September 9, 2022, Mid North Funerals, Clare, South Australia, Australia
(In above video, Kristy’s eulogy begins at 16.22)

My beautiful father, was a truly unique man.
He was one of those inspirational souls, I am sure was sent, or chose to come into our lives for profound reasons.

I am proud to say, that I had the blessing and honour of helping to support Dad through his last breaths on this Earth, along with his Love, Julie.

And what a privilege – it’s something we don’t want to think about and may be reluctant to talk about, but what I was able to pull from the experience, has informed the theme for this eulogy.

I often reflect and honour both my mother and my father, along with my ancestors while I am grateful for the gifts passed down from these people. Gifts that make us unique and sometimes extraordinary.

These people, like Dad left their footprints for us; and they also left the love running through our spirits.

Like threads, the unseen connection continues.

The body has its purpose and then it’s honourably left behind, as something, somehow tangible that we need to let go of.

Dad’s life was so finely tuned, wound tight like a guitar string, tuned to sing him along.

As Dad’s threads “unravelled” as his love, Julie explained to me when the lingering last breaths became selfishly hard for me to bear; I became profoundly aware of the honour before me.

Gerald Mart Day
Born in Gladstone on June 10, 1939
hit the ground running on his way into this life of his.

He grew up on Barinia Farm just north of Clare

He was one of six Day kids; and nick-named for every day of the week by the local swaggy.
I reckon Dad made up for day seven for the work he had ahead of him.

He was the fourth born.
After Jean, Maureen, and Roger
Then a little before Bev and Yvonne

Memories shared at various milestone events
stick with me well; although forgive me if I still get the stories wrong.

Dad hated milking cows so he was never going to be a farmer.
Grandpa put off buying a mechanical milker just to spite Dad.

Bev was his favourite sister.
Sorry you other girls.
She reminded me of some tall stories the other day.

She laughs as she tells me what a clever fella her bother was.
He stuck by his little sister’s side.

He started building houses as a young bloke.
Cubbies of all shapes and forms.

Up trees and on the ground.
I am sure they were all strong.
Maybe one did actually collapse
Pretty sure I was told.

He was obviously a pilot right from the start.
His flying machine was built early,
even before his teens.
Yeah, he learnt from his own lessons when that plan failed!
He needed to wait for that one.

But he was starting to put his ducks in a row.
That’s my theme going forