the harsh reality of the topic by saying,

‘You know what we should do, Ruby? We should hold a living wake – where we can all get to say what we’d say at your funeral, only you’d get to hear it all.’

She loved that idea.

‘But,’ said Jex, ‘you won’t be allowed to speak. You’d just have to sit there and listen.’

Not so keen on that idea. (Shitpot, Jex!)

But we swung into action, started organising it anyway.

Bernard Galbally managed to book the Espy for Feb 3rd next year, so, that we could do one last, magnificent Ruby Tuesday in honour of her long residency.

I felt absolutely confident she would hang in for the gig.

And, who knows, maybe we could keep that booking and hold a tribute for Ruby….

Even when I went to visit her on the day before she died and saw for myself how things weren’t going so well – she was really having a hard time – I somehow thought that this was a crisis she would pull through.

Such was the size of her spirit, her indomitable presence.

To say she was larger than life is to give life too much credit.

Ruby Carter was unique.

She was born in Glasgow, and I’m not going to say what year she was born in or she might just jump out of that coffin and give me a Glasgow kiss.

Ruby Carter was, is and always will be 45.

Ruby was the daughter of Robina, known as Ruby, and Peter Waterson. They divorced and Ruby’s Mum went on to marry Sandy, when Ruby was 8 years-old. And it was Sandy who was really Ruby’s main father throughout her life.

Sister of Bobby, Alex, Johnny and Joe – we are recording this for the family back in Glasgow, so, best wishes to all of you back there.

Big sister to Geraldine – who is here today.

Auntie to Aisha and Kirsty,

Great-aunt to all the little ones –

Tijana, Gabriella, Molly and James

Mother to Jerry …many of us here today were at her side at Jerry’s funeral in 1995 when he sadly passed away. She took that loss hard - but there was joy to be found as Granny to Jerry’s daughter, Jacqueline – Ruby’s grand-daughter – who is also here today. As is Jerry’s partner, Caroline.

The family grew up in the area of Glasgow known as the Gorbles where they breed ‘em tough. Geraldine told me they were familiar with tinned spaghetti but she’d never seen real spaghetti until she the age of 5 when she saw Ruby, then aged 16, clock someone over the head with a packet of the stuff. The guy had put his hand where it should not to have been and he paid the price.

Ruby attended St John’s Catholic school and later St Margaret’s Catholic School.

She left school at 15 and worked in cafés and in the family fish ‘n chip shop, where she was given the responsibility of closing for the night.

And when she did - she’d shut the doors, turn up the volume on the jukebox, and she and her friends would jive the night away.

Back in those days folks all over the UK would spend their seaside holidays at Butlins Holiday Camps.

Sports, swimming, beauty parades, bingo and live music were part of a great variety of activities on offer and the Camps employed huge numbers of staff.

Ruby’s Dad worked at Butlins on the Ayreshire Coast and managed to get Ruby a job there, too, as a supervisor.

When the singer with the live big band fell ill it was Ruby who stepped up to the mic, effortlessly singing standards with the band like she’d been doing it all her life.

She sang at clubs around Glasgow including The Locarno Ballroom and The Stuart Hotel.

She travelled back and forth to London, appearing as a support act to Tom Jones, Shirley Bassey among others.

Geraldine remembers being one of only two audience members when Ruby did a first gig at the Lorne Hotel at the top end of Sauchiehall Street in downtown Glasgow. The audience built slowly over the next few weeks until a month later you couldn’t get in the door – the place was packed.

She married Nicky Carter in 1957 and Jerry was born in 1958. But times were hard, the marriage didn’t last, and Jerry grew up at home with Ruby’s family.

In 1972 Geraldine came out to Australia with husband Alex who was here to play soccer. They were going to head back home in a couple of years but the weather and the lifestyle out here won them both over – and Geraldine’s lived here ever since.

Ruby came out to visit, nursing a broken heart – courtesy of ‘Big Robert’.

She backed and forthed between here and Glasgow before also making the permanent move in December 1973.

But despite all her experience she didn’t start singing here straightaway when she first arrived. Her head wasn’t in the right place and she didn’t really know any of the local musicians.

She worked at the Chevron and the Fawkner Park Hotels, until little by little, she did get to know people – musicians gravitate towards each other like bees to honey and Ruby never had any difficulty making friends, starting conversations -- and, luckily for all of us, she did begin to sing again.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

I didn’t really know anything about Ruby’s family or her early life -

and I’m grateful to Geraldine and her family for filling me in on the details - she seems to have sprung, fully formed, into my life as a singer of great note, maybe 30 years ago.

I am part of her other family.

This great bunch of people here today who knew her and loved her.

The city of St Kilda where she lived and worked for the past 4 decades. Where she was a familiar and greatly loved local identity. Even before the arrival of the lethal mobility scooter she was a familiar sight on her bicycle.

Always with a kind word or a ‘hello son’ ‘hello hen’ or a quick tongue lashing for all and sundry.

Some people weren’t even aware that she was a singer, they just knew she was special. She ate at the finest restaurants on the block – Cicciolina’s, Lau’s Kitchen and, of course, Claypots – and they were so generous to her with their food and their love because they recognised a good soul.

Then there were her sons, her Number One Sons.

The title of Number One Son was a hotly contested honour and not bestowed lightly. You had to earn it. By – fixing a computer or tuning a TV, driving her to the shops or hospital, or simply playing your instrument like a god.

On a technicality the Number One Son in perpetuity was awarded to Jex Saareladt. But Barney McAll is in fierce litigation over this claim. As is John McAll and don’t even start Stephen Hadley or Paul Williamson or Julien Wilson. Not to mention Bobbie Valentine, wee Dougie de Vries, Ben Robertson, Nick Haywood, Sam Lemann and….the list of 20 or so goes on.

But I believe there is a special category for Russell Smith.

I feel for the Number One Sons, no one will replace Ruby in their lives.

And then there are the girls – all of us jazz girls, living in fear of the Godmother of Jazz, living in hope of her praise.

Rebecca and Nichaud, Shelley, Tanya-Lee, Kate, Margie-Lou, Julie --

How lucky we were, girls, to have Ruby in our lives to show us that you don’t stop singing. Age may weary us and fashion shift but while there’s breath and the sniff of a gig, you just get up and do it.

She was the supreme performer, the supreme entertainer.

When Ruby stepped up to the mic – and in recent years that would be a struggle – people would stop in their tracks.

Who was this strange looking, incomprehensible woman in the red leather coat, beanie and headphones telling us all to ‘have a bit of shoosh!’?

But bemused smiles would disappear when she began to sing and they realised they were in the presence of something, someone, special – that rare creature – a real singer.

Music was her life. She lived and breathed music.

Musicians loved to play with her – and she adored them. It was true sympatico. Although she did have her moods….

Ruby would be the first to admit she was no angel.

I’ve spoken to a few people in the past week who are devastated to learn of her passing because they were in the middle of a fight with her.

Who wasn’t? We’ve all had our run-ins with Ruby. I didn’t speak to her for a whole year – over some stupid, pointless thing. But it never lasted forever. They were just flash fires.

She was bigger than that.

Ruby Carter was a passionate, opinionated, tender, crabby, adorable, infuriating, talented, loving woman – who never forgot your birthday, or your kids’ birthdays, or to call you on Hogmanay or to yell out praise for your solo.

I can’t believe she’s gone, but she will not be forgotten.

This is the video of the jazz parade send off to Ruby's hearse in Acland street after the ceremony.

For Bob: 'When you suffer from chronic major depression at the level that Bob did, life can be so very painful', by Karen E Dill-Shackleford

22 October 2014, St David's Catholic Church, Arnold, Missouri, USA

Karen Dill-Shackleford is a social psychologist who studies the psychology of everyday media use and the author of 'How Fantasy Becomes Reality'. A psychologist, but not a therapist, Karen's talk reflects on her brother's life and thanks her mother, Joan, for the grace she showed in raising Bob, who suffered severe mental illness. It first appeared in Psychology Today.

I’m Bob’s sister, Karen, here to give his eulogy. For those who don’t know, my parents had three children. My sister, Christine, is the nicest and the most likeable; my brother, Bob, the smartest and most talented; and me: I’m…the youngest. I’m here today to share memories and thoughts about my brother Bob on behalf of myself and of my sister, Christine, and of all my family. We wanted to remember the person he was and to celebrate his life. My sister wants everyone to know that we think that Bob was an awesome brother.

My brother was not average – pretty much in any way. Those of you who knew him well knew that he was incredibly smart and talented. You also know that it was never easy to be Bob. When Bob was a teenager he suffered his first onslaught of mental illness. He was hospitalized with major depression, though they called it a chemical imbalance in those days. I remember how scared he was and how deeply he was hurting. He stayed in the hospital for some time, missing a semester of high school. But that summer he taught himself trigonometry and went back his senior year to calculus class. He finished the year at the top of that calculus class and, when they graduated at Busch Stadium, he gave the address as Salutatorian.

In addition to serious depression, Bob also had to cope with social deficits. I don’t know if he’d been born 10 or 20 years later if someone would have diagnosed him with being on the autism spectrum, perhaps as having Asperger’s Syndrome. In any case, he was very different socially from all the other kids. He also had a speech impediment. Many times my sister and I found ourselves explaining Bob and talking for him. We loved him and we wanted to translate Bob to the world to put everyone at ease.

Similar to people who are on the high functioning end of the autism spectrum, Bob had social deficits, but also noteworthy talents. He eventually earned a degree in mathematics with a minor in computer science. He really loved math and computers and would talk about them endlessly, fixating on the things that intrigued him. Some people who excel at math or computers aren’t good at English, but Bob was also excellent at English. When I was in AP English in high school, my teacher read one of Bob’s essays aloud to our class as an example of an exemplary essay. His challenges kept Bob out of college for a while, and though he was 3 ½ years older than I was, he ended up going to college at Mizzou with me for a time. He hung out with my group of friends and we spent a lot of time together. I remember that he was always helping other people in his classes write their computer code. Those things that flummoxed others came so naturally to Bob. In fact, I recall that he had an old rudimentary computer years ago, a Radio Shack model with a tape recorder attached to it, and with only lines of code, he managed to write a poker game complete with pictures and sounds. I’ll never know how he did it, but he did it.

Bob was also very artistic. When he was in elementary school, the art teacher made a display of only his work in the school hallway, which was unusual. He tried many different kinds of art, from carving bars of soap at home to making charcoal drawings to painting. But maybe his favorite art was photography. One of my favorite memories of Bob is a time that we had a beautiful spring day off of school together and Bob drove us to Bee Tree Park. We walked around and Bob took interesting artistic photos, such as a picture of our feet propped up on the rail of a gazebo.

When you suffer from chronic major depression at the level that Bob did, life can be so very painful. Looking back on Bob’s life, my sister and I have been thinking about the toll mental illness took on him over the years. Christine describes Bob’s depression as a storm, and his episodes like a storm breaking over him. We think that Bob was happiest when he was a child. In those days we called him Robbie or Bobbie. I admit that I called him Roberta as often as I could.

Bob was different, as I say, pretty much always. But when he was little, he laughed and joked a lot. He loved being outside, playing and riding his bike. He was also a little trickster. I recall the days when he would set traps for us so that when we opened a bedroom door, we’d get hit on the head by a cup of water or even flour. He was funny. Bob also loved to do voices and pull faces. He had a sense of humor that was all Bob. He also had a wild laugh, almost a cackle with a wheeze, which he would emit when he was watching silly TV shows. You could hear that laugh all over the house.

Over the years, as Bob’s bouts with depression and the difficult episodes continued to crash onto his shores like breaking storms, it seemed that each impending storm took a greater toll...took away a part of who he was from us and from him. He went through periods where he was so afraid of the world that going out in public was too much for him, and periods where he said almost nothing. As the destruction of those waves hit him time after time, a little bit of Bob would disappear each time.

In the last few years, at times he seemed more remote than ever, less like himself than ever. Bob had a number of pretty awful episodes of mental illness. During these times he sometimes lost touch with reality. A few years ago, he decided that the drugs he was taking for his mental illness were poison. He started to have strange thoughts and beliefs. He called me and told me many unreal things, such as saying that some people can control the weather with their thoughts. At one point, he couldn’t sleep, so he drove around all night, every night for days on end. I feared he would hurt himself or others. Then he got angry with friends and family and took off on the open road, having a series of odd encounters with strangers. My mother tried to get him into the hospital, but red tape got in the way of helping him. While Bob was off his meds and his thoughts had lost touch with reality, our Aunt Betty, our Dad’s twin sister, was very ill with cancer. Sadly, at that time, Bob had convinced himself that she didn’t really have cancer and he told her so. If you don’t know a lot about mental illness, this behavior might seem purely thoughtless or mean. But if you can look inside the mind of a mentally ill person, you can see what may have caused that behavior. Bob loved Aunt Betty so much that he could not deal with the idea that he was losing her. So, in his sick mind, he rejected the idea entirely. I think it’s possible that this was his way of coping. In the end, it was one tragedy piled on top of another one.

This leads me to another reason that I wanted to give Bob’s eulogy. When someone suffers from mental illness, it is also a struggle for those who are close to him. In thinking back on Bob’s life, I think it’s very possible that some of us here are holding onto some guilt or disappointment about times when we felt we didn’t do as much as we might have wanted to do for Bob. If you feel that way at all, I ask you to treat yourself with the same compassion you would offer a good friend and forgive yourself. Bob would want you to do that.

I also want to acknowledge all the people who did their best with Bob, though it was not always easy. So many among us were kind and compassionate. Friends and family took him in, helped him get back on his feet, talked with him or listened when he needed it, and really acted out of love and compassion time and time again. From my dad, Bob, to my stepdad, Leo, to my sister, Christine, to his roommate, Cathy, to aunts, uncles, cousins and friends – to all of you who loved Bob and did your best for him – thank you. There are some very special people in this room and in Bob’s life.

And there’s something else I need to say. Someone else I need to thank. I’m not sure if I can make it through this part or not, but I want to try. I want to thank my mother for all she did for her son. As a mother myself, I know that there are not a lot of medals that get handed out for good mothering, but there are a lot that are deserved. Thought I don’t think there’s a reason in the world that my mother would have been prepared to raise a child like Bob, she always seemed to have a knack for it. She had such a gentle way with Bob. When he did things that were maddening, it hurt her, but she hung in there. She stepped up to the plate every time and tried to help him. She was sweet and kind. She always made Bob feel like he was wanted and welcome, no matter how odd or broken he’d become. The best way I can describe it is that she treated him with a kind of unearthly love that I feel privileged to have seen. Maybe there aren’t any medals for mothering, mom, but there should be. So, I’m giving you an honorary medal today—a gold heart-- for being Bob’s mother and doing it with such extraordinary grace and love.

Speaking of love, I’ve told you about how hard it was to be in Bob’s life. But it’s also true that Bob really did have an extraordinary way of loving those who were close to him. For example, once Bob and I were at a party. Some guy was there who had gotten very drunk and was hitting on all the girls. Well, when this mad Romeo tried to grab me and make me dance with him, my brother, who was 6’2”, swiftly and deftly deflected the guy and moved me out of harm’s way. It was all done without a word and in a few seconds, as if by magic. I remember to this day the way it made me feel – that my brother was there, watching quietly, ready take care of me. It told me that he cared and that he had my back. This may seem a weird kind of story to tell at a funeral, but it strikes me that it tells you a whole lot about my brother. Maybe he didn’t always have the words to relate to other people. But he had the best of intentions and he really loved the people in his life.

As another example, the last year of his life he spent caring for his roommate who was very sick with cancer. He was glad to be there for Cathy and it gave him a renewed sense of purpose in life. When I think back on Bob’s life, what rises to the top for me is that I know that my brother really loved the people around him.

In low moments, I have often felt regret for Bob…regret for the pain he suffered; regret that he could not freely apply his natural talents because of the burdens that mental illness put on him. But I think that I’ve been unfair in judging his life that way. It’s unfair because if I judge his life this way, I haven’t then given him credit for what he did accomplish despite his burdens. He suffered from crippling depression, but he kept fighting that battle all his life. That took an incredible amount of bravery and stamina. He had social deficits, but he still loved being with people. As I mentioned, he ended his days as a friend’s caregiver. Given the weight on his shoulders, he accomplished quite a lot in his too short life.

I’ve mentioned Bob’s challenges; I also wanted to say that I really liked my brother and I loved his sense of humor. -- And besides…really, what is there in life to accomplish but to love and to be loved?

Bob, you loved us well and we loved you. We will miss you.

Karen E Dill-Shackleton is a social psychologist and the author of this book. You can purchse it here.

For Graham Webb: (song and eulogy) 'I can't fit a giant into a shoebox', by sons Mal and John Webb - 2015

24 November 2015, Centennial Park, Adelaide, Australia

Mal Webb contributed original song Follicle Drive which he sang at the funeral. He is a songwriter, musician and instrumentalist from Melbourne. You can find his work here. His brother John Webb's magnificent eulogy is below.

Follicle Drive

The things I really loved
That I'll miss the most about my Dad
Are the things that could also drive me mad
He was a full on guy with a bursting brain
And a thirst for how and why
Sustained by a heart like a steam train

His ingrained sense of justice drove him on
Relentlessly he strove to champion what's right and fair
And all this with a gentlemanly air

And his voice, above all, would resound
Facts and stories would abound
Right into his anecdotage
Telling tangential tales related unabated
He was vaccinated with a gramophone needle
So he often stated

His many favourite phrases stay with me
Like music in my mind, they linger
While I picture that triumphant pointing of his finger

[Chorus]
"Aahh! That's fixed it, as good as a bought one
Aahh! You crumb! That's a wizard idea.
If dropped naked on a desert island, I would survive
Follicle Drive"

"Follicle Drive" is the name Dad gave to the subject of the research paper he was writing when he died.
His colleagues are continuing with his work.

Whether trains, lacrosse, genetics, fishing, rowing
Yes, whatever the endeavour he was keen as mustard
Truly an enthusiast
Infusing others with his eager educative passion
For doing stuff.

He loved lists and labels, fixing things, he hated waste
Post office red rubber bands on footpaths
would invariably end up in his pocket.
And I've ended up the same

I grew up helping with repairs
Soaked in brake fluid, acetone and Araldite
Holding torches for him, with him saying
"Shine it on my hands, not on my face!"
All to the soundtrack of the Goons

His science, I never understood
But I knew that it was good!
The sheer breadth of his intellect
So vast it brought us all to unexpected paths of thought
[Chorus]...

At the age of 5, to help me to explain my lack of red hair
He taught me how to say "it's a recessive gene".
He taught me sooo much
And in return, I taught him how to hug
And creative ways of eating something green.

His legendary high diaphram never really held him back.
And that crumb still had hair on his head
When he sailed over the horizon...
[Chorus]...

 ©Mal Webb 2015
 

The eulogy was delivered by Mal's brother, John Webb

Because I'm my father's son, my first impulse was to try to tell his whole story. Detailed, accurate, ordered: with headings, sub-headings, labels in Letraset: COMPLETE.
But then I was given ten minutes to do it. So, because I'm my father's son, I quickly realised I had to look at this from a different angle and then I got to work.

I can't fit a giant into a shoebox, but I can show you some of his works. My Dad was defined by, and now lives forever, through his works, and his deeds. He expressed his love for people through what he built or repaired for them, often when he had no other way to express it. When he handed you something he had just fixed he would loudly say, "THAT, is as good as a bought one" but he could possibly mean, "I have done you wrong, and I hope this makes it better".
Dad was a unique, passionate and complicated guy with a sometimes-confronting and intense manner, a huge voice and an odd turn of phrase. His voice helped him to be a superlative science teacher with a knack for keeping order in a big class, yet he had a rampant infectious enthusiasm that must have inspired many to pursue science as a career.

However as an aside, I should mention that Olivia Newton-John, whose charity we support today, was put on the road to success as an entertainer after Dad failed her in fifth form biology. A fact he was quite pleased about.

Dad used words that no-one else used. If you were annoying him you were a ‘crumb’, if you were annoying him a lot, you were an 'absolute crumb' , and if there were more than two of you, the collective noun was 'a pack'.
If something was really good it was 'wizard'.  If you belonged to the medical profession, you were a 'medic', NEVER a Doctor.

I now refer you to the objects:

The crossbow.
This magnificent thing was built by Dad for his kids when we lived in Canberra in the seventies. You'll note that there is a Perspex view of the trigger mechanism, which he went to great lengths and much research to get right. It's an example of fine craftsmanship with hand tools. Each component was painted a different colour to demonstrate how it worked. It is a permanent reminder of Dad's high intellect, his lifelong obsession with finding out how things worked, and then his equal obsession with ensuring he passed on what he knew. He loved weaponry and the ingenuity of it, and he wanted this crossbow to work properly and in fact with spear gun rubber it was quite deadly. He handed it to us after delivering a very strongly worded procedure and safety demonstration and it provided many happy hours of target shooting.

Dad always insisted that no matter the age, kids needed to learn like adults. He would tell us facts without dumbing them down and could answer questions about literally anything. He was our Google. We learned to use real tools properly, we learned to tie on barbed fish hooks and use sharp knives, we rode bikes on the road and we learned correct scientific names for animals and plants. For me and my siblings, the yellow winged grasshoppers that swarmed the front lawn in Canberra were not "yellow wingers" as our friends called them, but Gastrimargus musicus.

Dad also taught us about chromosomes, and when I was about ten, he would take us to the Genetics department at Melbourne Uni and he would get us to carefully cut up photographs of karyotypes of locusts for his PhD thesis and mount them on card in their correct order for photographing. It was difficult work, but if you got it right consistently you were paid handsomely and we would all have pizza for lunch.

Life with Dad as a father could be that nice. But he could also be away a lot, and quick tempered with children, especially during the PhD years. My mother Susan was often left to manage four kids on her own, while he avidly pursued his other interests.
Dad found parenthood difficult. His own father was ill for many years and he had no sisters, so he was largely flying blind when my sister Cath arrived on the scene. Dad developed strong theories and rigid procedures for how to be a father to a daughter, and very early on, Cath began to give him strong feedback. Their relationship eventually became a long campaign between two great powers, each struggling desperately to change and understand the other. Sometimes there would be a truce, sometimes full scale war. By the time me, Mary and Mal came along, Cath had convinced Dad to soften his disciplinarian line. We were allowed to pursue our lives and careers where they took us, sometimes following Dad, sometimes following Mum, sometimes just going our own way. Dad was proud of us all and expressed amazement at what we all did. Cath ironically followed Dad into teaching, but in the arts, and became a talented ceramicist, then a conservationist. Mary followed Dad into science and science writing. Mal shrugged Dad's entreaties to become an engineer or mathematician, and instead leaned to Mum's side of the family and went headlong into a life of music. I became interested in agriculture and more particularly dairying, following my Mum's father's interest, but I also took Dad's advice and studied Ag science. However, I think if Dad was labelling my specimen jar honestly he'd now texta "MISCELLANEOUS" on it. Incidentally; peace was eventually declared between Cath and Dad. And it was a wonderful thing to see.

In the end, from Dad we inherited an exactly-against-the-odds hair colour gene expression, passion for what we do, four good brains and the understanding that working hard is the way to succeed. We now pass this on to our kids and Dad was always fascinated to see how the DNA had fallen and how his grandchildren were developing: sometimes he'd see a little of himself peering back at him, sometimes someone else entirely.

Again, I'm my father's son, and the discussion has wandered. One last remark about the crossbow. Dad's brother Neil's son, our cousin Simon, will be looking at the crossbow with horror. He came to visit us in Canberra when the crossbow was our new toy, and because he missed Dad's safety briefing, he used it to hunt blowflies in the garage, and learned that lead-tipped bolts bust windows.

The trains.
Dad built these models of the Victorian Railways S class steam locomotive and the S class diesel that superseded it in 1952. There were only ever four of these beautiful steam engines built and Dad always thought it was always a great tragedy that all of them were scrapped before anyone thought of preserving such things. And so do I.

Dad had an intense enthusiasm for all things rail and as kids we spent many very happy days on steam train trips with cinders in our eyes and hair, madly excited by the noise and the heat, the smell of coal, steam and oil and the drama of vintage steam locomotion. Dad would be totally absorbed in the engines and would bellow over the noise of a hissing safety valve to explain pistons, superheaters and motion gear to us. He'd laugh when the whistle made us jump. To this day, I hear a distant steam whistle and the impulse to dive into a car and find it is overwhelming, and so it was for Dad.

Train travel defined many of his life adventures. He deeply felt the romance of it. He would tell you a story of how he travelled by train to Seymour, and then to Puckapunyal for National service, and the fact that the train was hauled by an R class engine was the detail that finished the picture.

Travel also became part of our family culture. As kids we moved around following Dad's science career. Melbourne to Canberra then back to Melbourne then back to Canberra again. The family became used to moving, settling for a while then moving again.
We became good at keeping in touch with distant friends, but it also gave me a feeling that change was always around the corner and that people would always come and go.

Dad followed his passions and didn't have much interest in staying somewhere for the sake of appearing settled. And this led to him declaring in 1988 that he had one more move to make and it was to Adelaide. I believe that the choice between staying with Susan, the mother of his children and wonderful wife of twenty eight years, or to throw it all in to re-kindle a passionate romance with Noela must have been heartbreaking. At the time I was very angry at his decision, but eventually grew to respect that sometimes someone must just follow their heart. To the baffled spectator, Dad's relationship with Noela always seemed like an improbable mix of two opposites. But time is the ultimate judge, and they remained devoted to eachother for nearly thirty years.

Noela loses Dad to his fight with cancer at a time when she has her own epic struggle going on. All I can do is wish her strength and her family courage.

Where was I? The steam train model was actually meant to be the project I did for cubs, with parents allowed to help. But the project developed a life of its own, and Dad largely built it himself. I was allowed to paint some of it and screw in some wheels. It's a beautiful and faithful representation of an engine that Dad saw and loved as a boy and missed terribly forever. It includes a battery operated headlight that ingeniously uses the welding rod handrails to complete the circuit.
The diesel was built for Mal. Dad felt that it was a fitting conciliatory gesture to build a model of the engine that replaced the one he loved. No hard feelings.

The lacrosse sticks
The old stick.
Before you are possibly, the first and last lacrosse sticks that Dad ever repaired, with about 55 years between them. The glue is the same on both. Slow-set Araldite. Dad's adhesive of choice for most of his life. It was mixed of two parts and Dad always pointed out that the hardener was horrifically poisonous, usually while he was wiping off excess with a handkerchief that would then be stuffed back in his pocket, where it would later be used to blow his nose.
 
Dad started playing lacrosse when the gear was all wood and leather in the fifties. He and his brother played together and he always said that Keith was a much better player than he was, with a marvellously damaging shot on goal. Dad always did that. He underrated himself and he always generously compared himself unfavourably to others. It extended to all areas of his life: "Noela is much more intelligent than I am" he would say, or "your cousin Andrew is a much better fisherman than I am" or "I was never much chop as a lacrosse referee". It was an endearing trait, but it probably also contributed to his endless drive to improve and learn and then to teach. He was never quite satisfied with what he'd just done and always thought he could do better.

Lacrosse was his favourite sport and he was deeply involved for most of his life, though an intense involvement with the ANU rowing club intervened, filling the void during our five years in Canberra. Both sports have acknowledged Dad's passing this week, but the lacrosse community has reacted with overwhelming sadness. Dad co-founded the Eltham lacrosse club in 1963 and was a keen player, coach or supporter for all of the club's life, while it sometimes struggled and mostly thrived into the success we see today. However, he was a member of many clubs over the years including Melbourne University, Coburg, University High, Uni High Old Boys, Camberwell and Adelaide University.
He also helped to found the Doncaster club, which he had to sadly watch fold. He made it his business to help out struggling clubs and was loved and now remembered warmly for it. While Dad was very keen on the sport, he also thought himself a mediocre player, and would throw himself into the running of a club to compensate. People soon understood that to have Dad in your club was to be lucky enough to have a mad enthusiast, a tireless worker, a great recruiter, a patient skills coach, a talented gear mender and labeller and someone who saw things differently and who could bring lateral thinking to problems.
Oh, and it nearly went without saying: a great friend.

Everything seemed possible to Dad and he had no patience with anyone who said otherwise on the grounds that it had never been done, or would upset the status quo. He could often see the clear answer to a problem, but fail to see the politics in the background. It led to him once sadly saying to me that not being a better politician stopped him from getting to the top in many endeavours.

However, for all that, in the early eighties, Dad was a successful president of the then Victorian Amateur Lacrosse Association, He often said that he felt self-conscious about the fact that he was the first president who never played the sport at state level. Of course, it didn't matter. People in the sport valued him and voted for him because of his sense of fairness and the great things they'd seen him do at club level, and backed him to do the same in the role as president.
 
I followed my Dad into the sport with the Eltham club, along with my brother Mal for a time and even my sister Cath, who played for a while in a fledgling competition in Canberra. Don't look for it now.

Lacrosse is the sport that hardly anyone plays, or even knows about. Yet, most that do play can never get it out of their system. Dad was very happy to see his passion for lacrosse carried on and he recently said that for him it was completely addictive. A sport in which deft skill and real danger produces a beautiful spectacle. And so it is that I will play on next year for the Bendigo club, despite Dad's worry that I may get killed. Another mediocre player, trying to help out a struggling club in the best Webb tradition.

The modern stick
This stick is from Dad's time at his last club, Adelaide University. It has a nice action and Dad was very happy with how he'd repaired and re-strung it. Dad was a particularly fierce defender of the Adelaide and Melbourne University clubs' right to exist. Like many other clubs, the Adelaide Uni sent me wonderful messages from their members, paying tribute to Dad's passing as a massive loss to their club and their sport. It makes for sad reading, though there are moments to make you smile. One fellow made reference to Dad's unique ability to fill the tape on an answering machine. I laughed out loud, because I had the same trouble decades earlier and as a defence, I bought a machine that only allowed 30 seconds of message at a time. Instead of doing what everyone else did and summarise, Dad would ring 5 or 6 times to ensure he said his piece in full. He loved to talk and he was loud.

And that reminds me of a story. When Dad became ill with cancer, he brought to bear on it all his intelligence, his will to understand and his great bravery. He was wise and measured in how he sought treatment and gave himself the best possible chance to beat it. We held our breaths while he stared down surgery, and then chemotherapy, but I knew we had a fight on our hands when I rang him in hospital and at the other end came silence and then a faint voice. A small weak voice, lost in delirium.

My father’s voice always had permanence about it. It was his greatest trademark and the shock of hearing him quiet, bewildered, and with not much to say, will forever stay with me.
My wonderful siblings and I tried to come to Dad's rescue and with the help of some of Dad's devoted and amazing Adelaide friends and the outstanding care he got at Marten Aged Care he was given back his ability to be himself again. Something I'll always be thankful for. We had many great times before he died, especially lacrosse on the front lawn, with Dad teaching my boys the basic skills. But he was doomed and he never really got his voice back fully.  I last saw him two weeks ago and there were some ominous signs and I have a clear picture in my mind of a final loving smile he gave me and tears starting in his eyes when he said "You'd better get out of here, I cry easily at the moment".

Alas, I now believe I have gone on a bit too long, but forgive me, I'm my father's son.

For Cal Orr: 'He told Eleanor there were to be under no circumstances any tea lights', by Chris Johnston - 2015

24 August 2015, Melbourne, Australia

Thanks all for coming. Cal would have loved this except I reckon he would have thought there was too much talk, not enough action. He was a man who liked to get straight to the point which is maybe why we liked each other so much.

Thanks to Brad. Benno. Andy. Sam. Thanks to Eleanor. What a wonderfully strong and kind woman she is. Thanks to Henry, who has inherited two great qualities from his father – a wicked sense of humour and also courage. Last Friday he was in the moment as best he could and stared death in the face and held its hand and also didn’t back away from his emotions, so good on him for that.

I want to talk some more about courage. In one of his final gestures Cal stipulated something for today which took great courage. He told Eleanor there were to be under no circumstances any tea lights.

Which takes a lot of guts in this day and age of activated almonds. Imagine. No tealights at a memorial. It’s like even in death he can still open my eyes to a whole new way of living.

Seriously though – courage. We know he had loads of it in living with the disease for so long and submitting to the nasty treatments in the hope they would help. But it’s not courage from a fighting point of view. It wasn’t a battle because he didn’t choose to be in it. And it wasn’t a fight because it just lived in him. It was just there everyday and so his was perfect everyday courage. Rainer Rilke was an Austrian poet in the early 1900s and he said that real courage is facing the strange and the inexplicable like when love is offered out of the blue or when death comes. But he also said courage is better seen in people who however modestly or privately are brave enough to make a mark on the world, to create something. To do it their own way.

Sound familiar?

I was talking to Cal’s mum Julia the other day. We let loose a whole lot of balloons that were red and blue, the Demons colours. They flew towards the sea by the way.  It took a lot of courage and inner strength to keep barracking for Melbourne but he did. It’s like the tealights – NO TEALIGHTS! GO DEES!

Anyway I asked Julia if he was always the same. Funny and forthright and 100% sure of the odd way he went about things. He was described this week by his friend Louise as a loveable loudmouth and I reckon that’s about right. Julia said, yes, yes, he was always the same. She said Cal was a bit younger than his brother who also died too soon and his sisters and so a lot of the time it was just him and his mum tootling around and she loved that. Except if she told him not to do something as a little kid he would do it more. So she had to adopt a kind of reverse psychology to avoid anti-social behaviour. She said he had a scar on his chin from an incident when he was quite young in Scotland on a trike which he took down a hilly road at extreme speed, presumably because he was told not to or told it couldn’t be done. Julia said above all when he was little Cal was fun.

And by now we know the famous story of Cal leaving the hospital a couple of weeks ago to go out on the town. But that’s not all, he went with the two Shaun’s, Holt and Miljoen. Even in a healthy specimen that takes some constitution. At this point he could barely eat and was spewing up something brown and liquidy on the hour, but he went out and had a laugh with his great mates and sometime during the night ate an egg and bacon Mcmuffin – just to see where he was really at, he said. Like a canary in a coalmine, testing the gas. He got back to the Alfred at 2am. He said to me I don’t feel so good Johnsty. It must have been the McMuffin.

Then when he came home here last week things went downhill pretty quickly which was a blessing but also a curse. But mostly a blessing I think. We got him here to the surf club the day before he died and it was a flawless day with blue sky and warmish for the first time since last Autumn and it was offshore and 3-4 foot, and we got him up here and between mini morphine naps he watched the surfers one last time and it was pretty beautiful, but also sad. That night he was in strife and the next morning too and then what happened was he stumbled in the bedroom trying to get from the hospital bed to the dunny and we propped him up and put him in his own bed and suddenly he wasn’t agitated anymore, and there it was that he died not long later. It was of course all a cunning plan to get back into his own bed, he planned it meticulously I’m sure and it worked, he won, what a cheek.

So what I want you all to know was it was a good death. He was at home, he wasn’t in pain and he wasn’t alone. For that we should be grateful.

So he had courage of the best kind. And I guess what people like this offer to others is inspiration and that’s how I feel about Cal. Every time I saw him I felt better and felt energised and excited by new ideas or new thoughts. He did a really nice thing for my son Kit when he turned ten; he gave him some drumsticks because he knew Kit played the drums and the drumsticks belonged to Tre Cool, the Green Day drummer. Not exactly sure how Cal acquired them but as always he would have found a way, legally or illegally.

I found that inspiring. Just a simple act of generosity and thoughtfulness. There are some incredibly talented musicians in this room today and I know that they would also say they found Cal inspiring. Some have told me that straight up. It was almost as if he could will you on to greatness, or allow you to be the best that you could be. These are rare virtues. I will miss him so so much. My wife Penny said to me the other night when I was down in the dumps – he really helped you didn’t he? And I said yeah he really helped me.

But I guess this is where we stand up and smile like he always did and be true, like he always was.  

For Ian MacInnes: 'Imagine being the man I have just described and coming to the realisation that you would never run again?', by son Don MacInnes - 2011

20 July 2011, Ararat, Victoria, Australia

Welcome. On behalf of the MacInnes Family I sincerely thank-you for coming to sunny Ararat this afternoon to celebrate the life of my father.

Its circumstances like these that bring you back to places – both physically and in your memory. In this case it’s the Ararat Uniting Church sometime in the mid 1970’s on a Sunday morning with the family -- and few others here today would’ve been present -- sitting somewhere over there. As kids we would be taken out to Sunday School after about 20 minutes but even that seemed an eternity. I used to try to count the bricks in the wall to kill a few moments –- there’s a hint kids when you start to get sick of me.  As an elder of the Presbyterian Church, some days it was Ian MacInnes who took up the collection. On one particular day, Dad had finished collecting and for some reason he and Alan Bellis – the other elder collecting on the day -  would go and occupy the pew at the very back of the church. Also on this particular day the church had a new and progressive minister who asked the congregation to hold hands while he said a prayer. Dad and Alan were seated alone down the back Now do you think THEY were going to hold hands? -– Dad loved to tell the story –- he looked at Alan and said, ‘People will start to talk…!”

Ian Donald MacInnes was born on the 23rd January, 1929 here in Ararat to Mary and Donald MacInnes of Borreraig – a farm just west of the township of Buangor. We’ll hear a little more of Ian’s mother Mary later. My grandfather, Donald,  had migrated from the Isle of Skye after invitation from his uncle who had selected Borreraig well before the turn of the century. Now that’s the 19th century kids. Kids? --  sorry they’re counting bricks!  Ian came home to three sisters – Flora, Marion and Doris. His fourth sister Catherine arrived three years later. Mary MacInnes ran a regimented and religious household -- feeding, clothing and educating everyone through the depression years. Donald was a woolgrower and employed local men on Borreraig like the White Brothers. As Ian had no brothers, these blokes taught him how to play footy and barrack for Collingwood. Father Donald from Skye had little interest in football so Ian would walk across the paddocks to Reg Whites on a Saturday afternoon to listen to the footy on the radio -– diligently keeping score with pen and paper.

Growing up in Buangor was all about the open space, the hills, the gum trees, the creeks and the animals. Have look around you if you come out to the Buangor Cemetery this afternoon –- this was Ian’s environment as a kid and right through his life until only recently. It was a classic Australian childhood of the times -– getting up to mischief, rabbiting or taking a horse and buggy five miles south to the Fiery Creek to fish for perch in the late afternoon and eels by the light of the hurricane lamp at night.

He took us kids back there as a father and some of our fondest memories are sitting on the banks of the long waterhole or on the fiery creek near Doug Hopkins Challicum homestead. We would watch the platypus play on the logs late on stormy evenings. You’ve got to have patience to take kids fishing!

Like many people here today, Ian attended Buangor Primary School and then on to Ararat High School where he excelled on many fronts. He was Captain of forms, Captain of House and captain of the cricket and football teams. He made a century for the School and was athletics champion every year. Although he never played, when the time came he picked up a racquet and won the School tennis championship.

As it happened, the Ararat High School girl’s tennis champion was Margaret Burke –- a young lass from Moyston.

As a kid I had some idea that dad was an athlete –- but because of his disability, I’d never seen him run and he was a modest man. If I climbed high enough in the hallway cupboard there was an old leather sports bag. In it were moth eaten red and white woollen football socks, plain brown leather spikes and blue sashes -– like artefacts in a sports museum. It wasn’t until years later in the Buangor Pub I was cornered by Des Brennan and the legendary Brian ‘Muncher’ Moloney who took the time to tell me just what a gifted athlete my father had been.

But it wasn’t all ‘great fellow, well done’ at school. Mum told me the story recently about Ian on the eve of his leaving certificate Physics Exam. He and a mate decided to go to the Astor Cinema, just up the street there, to catch a movie instead of studying for the exam. When the lights came up, who was sitting behind them ….? Mr Crebbins,  the Physics teacher.

After high school, Ian was sent off to Dookie Agricultural College near Shepparton. There he honed not only more sporting skills but knowledge of the new agricultural ideas of the day. On his return to Borreraig, he introduced the shearing machine superseding the old hand shears and to his father’s horror, immediately lost some sheep to cold weather due to the new machines leaving less wool on the sheep.

Around this time, Dad had reconnected with Margaret Burke. She was embarking on her teaching career at the Glenthompson Primary School. After a couple of successful dates, Margaret thought she might test Ian’s level of interest and invited him to a dance -– the catch was it was in Glenthompson -– a fair hike from Buangor. Dad showed his hand by driving all the way down in his Ford Prefect, one of the lucky few young men to have wheels in those days, and it would seem, the girl of his dreams from Moyston.

The year was 1949 and the Ararat Football Club had a strong team and was looking for their first flag in 29 years. Ian’s pace and skill made him an ideal wingman and the 20-year-old was getting a senior game among men who could more than hold their own in an era when country football was king and the Wimmera League drew crowds in their thousands.

Come September, the young Ian MacInnes was selected on a wing in Ararat’s Grand Final team against arch rival Stawell. In front of a crowd of 10,000 at the Horsham City Oval, the Rats led at every change and won by six goals. As you could imagine, this town went crazy. Mum tells of the train ride back to Ararat with the whistle blowing for the last few miles, then a reception at the Town Hall with a huge crowd and celebrations into the night.

Life must have seemed pretty good for the young Ian MacInnes but a cruel blow was just around the corner. On a December day that year, Dad was out washing his pride and joy –- the Ford Prefect -- when he was struck down in pain. Polio had its epidemics in those years and Ian was to be one of the unlucky ones to contract the cruel disease. Imagine spending the best part of a year in hospital including your 21st birthday? Imagine being the man I have just described and coming to the realisation that you would never run again. Imagine the courage and determination it takes to pick yourself up after such a blow and live your life -  creating the impression to everyone that there’s really nothing wrong at all. These are the defining characteristics of my father and I came to realise this as I became old enough to understand the effort and sacrifice he made to create a wonderful family life for his three children.

But he didn’t do it all on his own. Margaret Burke is a loyal and persistent individual and she stuck by him in his darkest days. A compassionate transfer to teach in Ballarat was arranged for her, where Dad was in hospital, and the love affair between Ian and Margaret remained post-polio.

My Grandfather Donald had died not long after Dad returned home from Dookie and with his mother retiring to Ararat, it was down to Ian to recover and run Borreraig.

In 1952 Dad married Margaret Burke and Ian and Margaret MacInnes began a 59 year partnership. They made a great team, often sharing traditional roles with Dad’s limited physical capacities. Out around the ewes and lambs Mum was a great gate opener – you had to be clever to work most of the old carry-me-back gates – each with a latch system different to the next. I also recall getting home from school and there would be Dad, preparing the evening meal in the kitchen. He got the job done but it was fairly basic.

In 1956 along came first daughter Wendy and in 1958 the arrival of Shona coincided with the building of a brand-new brick veneer home at the corner of the Warrak Road and the Western Highway. This was to be the house where us three kids grew up and the five of us played out the trials and tribulations of family life.

Of these times we have many treasured memories. Some that stand out include:

Easter – crisp autumn mornings out around the ewes and lambs – opening the aforementioned gates and saving ewes and lambs in trouble. It never got too tedious as Dad would always need to return home for a coffee sooner than later. For us kids that would mean bottle feeding lambs and feeding ourselves with hot cross buns and Easter eggs. In more recent years, Ian would get enormous pleasure from watching his nine grandchildren hunting for Easter eggs through the living room window from his chair.

Shearing – this was the business end of the farming calendar and for almost a month around September / October we would be absorbed by Shearing. Ian was a woolgrower who liked to focus on the product. He was not much interested in Machinery – Gordon Allender and Ian MacInnes were at opposite ends of the machinery spectrum. Ian was just interested in the wool and he grew a very good product. In his latter yearsit almost seemed as if each of his thousands of sheep were treated like pets. Shearing was a special time sometimes with a wool classer staying in the sleep out. The familiar smell of  lanolin was in the air ( I might be romanticising a bit here – it was really lanolin with a strong dose of sheep shit). The boss of the board was Dad and there’s people here today who worked for my father. He was a good boss who could joke along with the best of them but he had the respect of all and when he wanted something done it always got done! So to those of you out there- too many to name –but  you know who you are- who always stepped up when help was needed – and not always on the payroll – On behalf of my family I sincerely thank you now.

Community – by the time I got to Ararat High School my best mate was, and still is, Jim Dunn. His dad, Jim senior, was Mayor of Ararat and, as a kid from the provinces, I thought that was pretty special. But Jim would say to me “but your Dad’s Mayor of Buangor”. What he meant was that Ian MacInnes was heavily involved in the Buangor Community. President of the School Council and the Hall Committee, Captain of the Fire Brigade, Trustee of the Cemetery (planning for today?). He was also Ian MacInnes JP – Justice of the Peace and locals regularly dropped in to get a signature. One of his great regrets was that there never was the Bar room Brawl he’d hoped for at the Buangor Pub – so he could go down wearing his JP badge and ‘read the riot act’. All this community service meant that Dad was out at a meeting every other night. Whenever a prisoner escaped from the Jail, it was always a night Dad would be out at a meeting so it would be my job to go over to the truck to bring the 22 inside.

Dads involvement in the community flowed through to create, with the great work of all the other Buangor families, a group of people who knew each other well and participated in the life of the township.  School activities, Dances and Send-Offs at the hall, ladies bring a plate and the men talk outside, the Christmas concerts. We kids loved them all through that endless time known as childhood.

As each of us kids left for the Big Smoke and Boarding School, Ian and Margaret’s nest got emptier and emptier. By 1977 we were all gone. That means they spent longer on their own than they did with us kids but that time was punctuated with visits to town to watch us do School stuff or play sport. But we came home as well, me to work on the farm every holiday and all of us invited our school and uni friends to come up and stay. Many people here today will remember Ian sitting in his chair having a couple of Stubbies while we drank slabs and partied on. He would love to banter with us all or sit on the  verandah watching the cricket matches on the back lawn – making disparaging comments about the skills-  or lack of them - on display.

We are so pleased that during these years,  Mum and Dad were able to travel both around Australia and Europe. In particular he was able to visit Scotland and go to Skye to visit the relatives left behind when Donald emigrated. Dad adored each of his nine grandchildren. They came to stay at Borreraig where Mum could try to educate them even more while Dad urged her to lay off and let them have some fun. It was a time for him to relax, let down his guard and be a real person to them – and they responded with an intense love that sees them naturally grieving for the loss of their beloved  Mac . Its just so fitting that they will shortly carry him out for the last time here today.

Twelve years ago I moved to Ballarat to be closer to Mum and Dad to lend a hand as they reached their seventies. The ironic thing is that the older he got the less help he accepted – the ‘I can do this on my own attitude’ that clearly got him through the challenge of polio. But as he approached 80, we noticed Dad mellowing, a tear now and then and revealing his emotions and giving away some of his feelings about his life and those he shared it with.

Mim and Mac were still going around the ewes and lambs only a few years ago when I was relieved that they agreed to retire to Ballarat. On the day Dad left Borreraig he simply got up, walked out and shut the door. He was never one to let sentimentality interfere with what was necessary. It was the last time he walked. When he got to Ballarat he had fall and never walked again. As usual Mum just got on with the business of looking after him and thankfully they had a couple of peaceful and comfortable years of retirement.

Early this year Dads health and mind started to slip. When he went to a nursing home only months ago he hated it – with a passion! Just last week he got a chest infection and died within 72 hours with his family around him. All the clichés apply: good innings, time to go, went quickly.

So we come to the end of the road. On behalf of Wendy, Shona and Margaret I say goodbye Dad. We love you dearly and, best of all we had a bloody great time!

For Adrian Bennetto: 'The lucky star may seem dim on a day like today', by son Casey Bennetto - 2013

29 July, 2013, Melbourne, Australia

"Born under a lucky star!" If you spent time with Dad, it was a phrase with which you became familiar. Of course the old saw about "the harder you work, the luckier you get" was as true here as ever, but Dad's gratitude was always genuine nonetheless, and often delivered with a beaming smile, surprised anew at his good fortune. "Born under a lucky star!"

If you'd been around when he was actually born, you would have got pretty good odds on a lucky star being involved. With their father gone early, Dad and Damien were left to find their paternal role models where they could. In essence, he had to teach himself how to be a man, in a time and environment where man was often pronounced with a capital M. It can't have been easy, but in the process I guess it established one of his defining characteristics: Adrian Bennetto was a man who knew his own mind.

You can see it in his expression in those early university photos - although I know his mind was not very highly rated by some then, and nor was it the first aspect of him that attracted general comment. The washboard stomach! The muscles! It was a devotion to physical fitness that he retained to the very end. (Pause for extended laughter.) But there's a cheeky confidence in some of those shots that looks like it could go either way. This guy will either climb the highest mountain in the world, or pull off the heist of the century.

Of course, according to him, he effectively did both shortly thereafter, in the successful courting of Elizabeth Rosemary Ellis. If Mum's parents were taken aback when the jock suitor suddenly demonstrated cryptic crossword chops, or his English tutors were surprised when the average student started having profound insights about Gatsby, they would soon cotton on to his way of thinking: Pay attention, and you might learn something.

And there was always more to learn. He devoured Conrad. He was as at home with Slaughterhouse-Five and Catch-22 as he was with The Glass Key. If there was a common thread, it was still often to do with what it was to be a man - it was a lifelong, resonant theme to him - but his personal curriculum was always widening.

So in music, of course, it was Frank and Miles and Louis, Getz and Mulligan and Bill Evans, always Bill Evans, above all Bill Evans. Yet it was also Chuck Berry and The Beach Boys, Vanilla Fudge, Simon & Garfunkel, The Rocky Horror Show. You couldn't pin him down. Then, increasingly, Vivaldi and top-flight sopranos and the great man, Johann Sebastian Bach.

Dwell on that for a moment. Bach and Bill Evans - both champions of complexity and playfulness in the form. Both often regarded as a little too distant and detached, too matter-of-fact, clever rather than heartfelt. It's ironic that, having transcended the perception of the brainless jock, Dad was now thought of by some folks as too concerned with the life of the mind.

And yes, it's true, he was always teaching, and not only professionally. The depth and breadth of his regard was such that any conversation was likely to strike a vein of his knowledge, and then you had to buckle up, 'cos you were going to get the works. The Civil War. Church architecture. Metallurgy. The combustion engine. He proceeded under the assumption that you felt the same way he did - that there was always more to learn. He was perfectly willing to share as much of it as he could recall, and he could recall a lot, and there was no recess bell to save you. It was brilliant, and unspeakably valuable, and often thoroughly exhausting.

But if his regard was fearsome, it paled in comparison to his disregard, which was legendary. If Dad was not interested, you were left in no doubt. At times this went beyond indifference and entered the territory of - what's the phrase? - fucking rude, but there was no malice in it. It was simply how he felt, and he had little patience for the social niceties in which we usually veil such responses.

On the issues that mattered, however, he was always emotionally paying attention. For the grandchildren, "Grandpa" was immediately replaced with "Grumpy", but it was only ever a name; he adored them. He embraced Craig, Steve and Catherine as they joined our family. And there are many, many people here today who can testify to his compassion and unwavering support in their toughest times.

Adrian Bennetto is gone now. So it goes. To Mum, Lise, Kaz and myself, his love and affection have illuminated and warmed our world for so long that to complain now would be downright greedy. We loved him. He knew it. He loved us. We know it still. The lucky star may seem dim on a day like today, but, in the face of all that, it couldn't ever really stop shining - not while there is still so much more to learn.

And I can imagine his own appreciation of the irony that, in the end, he wasn't brought undone by that once-spectacular body (though of course it had betrayed him with illness in recent years) nor by that incredible mind, though it too had encountered unfamiliar darkness and despair. Of course not. In the end it was always going to be his heart - his huge, romantic, unquestionably foolish heart.

There are further eulogies from Adrian's wife, daughters and grandson here

For John Lewis Foster: 'He is not here', by daughter Margot Foster - 2013

February, 2013, Kooyong Tennis Club, Melbourne, Australia

On behalf of Mum Peter and Catherine I’d like to thank Andrew Terry and Bill for their thoughts and recollections of the bloke generally known as Jake, Big Fella, Large and for some just John.  You have been mates in the way that Fred Flintstone always described Barney Rubble:  asbosom buddies, lifelong friends and pals.

Dad as many of you know was not a great talker – and certainly not about himself.  One of his favourite sayings, and you have already heard a few of them from Peter and Catherine, was that all trouble comes from the mouth.  And so it was thus when I suggested to him last year that I write down the story of his life there being so much I and we don’t know.  My attempts at actually asking him questions were dead in the water from the start so I decided to email him.  I said I would send him a random question a day which he could then answer expansively at his leisure.  I sent 3 questions and got two answers.  I asked him why he was sent to Geelong Grammar.  His reply was that he had a pillow fight with Junior and Ella came upstairs and said you are going to Geelong.  To the question about how he got into water polo from swimming he said “Brighton had a water polo team and it was a bit of fun to throw the ball around after miles of laps”.  And that was that.

So this is some of the story I would have written though it would have been much better with his help.

John Lewis Foster was born in 1931 as you know.  Unlike most of us he didn’t know the actual date of his birth until he had to apply for a passport to go to the 1952 Olympic Games in Helsinki.  His parents Judge Alfred William Foster of the Cth Arbitration Court and his former socialite mother Ella Wilhelmina Jones obviously thought it not important to tell him.  I don’t know if his siblings Junior, here today, Joy and Douglas were similarly uninformed.

Dad went to Geelong for his secondary schooling after the aforementioned pillow fight.  He excelled at swimming and tennis and high jumping.  At some point he went to Taylors before getting into medicine.  One of his memories of Geelong which he always referred to as School was that during the war, when the gardeners had gone off to fight, he and John Landy were tasked with weeding the oval.  He used to sit next to Rupert Murdoch in class and describes him then as being a socialist!

Dad’s tennis took him to Eastbourne as Peter mentioned which was no mean accomplishment.  He played waterpolo in the 1952 and 1956 Olympic Games and at one stage was named as a member of the world’s best team – the only Australian to be so selected.  He was famously photographed by the Sun tending to an injured player during the fiery Russia v Hungary match in 1956.

In the 60s and 70s Dad worked hard and built up his medical practice to be the biggest practice in town and Mum recounted the other day for the first time (Dad never told us) the story of how Bob Ansett came to see him.  Bob had asked around and found out that Dad was the busiest ophthalmologist so it was to him he came reasoning that the busiest is probably the best.  He continued to play tennis and water polo with his mates until he simply decided not to.

Mum met Dad in 1953 at an intervarsity in Brisbane where they were both competing.  They married in 1958, their 55th anniversary being 4th January this year.  They lived in a flat in Armadale before leaving for the wide open spaces of Camberwell until 1996 when the move was made to Port Melbourne.  Dad was attracted to the area by the initial idea of canals from the development into the bay where he could putter about his in his boat and fish.  From 1962 we had the house at Anglesea which survived the 1967 bushfires.  A new house was later built over the road and it was reduced to rubble on Ash Wednesday 1983. The current place rose up in time for Christmas that year. He’d spend time on the beach and out the back where they’re big and green with sometimes only me, Garth Manton and Huey for company.  He enjoyed being at the barbeque which he’d sit at for hours on end even in the freezing cold.  Fishing in his boat with Larry Elam and Mal Seccull drinking many of those large cans of Fosters known as depth chargers; gar fishing at Roadknight  as Andrew mentioned and sometimes taking us up the Anglesea River or out to sea in the tinny, all properly be-lifejacketed in his safety first way.   He loved Anglesea and I am sure when he left to come back to town on 16th January this year he knew he’d never go back.

When we were little kids we’d get into bed with Dad on weekend mornings and he’d tell us about the fantabulous adventures of Mary and Jackie, characters whose stories he made up as he went along.  We spent time in the pool  and occasionally he’d come with us to swimming at the Camberwell or Ashburton pools or play tennis with us at Kooyong, though not often.  We would go to the old South Pacific – where the sun burnt the sand and therefore your feet and the air reeked of Coppertone – where he played water polo and we’d dare ourselves to jump into the deep wary of the sharks on the other side of the cage.

Dad was keen on seat belts in the car before they became mandatory.  He gave us fluoride tablets before the water was fluoridated.  He did fun things including his magic-moo trick when he’d produce blocks of chocolate from under the seat on the way to Anglesea.  On numerous occasions we’d be on the road and he’d flap his arms and say we were Benzing Along.  Once he flapped his arms really hard and said we were about to do the ton:  100mph on the Geelong Road which was exciting and naughty.

We had family trips to Manly when we were little – firstly because I had come home from school and whinged that I’d never been on a plane – and then to Surfers andMooloolaba from time to time.  Our last family holiday was to Hawaii in 1976 when Dad went to a medical conference.

Dad rarely came to watch any of us play sport.  Before we headed off to tennis or swimming or netball or whatever he’d simply saythink of your father there’s only one place to be.  We all knew what that meant.  He would occasionally come to watch me and Peter at our national championships.  In 1984 Mum came to watch me in Tasmania and he went to the Gold Coast to watch Peter.  As he bought Peter a kayak he put in money to enable me and Sue Chapman to row in our own wonderful pair with  great success.  He came to both Olympic Games and as Peter has said Dad couldn’t bear to watch our races.  In my case he had to ask Patsy Patten how we’d gone.  We had fundraising and homecoming events for the Games here at Kooyong and they were such happy occasions.  It is different to be here for something not so happy. 

He was very proud when our family was acknowledged as the only one in Australia to have had 3 Olympians in 3 different sports.  He would have been  just as pleased to know what John Coates AOC President has written to me: As a twice Olympian and father of two Olympic medallists John will not only be remembered for the fine man he was but also in Australian Olympic history as patriarch of one our greatest Olympic families

Dad sold his medical practice in 2000 without a plan.  The last 12 years were effectively wasted.  He spent much time on his computer reading blogs and newsletters and emailing jokes to and from friends.   It is apparent, having used his computer since he died, that he was using 2 fingers with version 1 of windows – we now understand why he spent all day at the bloody thing.  He was also a great reader and those 2 occupations consumed most of his time.  He loved world war 2 books and it was with sadness that I walked past the airport shopthat always had a good stock the week before he died knowing there was no point me going to check out what he might like.

It is sad that Dad didn’t take advantage of his new time to use all the skills and experiences he had accumulated over the years in sport and medicine or to take part in the café and beach life of Port Melbourne.  He was president of Kooyong from 1980 to 1984 (I loved being able to use the presidential carpark to watch the Open).  He was the leader of Kooyong for its Members which Terry has spoken about. When we were at Camberwell he was behind a group that lobbied against the development of flats.  He was tempted to stand for Hawthorn in the 70s but his shyness, plus a plunge in income, in the end stopped him from taking that step.  With John Cain and Nigel Gray he conspired to work to reduce the incidence of smoking the results of which we continue to see. (Catherine got short shrift when she and Jenny Ramsden were sprung having a fag one day).  He became enthused about a beach saving product called Seascape and travelled to Cape Hatteras to research it.  He lobbied the shire council at Anglesea to keep the old reservoir full of water for fire fighting purposes.  He saved the sight and lives of many of his friends, all without fanfare.  But with retirement and no plan all of this activity came to a full stop.

Whilst Dad didn’t show us much overt affection there was no doubt that he loved his dogs.  Firstly Tiggott, then Tiggotty Two and lastly Linka and Maya the golden retrievers.  He just loved the impudent, large and lazy Linky.  A favourite memory is being at Miles Better Beach:  we would take the dogs 100m down the beach and Dad would stand up and wave his arms over his head and the dogs would tear back to him so happy to see him and he them.  That’s why they were in the death notice so please be relieved if you thought there were 2 dead children out there somewhere.  He always called the dogs by their names but rarely us.  I don’t think he ever called me Margot but forever M.  Catherine has as she said was always Lamby and Peter WBB (World’s Best Boy) when young.  In public he would call Mum Elizabeth but at home she was always Ya Mother , Loved One or Adored but mostly just Loved.

Dad was as he was, a function of his dysfunctional upbringing.  A shy man but one with enormous talent and application, a friend to many and one who once loved a party, having Carly Simon and Linda Ronstadt on out loud and even rock concerts including the Beatles in 1964.  He hated his height for some reason and as he got older seemed to become less able to deal with little old ladies coming up to him at Probus saying ooh you’re so tall.  The only time his height was unremarkable was when he was at rowing regattas. 

During his retirement he began to withdraw more and more and the decline probably began about 4 years ago. It was then that he and mum stopped going to Noosa for their annual few weeks.  The 4WD adventures which they both loved had ceased some time before that. 

Dad would not have lived as long as he did without mum and not just since he has been crook.  They both knew that.  Mum has always been there putting up with his good and bad, the drinking and sometimes the horrible.  He would have been a sadder and lonelier man without her energy, enthusiasm, tolerance and when it came to the final crunch her ability to ensure that his every need and demand were met.  She has truly been amazing and I am sure he knew it and appreciated it even if it was not within him to say it out loud more than occasionally over the past 60 years.

In many ways Dad has been absent for some time.  He was the only Dad I had and I just wish that his last few years could have been happier and more fulfilled though he was the master of his own fate and didn’t bother with the dictum doctor heal thyself..  I am proud to say that this successful, handsome, generous and distinguished man, who acted without hubris so often and  who provided so well for us was my father.  I am very sad he is gone and miss very much the idea of Dad as he was in his best years which could’ve, would’ve , should’ve been that Dad to the end – for his sake.  Had he hada last word he would no doubt have said what he always said when exiting an occasion “I am not here”.

He is not here.

For Jack Clancy: 'Give this to Jack, will you, Johnny. He wasn’t really a betting man,' by John Timlin - 2014

3 April, 2014, Kew, Melbourne, Australia

As a boy Jack lived with his family in Brighton and helped his Dad with gardening.  Anyone who went to Acheron Avenue would know that Jack learnt a thing or two about that art.  He designed and planted what was one of the best gardens in Camberwell. 

His Dad, Harry, a keen student of the horses and a hopeful punter, invested any small amount of money he could manage on the odd nag.  There was no TAB in those days so the local barber who attended to the Clancy family doubled as an SP bookmaker.  Doubtless, he was one of John Wren’s franchisees.  

One Saturday they were gardening in Brighton when Jack’s father got a tip from the owner of the horse.  Jack had to take 5 shillings to the barber to put on Saint Warden before the 3pm race.  That was fine; only a ten minute walk away so Jack headed off with plenty of time.  But when he got to the level crossing at New Street, the gates closed.  He waited for the Sandringham bound train to come and it roared past but the gates still wouldn’t open.  There was a train coming from the other direction. 

Of course, by the time Jack made it to the barber, the race was over and Saint Warden had won at the juicy odds of 10/1.  Back he trudged with the 5 shillings aware that a win would have been five pounds.  More than his Dad could earn in a week at the Council depot.  He was expecting the wrath of God but, when he told him what happened, Harry Clancy said “Ah well.  That’s life John, that’s life.”

Jack must have told me that story a dozen times over the years and it’s interesting that, despite his love of sport, he was never a gambler, just a devotee of footy tipping where he prided himself on injecting knowledge into the equation and (Pause) just a little bit of luck.

Fast forward nearly half a century to the venue at Martinis Hotel in Rathdowne Street, Carlton now an abandoned building opposite the Housing Commission flats.  On Thursdays Jack, Laurie, Paul and I and sometimes Jack Hibberd and the lawyer, Phil Molan, would have lunch and waste the rest of the afternoon playing pool.  

When we first arrived, we were given the cold shoulder by the locals.  We were outsiders but one of them recognised me from my time at the Pram Factory and the nearby Stewarts Hotel which we frequented. Grudgingly, we were allowed access to the pool table in between their games. 

Some very funny fellows were there, all with nicknames.  Harry Horsetrough was an able teller of tall tales from Tasmania where his family reputedly owned a chain of hotels which suffered losses due to Horsetrough constantly dipping his nose and hand into the cash registers.  Hence the nickname. The family exiled him to Melbourne and dribbled him a stipend for booze and horses.

Horsetrough’s great mate, he was fond of telling us, was Christopher Dale Flannery, aka Rent-a-Kill, a contract killer named in various Underbelly type crimes and also a casual and brutal enforcer for [celebrity footy tycoon ].

We later learned Horsetrough had done time for embezzlement but then most of his mates in the pub had similar records. We were often introduced to folk just released from Pentridge including a couple of murderers, retired. Apart from one bloody fight over a contested pool table booking, it was pretty quiet and we were tolerated. 

On Thursdays about once a month a bloke who people called Merv the Perve came in the side door, looked cautiously around for strangers and off duty coppers and then shouted out things like “Shoes, boys: Julius Marlowes, Hush Puppies, Ezywalkin,  House of Windsor come and get em.  Straight off the wharf”.  Then he’d come in carrying boxes from his panel van and shoe the whole bar for cash.  No questions asked. 

We never bought this stuff even though Horsetrough and Lindsay Loophole told us it was “Right as rain. Right as rain, mate.  Look, the Perve used to be a copper. He’s as clean as a whistle.  No worries.”  Oddly, that made us feel less secure.

Lindsay was particularly friendly with Jack because he’d been a footballer who, like Jack, had played a bit of VFL at Fitzroy.  They swapped notes from their past glories and Lindsay made a reasonable profit by playing and beating everyone at pool.  He also had multiple contacts among prominent Sydney and Melbourne racing identities and a reputation for tipping long odds winners.

Merv’s top offer one year close to Xmas was camel hair overcoats.  He rushed into the bar with a stand holding about ten of these very flash overcoats and called for offers but would settle for fifty bucks each. 

This time Jack, the sartorial flying wedge of the bar, was sorely tempted and I said “Be careful, Jack; they’re hot”.  Laurie, quick as a flash, said “Doesn’t matter; he won’t wear it till winter” and got a big laugh from the bar. But no sale.  The next day there was news of a break-in at a Chapel Street shop which was missing thousands of dollars worth of clothes including camel hair overcoats

The following Thursday Loophole sidled up to Horsetrough and whispered something to him.  Soon the whisper was all round the bar – Loophole had a horse running at Bendigo in an hour and it had been set.  Lost its last three races by a total of 30 lengths due to the services of a jockey known around the traps as Handbrake Harry.  If we got on quickly, we would get 33/1. 

Loophole’s SP connections were offering those odds and we could all join in and he would place the bet.  Horsetrough pulled out a giant roll and gave $200.00.  Others put in $50 and Laurie and I put in $20each.  Jack, still carrying the burden of Saint Warden, was reluctant but Lindsay worked on him and finally he contributed $50.00.  I reckon Loophole left the pub with about $500.00 when he headed for his SP. 

We gathered around a radio and listened to the race which our nag won in a photo finish to great cheers from the bar – fifteen grand richer.  We waited for Loophole to return with the dough but no show.  We waited and waited.  Two days later Horsetrough told me Loophole had done a runner and as far as he and Rent-a-Kill were concerned he was dead meat.  “We know where he is, Johnny.” said Horsetrough.  “He’ll be under the Mascot tarmac soon or’, he said delightedly of another well-known method of body disposal, “In the Altona Simsmetal compactor driving a crushed Holden into the Jap steel furnaces.” 

And, warming to his task, shaking his head, laughing, spilling beer on his camel hair coat, “ Loophole will be back in Australia as a window handle on a Toyota,  Jeez!  Wouldn’t it be good winding him up.”

Jack was not so worried about his money but he did think Loophole’s chances of a quiet life in Melbourne were less certain than his afterlife as a car part.  And, of course, his own experience at the level crossing decades ago was still a caution about this gambling caper.  There were now two examples of misery.

I lost track of the Martini crowd apart from occasionally bumping into Horsetrough raging around Carlton still fuming about the six grand he’d lost. 

Two or three years later I was on the Gold Coast with Max Gillies doing a show at the Casino. To get to the stage, we had to walk through the gambling area past the pokies with Max made up as Bob Hawke and suddenly I spotted Loophole.  He went white.  We calmed him down, talked, reminisced about the old days, the characters and I didn’t mention the bet. 

Horsetrough, he knew had died and it was Rent-a-Kill, rather than himself, who was supporting the Sydney Airport tarmac.  “How’s Jack?” he asked, “Great footballer.  Terrific kick, you know.”  I said he was fine and we went to leave.    Hawkey was squawking his insistence about getting on stage:  “Maate, maate – we’ve got business to do. . . . “  and so on.

Loophole stopped me and pressed a fifty dollar note into my hand saying “Give this to Jack, will you, Johnny.  He wasn’t really a betting man. Not really. A good bloke, your mate, a real good bloke.”

And he was.  A real good bloke. 

Vale Jack.   

A man for all seasons.

For Jack Clancy: 'Did I tell this gentle giant that he'd got my name wrong?' by John Clanchy

3 April, 2014, The Boulevard, Kew, Melbourne, Australia

Read as part of a memorial event for Jack Clancy. Posted on the tribute site by novellist John Clanchy.

As a lanky, shy, stripling teenager entering Melbourne Uni in the early sixties, I was keen to make new friends by joining the MU Football Club. I set out for the ‘Pavvy’ one March evening with a pair of boots, shorts and a school footy jumper and was welcomed into the warm and lively company of the under-age first year players (the ‘Juniors’). No coach had been appointed for the Juniors at that stage of the year, but a friendly giant had volunteered to coach and look after us in the meantime – a typical gesture of generosity which marked all my interactions with Jack in the ten years which followed.

After our first training session, this gentle-tough giant handed out application forms for joining the Victorian Amateurs Football Association.

‘Fill them in now,’ he told us. ‘We want to make sure you’re signed up and eligible for the first game of the season.’

I didn’t know that Jack was still playing competitive footy himself (captaining the UniReds ‘mixed-age’ team). So I was surprised when he took a form himself and standing bent over the table next to me began to fill it out. I was even more surprised when out of the corner of my eye I saw he’d filled in the first line (Name) and had written J. Clancy.

I was in a terrible dilemma. Did a long drink of a pimply adolescent tell this gentle giant that he’d got my name wrong – that he couldn’t spell – in the face of the astonishing fact that he was so careful of his new charges that he wasfilling in my form for me, and the even more astonishing fact that, among us all newbies whom he’d just met, that he’d remembered my name? Or did I just stay mum and accept the fact that I’d be registered under the wrong name and would have to live with it for as long as I played footy?

I said: ‘Sorry, sir. That’s not how you spell it.’

Jack looked up, laughed, and said, ‘Maybe but that’s how we’ve spelt it for a couple of hundred years.’

‘Perhaps, but it’s not right,’ I said.

‘Don’t be nervous, son,’ he said. ‘You know how to fill in a form?’

‘Yessir.’

I saw in his eyes he was thinking, How did this idiot ever get into University? But also saw that it was immediately blocked out by a second thought: This kid’s so stupid, it’s possible he could actually play football.

‘Okay, son,’ he said, ‘just relax, and do exactly as I do.’

He went back to filling in the rest of his form, and I started on mine.

Moments later I saw him look across and check on my progress and note that I’d filled in the first line (Name): J. Clanchy.

Our eyes met – and I read in his a sudden terrible concern.

‘I didn’t mean it literally, son,’ he said, one hand on my shoulder, the other already reaching for a fresh form.

Vale Jack Clancy. A gentle giant, if ever there was one.

For Ian David 'Badger' Crisp: 'I need you to know that I loved having you as my Dad', by son Angus Crisp

8 October, 2012, family service, Melbourne, Australia

Dad, Well, we knew how much you hated the thought of funerals, didn’t like the thought of them and didn’t like going to them, so I hope you don’t mind that we give you this send off. I think it’s important that you know how much we loved you and how much you meant to all of us. Mum, Fiona, Jodie, and Me and especially Annabelle and Bentley.

There’s so much that I know I didn’t say when I had the chance and when I should have, so I’m going to try to make up for it now. I need you to know that I loved having you as my Dad. I loved the time we spent together and I always felt guilty that I didn’t spend enough time with you. I think back to the time you spent with Fiona and I when we were younger and I know how lucky we were. You may not have been around all the time due to you being in Portland and us being in Melbourne, but I know that when we were with you, you were 100% dedicated to us and savouring the time we had together.

In some ways, I think we were luckier than some other kids who took their Dads for granted. We loved spending time with you Dad and loved the time you spent with us. I look at Belle and Bentley and hope that they feel the same way about me as they grow up, and I hope they can show the love of their Dad too. Belle thinks that we should do things that you did with us so that we never forget you. That sounds pretty good to me.

Sorry for being so sad Dad. I know we need to be happy that wherever you are right now, that you’re not in pain, but we will miss you Dad. I’m not sure who I’m going to call anymore when I have a car problem or need a particular tool. I guess it’s time for me to make the step myself and start being the one who does the fixing, the tinkering and the holder of the tools. They are big shoes to fill Dad so I might need some time to warm into them.

Thankyou Dad. For always loving us as kids. For giving us one of the most action filled childhoods a kid could want.

Thankyou for the schooling you and mum provided, the risks you let us take, and the pride you had in all that we did and continue to do.

Thankyou for teaching us and being patient.

Thankyou for being Pa to Jodie and my two beautiful children, Annabelle and Bentley. We are so lucky they got to know their Pa and how much you loved them. They are going to miss you. I promise to never let them forget you and to pass on as much as I can that you passed on to me.

Lastly Dad, thankyou for your book. We will treasure it forever. I don’t think you realized how important this is to us. We’ve put together some photos to send you off with … and some of your favourite music. Hope you like it Dad. Belle and Bentley also have some special cards for you to read on your trip, and to put on your wall. Look after them Dad and we’ll see you when we see you.

Love you Dad.

For Ron Peters: 'It is a simple hole, an uncomplicated hole, but it is so very deep' by daughter Sue Osborne - 2012

Ron Peters died in a car accident on 25 June, 2012.

10 July, 2012, Frankston, Melbourne, Australia

When I started thinking about what to say about Dad, I realised that whatever I said would have to be down-to-earth and uncomplicated, just like Dad. He was a quiet man, a kind man and a very patient man – he had to be with 3 women in the house. As Rhonda has already reminded us, he didn’t say much, so when he spoke, you knew it was important.

One of the earliest memories I have of Dad is playing down in his workshop with his oscilloscope. He would set it up and we would touch things with the sensor and watch the green wavy lines on the display – for hours. It wasn’t the same when Perkin Elmer issued him with a new one, with a blue display. It just lost the magic somehow. Dad had a special table in the workshop – an old dining table from somewhere or other – with a drawer in the front for cutlery. Inside that drawer were the kids’ carpentry tools that Santa had controversially brought us one year. I found out years later that Dad had personally stepped in and spoken to Santa to make sure we received those tools. You knew something was important when Dad spoke up. We loved banging in nails and using the little saws to make little projects under Dad’s guidance.

A lot of the time as we grew up, Dad wasn’t there. He travelled a lot for Perkin Elmer, but we always looked forward to him coming home, because there were always cuddles and kisses to be had. When he came back from an overseas visit, it was even better because there were always presents. Some we would not appreciate until much later (like the ABBA briefcases) and others are still being used today, like my Beatles songbook and my Boogie and Blues songbook. Dad would always manage to choose something for us that was not expected, which made it all the more exciting.

When he was home, Dad would sometimes take us into the office on weekends where we would race up and down the loading dock on the chairs with wheels and play with the office intercom system. We also got to use the Cafe Bar in the staff room and make endless hot chocolates. Sometimes we would go around the corner to the Peters ice cream factory so Dad could buy us an ice cream. Once, we got a free one because he told them our surname was Peters!

Without Dad, I would not have known who Carl Sagan was – we watched Cosmos together and talked about extraterrestrial life. Without Dad, I would not have my love of Pink Floyd. Every time Mum went to a Beta Sigma Phi meeting, Dad would move the stereo speakers to one end of the lounge room and blast us with Moog, Kansas, Charley Pride and Dark Side of the Moon. Dark Side is still one of my personal top 5 albums. I remember watching Hey Hey It’s Saturday with Dad every week, without fail, as well as the Banana Splits on a Sunday night before Countdown. Dad showed me The Goodies and Doctor Who – he had such great taste – we laughed together a lot. By the way, Jon Pertwee was Dad’s favourite Doctor, in case you are wondering.

Dad loved to play the piano when we were little. He never played with sheet music, he played by ear. We used to sit beside him as he pumped the pianola pedals and sing 'There’s a Bridle Hanging on the Wall', and 'My Blue Heaven', at the top of our lungs. He enjoyed listening to Rhonda and I playing the piano too, especially when our ability became good enough to play Beatles tunes, Bach, or Elton John’s 'Song for Guy'. As I got older and went through high school: Dad and I would discuss politics, ethics and the merits (or not) of Tom Baker as Doctor Who.

Dad loaned me his copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, complete with copious notes in the margins. I remember very clearly pouring over this book because here, written down, were some of my Dad’s most innermost thoughts on life and how one should live it. In turn I showed him Illusions by Richard Bach, which is in many ways a companion piece to that. He was always interested in what I had to say, no matter what it was about.

He also introduced me to Bond, James Bond. He loved Sean Connery as Bond – especially in Goldfinger and Thunderball. Every time the movies were on the telly, we would be there, watching. To Dad, Sir Sean was the only decent Bond.

He may not have gone to church, but Dad was a very spiritual person. He believed in something that binds us all together. I think this is why he loved the Star Wars movies so much, because The Force really resonated with him. This was also shown in his interest in Native American spirituality, especially the writings of Black Elk. One thing I will always be grateful to Dad for, is that he insisted I complete my degree. When I started my course it was a 3 year diploma. You had to be invited back to do the 4th year to make it a degree. Dad told Mum he wanted me to do the fourth year. Without him making that call, I would not be the librarian I am today and I love him all the more for going in to bat for me on that one.

He didn’t speak out much, but when he did it was important. The day I got married, Dad was VERY quiet. We got into the car to go to the church and he wasn’t saying a lot at all. I looked over and I realised he had tears in his eyes – not crying as such, just glistening. I asked him if he was okay and he told me “I am just so proud of you, Andrew is a good man and he loves you very much. You will be happy together because you are friends – just like your mother and I.” Then we both did cry – just a little. When he spoke up, it was important.

Watching Dad as Gramps has been wonderful. Rachael and Stephen have loved doing all the things with Dad that I used to do as a child – playing in the workshop with wood, and magnets, and marbles. Going to the beach, playing kick to kick, watching The Goodies and just cuddling up to him. He adored all his grandchildren and they adored him right back. They will miss him terribly. There is a hole in our lives where this man, Ron Peters, my Dad, used to be. It is a simple hole, an uncomplicated hole, but it is deep, so very deep. Goodbye Dad. Every time I look in the mirror I will see you and in my heart I will always hold you. Thank you for everything.

For Maryanne Balmer: 'It’s just F*CK F*CK F*CKITY F*CKED', by Bec Yule - 2014

December 2014, Melbourne, Australia

Maryanne has been my friend since I first met her on day one of my son’s kinder journey. While the rest of us were quietly freaking out at the enormity of leaving our BABIES on their own for a whole hour with near-perfect strangers (OMG!!! add emoticon of choice), Maryanne strolled in, gave her daughter a kiss and some words of reassurance and then laconically announced to a mutual friend, “I might just get going, I think Chloe, so Mia can get on with her day.” Right then and there I knew we were going to be mates, because I would make sure of it. She knew stuff. 

It turned out to be a cinch to become her friend. She was one of the easiest people to talk to I have ever met, and she so loved finding out what made people tick. Within a week of me introducing myself, she had invited me to join her mother’s group, as I (cunningly? innocently?) mentioned that my own had recently drifted on to different neighbourhoods and lives. Our family had found our true gang and Maryanne was instrumental in setting that up. Thanks MA, love your work.

In the intervening 9 years, that first recognition of a kindred spirit has proven itself over and over. In her wake, we have realised that for our gang, she was the mum. Slightly older than us all in years, she was millennia ahead of us in wisdom and always went straight to the heart of a conversation. ‘I’d just let that one go’, she’d say and then you could, because you realised of course she was right. ‘Yeah, it’s pretty fuckin’ shit, but does it really matter?’ or, ‘Yep, that is totally fuckin’ shit. What are you going to do about it?’ was all I needed to hear her say, and I’d be back on track. 

For the whole time I’ve known Maryanne, she taught at a local Catholic school, and several cycles of families have navigated the highs and lows of primary school with Maryanne there to guide them through it. Everywhere I went with her she would run into parents from her school, or their children, all of whom wanted to come and give her a hug and bask in the sunshine of her love. She just radiated warmth, and every single person who knew her felt they were special to her. We are now all the colder for our loss.

She would hate me for making her sound like a saint, and she was far from saintly, but she was one of those rare people who make their flaws into virtues by the sheer grace with which they live. She whinged as much as the next person, smoked and drank with abandon, and was often bothered by depression and overwhelming sadness. Together we would wind ourselves into a spitting love fest of fury, matching each other in finding the vilest imprecations possible for the latest inhumanities displayed by successive disgusting governments and lashing ourselves to greater heights of comedic vitriol. Boy did she love a debate and a laugh. 

Like me, she didn’t back away from a fight, but unlike me, she was able to put the passionate vitriol aside and be both tactful and supremely disarming when engaging in battle. As a school councillor dealing with a divisive and incompetent principal, I have remained sane (I think I’m still sane!) thanks to the advice I have received from Maryanne in countless rants she has endured. She taught me the art of empathetic argument and I am not only a better warrior, but a better person for that knowledge. She has slowed me down and made me a more effective advocate. All the while I thought she was just letting me vent. Sneaky, MA!

Being so passionate about all the things that are wrong in the world, she recently completed post-graduate training in student wellbeing so she could be a better teacher, thereby creating better outcomes for her students. As usual, her gang milked this wisdom for the benefit of our own parenting and our kids are certainly the better for her advice. And they know it, too. Telling my children that Maryanne had died was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. We try to protect our children from the shit in life, and this was the biggest pile they’ve ever come close to smelling, let alone diving into. Somehow a sudden and shocking death is just so much fucking worse than any other kind, and as I told them the news, I saw something break in their hearts that will never be repaired. I recognise it reflected in my own shattered heart and those of the many people in our community I have since told, or just sobbed with. 

The one thing that I have been sure of since hearing the inconceivable news that Maryanne was on life-support, is that her spirit is going to be one pissed off spectral being. She will be FURIOUS on so many levels about the manner of her passing. As a passionate advocate for wellbeing, she will be demanding to see the Transitions Director about the unacceptable lack of professionalism displayed in allowing her to collapse at work, thus possibly traumatising innocent children. She will be irate that she was even at work; if it had to be so sudden, why couldn’t they have at least let her be doing something fun on the way out? She will be fuming at the disruption to all her plans for the future, and pretty fucking pissed off that her beloved friends have been so destroyed by the shocking nature of her sudden departure. Like me, she preferred to be the last one to leave a party... Mostly, though, she would be so completely fucking angry at the injustice of not being around for her beloved Bill and their two beautiful daughters. As I have said to countless friends, the more you think about that one, the shittier it gets. I don’t think even Maryanne could come up with a positive slant to that immense tragedy. It’s just FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCKED. So yes. She is one pissed off spirit, and the Transitions Director had better look out...

As I have hopefully managed to illustrate, Maryanne lived a big, generous life, and ours is not a small loss. However, we are all so aware that it pales into insignificance beside the loss faced by her two young daughters and her devestated partner. We, her friends, can do nothing but hold ourselves together, ready to catch any bits of them that fall apart and glue them back together as would be expected of us by Maryanne. As it has turned out, perhaps it was for her family that Maryanne planted and tended her enormous garden of friends. 

Our children, who all adored Maryanne because she made them feel important and loved, each in their own special way, are all so sad, but each of them has a precious story to tell of why they loved this fabulous woman, and that is a gift they will have forever. We, her friends, all have precious stories of her humour, her advice, her silliness, and her totally unique outlook on life – nothing can take that away from us, and we can help her children to remember her as they grow older, by sharing those little moments with them. 

Even though her sudden and premature death makes me incandescent with rage, her laconic voice is in my head still. ‘Yeah, it’s fucking shit, but as long as you can still celebrate the good stuff, it’ll be okay.’ Well, Maryanne, for once I’m not entirely convinced you’re right, but since you aren’t here to argue with, this is me celebrating you, because you make me so happy and you are the BEST stuff.

Love you, Maryanne Balmer. Rest in peace.

For Jean Russell Yule: 'I've had fun, darling!', by granddaughter Bec - 2012

27 October, 2012, Anglesea, Victoria, Australia

Hi, I’m Bec, Jean’s first grandchild, and she asked that I say something on this momentous occasion, which is both completely terrifying and an honour! I have really loved having the opportunity to talk with all my cousins about our memories of Nanna, and it has been an honour to try and sort those memories into a speech for her to be proud of...standing here today is the terrifying bit! However, it’s very typical of Nanna that she spent her last hours planning her own funeral, and it has been the lifelong lot of her grandchildren to ‘volunteer’ at her bidding, so here I am. 

A long life deserves a long thank you, and this speech reflects the thoughts and memories of 14 grandchildren and great-grandchildren! Deb, Jenn, Martin and I all called Jean Nanna. Naomi, Jemimah and Hannah knew her as Grandma, Graeme and Diane called her Gran and Jess, Finn, Zoe, Emily and Chloe knew her as Great Nanna Yule. Since I got to choose her name first, she’ll be Nanna today!  

My earliest memories of Nanna are at Highett. Martin and I used to love having sleepovers at Nanna and Grandad’s. She was always good for a packet of juicy fruit (until my chewie ended up in Martin’s very curly hair and Mum laid down a ‘no more gum’ rule!) and she’d let us spend hours playing in the caravan they kept in the driveway. We weren’t so keen on walking to the shops with her as she seemed to stop at every second house so she could introduce her darling grandchildren to the entire suburb. Even at a young age, we recognised Nanna as a social networking maestro. A reflection of this wide friendship circle was the legendary number of christmas cards she received every year, festooning her house with them like a flock of birds perched on the rafters. 

I remember watching Nanna and Grandad play tennis with great energy and discuss the game with even more energy afterwards. It seems like only a couple of years ago that she stopped playing tennis, and she was certainly still having an occasional swim at Pt Roadknight right up until last summer. 

I remember the back verandah of the Highett house suddenly bulging at the seams with exotic, colourful handicrafts as my new ‘cousin’ TRADING PARTNERS arrived. As I travelled through Vietnam and Cambodia recently I was struck by how familiar all the traditional crafts felt, as I’d been surrounded by them from a very young age. Naomi recently helped Nanna to complete a history of Trading Partners, and really enjoyed that special time working together. 

Two events stand out from the Highett years as good examples of who Nanna was in my life. I can’t remember in which order they occurred, but both changed my view of the world. I think I was about 8 or 9 when we arrived at Highett for easter lunch, eager to get our usual stash of chocolate. Nanna greeted us with the exciting news that she had decided to stop buying us easter eggs each year, and instead she would donate the money to refugees who needed it. I can still remember the look of hope in her eye as she watched me struggle to pretend that I agreed this was a great idea, while inwardly screaming NOOOOOOOO! I doubt it was meant as a test, but I felt I’d failed it...this watershed 12 second conversation definitely scarred me for life but, perhaps ironically, I also spent 6 years volunteering at the Asylum Seeker Resource Centre in my 30s, so her message eventually reached it’s mark! 

Probably around the same time, I couldn’t sleep one night (no doubt dreaming of long-lost easter eggs!) and got up to find Nanna and Grandad watching a movie. Nanna let me stay up to watch it, as she said it was the story of a very important man. I was glued to the screen for the entire movie, totally enthralled by the life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer… I don’t remember much about the movie, except for the final scene where he is taken from his cell, marched out to the firing squad and shot in cold blood because he wouldn’t recant his view of God (or something like that!). I’m not sure that this helped me sleep, but it gave me a clear idea of the values my grandparents held dear and again, it’s either scarred me for life or helped to form my views!

Jenn also has fond memories of Highett and reminded me of Nanna’s amazing porridge, which has never been possible to replicate, possibly due to the exotic bonlac she used in it! Nanna loved telling tales of her children and grandchildren, and Jenn in particular provided her with many laughs... she loved telling the story of the day she found Jenn cleaning her pet kangaroo’s teeth with Grandad’s tooth brush, and the look of sheer horror on his face! Eating fresh apricots from the tree and cooking custard will always remind us all of days spent body surfing at Anglesea and nights filled with Mahjong and 500 while scoffing down Nanna’s crystalized ginger stash.

It can’t be said that Nanna was a traditional granny type. Her cooking was functional at best (though she did a cracker roast, with good crumble and custard to follow). However she was totally tuned in to the world around her and always had something to say about politics…as you’d all know she ran for state parliament as a democrat, back when they were still keeping the bastards honest. Politics was about the only topic that could potentially cause arguments, but she was always more than happy to set people straight and help them to see she was undoubtedly right! We all grew up listening to Nanna loudly listing the inadequacies of any given government, and all the ways they could be doing things better. I know I yell at the tv in just the same tone of voice she used!

All of us, including my children, were taught to play our favourite games by Nanna, so look out if any of us challenge you to a game of 500, scrabble, mahjong, chinese checkers or Mastermind. We’ve been trained by the games Ninja, world-renowned for always having a ‘Yule-rule’ to get her out of a tight spot!!! You’d be nearly cleared in Mahjong, and Nanna would cough, say ‘kong’ at some discard, pause, and then triumphantly say ‘and mahjong!’. Competitive to the end, no quarter was given for age or infirmity... If you couldn’t beat her fair and square then you didn’t win!

We’ve done a tally and the only one of us to actually beat Nanna at scrabble in our last game with her was Deb… even at 94 she ran rings around us! Watching her run her hands through her hair until it was a white mohawk as she tried to guess Finn’s mastermind challenge recently is an image that will stay with me forever. She got the answer, too, looking like a gleeful cockatoo! 

However, everything took a back seat to conversation – even scrabble.  “Come and talk to me” she would say, patting the chair beside her. The conversations would be wide-ranging and would always seem to meander, but there would be something she wanted to ask about. She always had her own view but she was also keen to hear another perspective. 

Nanna was supportive of anything and everything we did… but she wasn’t afraid to tell you what she thought, either. When I was 20 I started up a business making and selling silk and ceramic giftware in a shop/studio in Fitzroy. I’ll never forget Nanna saying ‘It’s a lovely thing to do, darling, but when do you think you might get a job that uses your degree?’ Diane remembers often having to bite her tongue as Nanna told her exactly what she thought of a particular behaviour...the more foolhardy among us (Jenn and I for example) were more likely to fight back than bite our tongues but looking back as adults we can all see how much she shaped us as people. She taught us to value our minds and our education, but we all knew she was proud of us no matter what field our accomplishments were achieved in. Hannah says, “as long as I was happy, she was happy” and Jemimah remembers always feeling special when Grandma clapped her hands and said with genuine joy, excitement and interest “Good for you darling girl!” 

This joy, excitement and interest was extended to everyone who was ever brought to visit Nanna. All of our friends, our partners and of course, our children, were always treated with the same enthusiastic welcome and a searching conversation in which Nanna would find out which 6 degrees separated her from this new friend. Those of us who had time to introduce our partners and children to Nanna are aware of the blessing received. She was certainly very special to my husband and children and for that I will be forever grateful. I remember how excited she was when Jess, her first great grandchild was born, and she was just as excited with each of the subsequent great grandchildren to arrive. Her genuine interest in people and their stories meant that she could connect with any age and any background. The circle of children who grew up visiting Nanna Yule far exceeds the bloodline, as is obvious here today and the example of a life lived out in passionate and intelligent action against injustice has shaped our journeys and left a legacy within our family and beyond, that is truly inspiring. 

Nanna was a genuine matriarch, always ready to arrange, organise, connect, bestow and provide love, if not actual food. Although she WAS very generous with her large supply of biscuits so you’d never totally starve if relying on her pantry. As we got our P plates and started driving ourselves to Anglesea we all learned to stop at Freshwater Creek and buy lunch to take with us... it was that or go hungry! While I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, she’d hate us to portray her as a saint, so I will point out that she was also very good at getting cross and I doubt there is a single one of her descendants (or house guests!) who hasn’t received a withering rebuke at least once. This trait became more noticeable in her later years... she definitely felt her time was running out, so if you took your time in a scrabble move you’d get a hurry up glare or worse! 

On one of her last trips to Anglesea Deb stopped at the butchers (how our family of wordsmiths loves the fact the anglesea butcher is called Mr Stab!) and picked up a chicken to roast for dinner. She cooked the chook to perfection but for some reason absolutely massacred the bird when it came time to carve. Nanna finally became so enraged that she banished her from the kitchen with a scathing ‘It’s ridiculous, this carving effort of yours!’ and finished the job herself. Although they laughed about it afterwards, Deb has now sworn off chicken carving for life!

The extended Yule family is way overloaded with forceful Capricorns, and january is always a busy month as we all celebrate our birthdays, but January 20 is the Yule equivalent of the Queen’s birthday, and we all made sure every year that Nanna was fully appreciated on her day. Naomi has the mixed blessing of sharing this birthdate. While this made Nanna very proud, Naomi has spent years having her birthday overshadowed every year by watching never-ending Australian Open tennis games and Nanna getting FAR more birthday cards than her. 

In a speech at her 80th birthday, Martin nicknamed Nanna the telephone exchange, and it is true that not much happened without her acting as the information hotline. In later years the accuracy of the reportage sometimes slipped due to her hearing... when I gave birth to Finn I rang her to let her know and was very surprised to hear her say ‘wonderful news, darling’ and hang up. I later learned that she’d hung up so abruptly in order to ring the rest of the family as quickly as possible. It was lucky that she rang Janie first, because she proudly announced that I had had a baby boy and named him SIN. Jane managed to persuade her that she must have got it wrong before she spread THAT rumour around the entire Yule clan!!

Naomi sums up our collective sense of loss well: “Our family and my life will never be the same now that she’s gone and I honestly don’t know if I will ever not miss her. I am grateful for the time I’ve had with her, the force she has been in my life and the love and acceptance she has always given me. I pray that the rest of us are able to carry on the legacy she has left us, with the grace and energy she had.” I would add to this that I’ll miss her sense of humour, her endless goodwill to all, and her unfailing attempts to change the world for the better. She certainly worked hard to instil these qualities in all of us and we are lucky to have had such a long time with her. As Martin puts it “She managed a special relationship with everyone.  All of the contributors to this speech clearly feel they had a special connection with her. They did. Because people were her priority, especially her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.” 

I think all of us feel a very special bond with Pt Roadknight, and that has been inherited from Nanna. Diane put it perfectly: “The trip to Anglesea was always so long for us, coming from Yackandandah, but there was always the same feeling of anticipation and homecoming as we turned down her road, knowing that she would be coming out on to the balcony as we pulled up, waiting to give me a hug and with a roast in the oven. The feeling of warmth I always felt upon arriving at her house and seeing her is something I have never felt anywhere else and I will never forget no matter where I go in the world.” I think wherever Nanna was, her visitors felt that same sense of homecoming, but Pt Roadknight particularly will always feel like a place we can find Nanna when we need her.

Martin’s children Emily and Chloe want to say this: “We love you great nanna, and we miss you now you’re in the sky.  Hopefully you can play with our Pa.”  

My daughter Zoe wants me to read the letter she wrote to Great Nanna after her death. 

Dear Great Nanna,
I loved having you around.
I was lucky to have you.
I wish you were here with us.
Every time I went to your house I would smile when I saw you waving.
It was ANGELsea to me because it had your spirit.
But now you’re going to the real ANGELsea.
Great Nanna I love you. 

This letter was cremated with Nanna last week, and I know it will make her very happy to have it with her as a reminder of how much we all loved her and how much we will miss her.

Having been lucky enough to get the chance to actually say goodbye to Nanna I’d like to finish with our last conversation. As Finn sobbed into her arms and told her how much he loved her she gave him a big Great Nanna squeeze and said ‘Oh, darling, no-one can live forever!’ which made me realise just how much I hadn’t believed that of her. If anyone was going to carry on energetically running things it would be Nanna! 

Mike took the kids out and I realised that she already knew most of what I had to say...a 90th birthday speech and a deathbed speech are worryingly similar apparently! I started to tell her how much she has always inspired me with her passion for human rights, and how she has always known how to do the right thing seemingly effortlessly and it was all getting very earnest and embarrassing when she interrupted me with a glint in her eye and said ‘... and I’ve had FUN, darling!’ and we laughed and hugged and I realised that she had got it in one. My enduring memories of Nanna will always be of her laughing at something, playing games with the joy and enthusiasm of a child and being excited by absolutely everything. What a gift she was.

Thank you.

Isis: 'Close your eyes, open your mind', by David Kracov - 2015

Written August 12, 2015, USA

David Kracov is an American animator and artist. This beautiful pet eulogy first appeared on his facebook page. It is republished on his website.

Isis was my English Bulldog. She was my inspiration, my life, and what made me love waking in the morning, and looking forward to curling up with her early in the evening to help her fall asleep. Isis passed away the day before her fifteenth birthday, and while fifteen is an incredible age for any dog, English bulldogs have an average life of 8-10 years, added to this is that when I rescued Isis, she was not expected to live six days.

To jump ahead, in the last two years of her life, Isis was blind and deaf, and I cannot count how many times people would see me walking her in her jogger (more on that soon) and ask why I do not let her go. When I would come home from a day at my studio I would stomp on the floor causing a vibration that would make Isis wake, and with her gift of scent, she would run straight to me, barking and wagging her little pig tail.

What I learned from her is that even without sight and sound, other senses are just as important. Isis followed me by my scent, and it was amazing to watch her navigate from room to room. I have two other dogs, Aurora, my basset hound, and Anubis, my miniature pinscher. Watching these two acclimate to Isis was amazing. When Isis first went blind she would walk into walls and furniture, so I removed everything to make direct paths for her. But this became unnecessary because both Aurora and Anubis would each walk on either side of Isis and when Isis would begin to walk towards a wall or furniture they would bump her with their bodies and guide her in the right direction. There was never a day that I did not watch in amazement.

Isis slept under my painting table every day and night for fifteen years. Now my friends who know me know I absolutely love to paint and have been known to paint through marathon sessions of 15-16 hours at a time. What almost all of them do not know until now is that these painting marathons were not always because I was lost in my own world of creating, but because Isis was sleeping with her head on my foot and if I moved she would wake. As crazy as this may sound, if you have never seen and heard an English bulldog sleep, I have included a video. Tongue hanging out to the floor, dried like a salami, and the wall-rumbling from the loud snoring. There was just something very comforting to know she was in a blissful dream. In a very eccentric way Isis inspired me to continue to create far into the night.

When Isis could no longer walk long distances she would sit regally in her jogger, like a queen in her throne, as I hiked the canyons and ran along the sea. She sat with her face jutting forward, feeling the wind in her face, and yes, she smiled. She could no longer see the views or hear the crashing of the waves and siren calls of the seagulls, but she would get excited as we ran closer to the beach, smelling the salt air, and feeling the spray of the waves on her face.

Isis taught me that even when we lose things we feel we need, there is always a brighter direction to face. There is a recurring theme in my creations, that of finding the beauty in tragedy. As a tribute to Isis, I now add a small set of two footprints, one representing me, and a set of paw prints for Isis, side-by-side as an homage to our walks in the sand. Because, for me, a butterfly symbolizes life, loss, and the everlasting colorful memories, Isis lived, was lost, and has left me with colorful memories to brighten my days and fill my dreams.

So I ask everyone to close your eyes, open your mind, imagine what others cannot see, and create what others wish to believe.

For Jerzy Krupinski: "He was 18 when the Nazis invaded Poland", by grandson Peter Cook - 2013

Written 20 March, 2013, Melbourne (delivered a few days later)

Jerzy Krupinski 20/02/1920 – 19/03/2014

Last night at 8:25pm my grandfather (Dziadzia in Polish) passed away at 94 years of age. He died about as well as you can, peacefully, in his home, surrounded by his family.

He was born in Warsaw Poland almost a century ago, and has lived a life that is almost incomprehensible to me, living now in Australia.

He was 18 when the Nazis invaded Poland. At 19 his parents were both dead, as was most of his extended family. He was in the Warsaw Ghetto, looking after his little sister, his aunt, his cousin, his fiancée (my grandmother, Babcia) and her sister. He saw the writing on the wall early enough to smuggle them all out of the Ghetto, and then looked after them all for the rest of the war in different parts of Poland, hidden by different people, with new identities.

Out of all of my Dziadzia’s and my Babcia’s extended families, all of their aunts, uncles, cousins, parents and grandparents, these were the only survivors. At the end of the war there was my Dziadzia and the five women he had smuggled out of the Ghetto.

There were some close calls. Dziadzia’s sister Nelly got sent to a concentration camp, but got processed as a Pole and not a Jew, and so she survived and was reunited with her brother after the war. Auntie Nelly is still living in Prague. My great aunt Genia was on a train to a concentration camp, and jumped off through a hole in the floor of the carriage where a plank had been worked loose. The guy who jumped after her was shot, but she survived.

Within a year of the war being over my mother was born.

Despite having seen humanity at it’s worst, and felt the impact of the holocaust in the most direct way possible, Dziadzia remained optimistic. He joined the Communist Party, finished his medical studies, and threw himself into rebuilding Poland under a different model.

Fast forward 14 years, and Stalin was giving Hitler a run for his money in the worst-bloke-in-history stakes. Again my dziadzia saw the writing on the wall (with a little nudge from my babcia – I’m leaving with or without you), and left for Australia.

My mother only found out she was Jewish at the age of 14 upon leaving Poland. After six weeks on a boat they all arrived in Melbourne.

At 40, my age, Dziadzia was in Australia, learning his fourth language (Polish, Russian and French weren’t that helpful apparently), re-sitting his medical exams, and starting from scratch with his two teenage girls.

He had seen genocide first hand, seen the promise of Communism disintegrate, and was entering what he calls his fourth life, starting everything again. If anyone had the right to throw in the towel, or turn to drink, it was him.

But instead he embarked on this chapter of his live with the same optimism and determination that he had brought to everything else. He ended up as the head of the Victorian Institute of Mental Health Research, the first non-Psychiatrist admitted as a fellow of the Royal Australia & New Zealand College of Psychiatry, a widely respected and admired physician, who published prolifically and had made an enormous contribution in his field.  

Although if you asked him what he was most proud of, he would have said his daughters, his grandkids, and more recently his great grandchildren.

If I can channel just a fraction of his courage, his persistence, his optimism, and his faith in humanity (despite all the evidence he had to the contrary), I reckon I’ll be alright.

For Carey Leech: 'Words are inadequate, but they are all I have' - by husband Greg Leech, 2008

5 September, 2008, Mt Eliza, Victoria, Australia

First of all, please let me say that we have done Carey proud with such an incredible turnout to see her off in style. It comes as no surprise, but I know one thing for certain. She’d sit back, survey the scene and feel really loved. Thanks again.

The fact that Carey was such a perfectly balanced character was no accident. Carey had a simply wonderful upbringing from a loving family. She loved to spend time with her father, Roy, whenever she could, enjoyed a very special and close relationship with her lovely mother Lois and took great pride in the love she had for sister Louise and brother Nigel, both of whom equally loved to have their doting little sister around. Her delight in having a close family never wavered and the lessons learned in that warm and secure environment supplied her with the blueprint she took into her own marriage and motherhood. It was totally based on love and security and she learnt that early in life.

Fast forward to 1984. When I first lay eyes on Carey. She was 18 years old and an apprentice at a printing company at which we both worked. Apart from being, as we all know, absolutely striking to look at, her manner, her seemingly effortless elegance struck me the minute I saw her. And life was never going to be the same. I knew it right then, but it took me a while to convince her of the same thing. In fact two years of pretty determined pursuit! It’s history now that she relented and decided that, for some strange reason, I was worth investigation. She had discovered beer right about that time and I can’t help but feel there could be some correlation between the two occurrences!

Carey took it all in her stride. This was a path she was choosing and she was to embrace that choice, through thick and thin. I like to think she is still embracing it, in that ageless, classy way. Because Carey had the most wonderful virtue of being unburdened by ego. She simply never saw it necessary to inform those around her of her undoubted abilities. I’m sure most present will recognise how, when speaking with Kez, she would sincerely want to know what was happening in your life, only touching on her own trials or triumphs as a matter of course in the conversation. Even then, she would understate her own achievements, not because she had to, but it was her natural way. And she had achievements. Many, many achievements. In fact, it was failure that was the stranger to Carey. It was this care for others that set Carey apart from most. That genuine way of hers, the really wanting to know, to listen. To really listen. She made every person she called ‘friend’ feel special. She made me feel special. Every day. She still makes me feel special.

Back to the story… We became inseparable. We became known for our ability to fully enjoy a party, but it was Carey that was the principal in that. When other mates were getting a tug on the sleeve from their partners at around 1am to hit the road, more than once it was whispered in my ear as they made their reluctant way from a venue, ‘I wish I had a chick like yours’. ‘Keep wishin’ pal’, I’d think to myself as Kez would race from the dance floor, grab me around the shirt collar and rush me back so we could bust a few of our trademark messy moves to Soft Cell’s Tainted Love or some such ‘big-haired ‘80s classic. All the while those gleaming white teeth shining from that so freely-given smile. So we moved through life, married, ate bacon and eggs and read the papers on a Sunday, worked hard, played hard.

And then Spencer arrived… Home-Brand anyone? Carey was a natural mother. We had no idea that was going to be the case, but, once again, failure never turned down Carey Street. This was just another example of her wonderful attribute of celebrating what life brought her. She took to it with the same enthusiasm she approached everything. Angus was on the scene by this time too, and her clear blue eyes were given yet another reason to sparkle. And the next phase of Carey’s wonderful life hove into view. Carey loves her children. In fact, who doesn’t? They became her focus. She happily gave up a career that she’d built on ability and ethic, made her life around our little family, became involved with all their activities and loved every second of it.

It was about this time that it became obvious that our little house in Burwood would split its seams with the addition of Gus. Enter Mount Eliza. Moving to Mount Eliza saw Carey blossom even further. It was within days of our shifting in that she had friends in the area. Most have gone on to become lifelong mates, people that stick true. Because they are the types of people that Carey attracted. It was no fluke that the friends we have made since our move down here in 1999 are so wonderful. People always have wanted to be near Carey and that is why her being gone is so difficult for all of us. There is simply no replacement for her. We are just going to have to keep her spirit alive. We will one day remember her and do it without a tinge of sadness. We will smile like she did. Like she wants us to. That day will come. It’s just not today… or tomorrow.

It was not long after this, in 2001 that Carey was diagnosed with cancer. It shook the foundations of Team Leech, but it was Carey that first arrived at the pragmatic approach she took all the way through her illness. She was to have a double mastectomy, reconstructive surgery and she would push on. She did just that. In fact, she never allowed cancer to define her. Yes, she had it, but her life was filled with quality was her approach. Bravery. It’s a word that is used flippantly, but I have seen bravery that has no words. But she would never tell you about it. It was part of her day, but not once was there a complaint. It was simply inspirational. As I said, words are inadequate, but they are all I have. Carey overcame the disease that first time. She was active beyond belief, played sport, taught swimming to kids that flourished under her understanding tutelage, her life was on track. She attended all the children’s events, organised a goodly amount of them, ate, drank and danced. Her life was good again, and she considered that her cancer was behind her.

Until that day in August of 2005. It was back and it was back in a bad way. What was Carey’s approach? ‘I’ll have treatment and we’ll push on’. Still, she stood in its way and dared it. Still, she remained unfrightened. If courage was enough, well cancer never stood a chance. But cancer is not like that. It’s a sneaky coward that finds other ways. We know how she attended chemotherapy once a week for two and a half years, how she became loved by the patients and nurses there, how she made even that daunting grind a way to bring happiness. It took her slowly, but she kept on. We finally arrived at a point where it was obvious it was going to take her life. With bravery, she informed the boys. Then she set about making everything in the house understandable and easier for us, should she leave. It became her number one priority. Spencer, Angus and myself. Not herself. Us.

In February of this year, she was given weeks to live. As we know, it took until August 30 to claim her. And she passed with the same dignity and truth with which she had led her life. I’ve never felt prouder than I did holding her hand as she was released. And it was beautiful. Even through the period leading up to all but her final days, she laughed, she even danced. Her intellect and humour still defined her. The sparkle had dimmed, but it was still there in those beautiful eyes. Spencer and Angus bravely coped and loved her all the more. They are very special little boys and why wouldn’t they be, having had the privilege of being able to claim this wonderful person as their mother. Carey knows how much they love her and miss her, but she also knows that the agony will pass for the boys, she has delivered them of such emotional and intellectual sophistication. Another of her wonderful, wonderful gifts.

At home, we have a picture of Kez. It’s 1988, she is aboard a galloping horse in Egypt, her long natural blonde hair streaming and cascading behind her, with the pyramids outside Cairo supplying a dramatic backdrop. It’s just a photo of her as a 21 year old girl, in an album at our house, but, this is but one of the images of Carey that define the happiness and unaffected lust for life and all its experiences that she lived every day of her packed life. I will always see that shot in my mind, and feel the freedom she experienced at that moment. I like to believe that she feels just such freedom today and will forever more. I love you Carey. Like you loved me. Ride on my beautiful darling. Until we meet again. Greg.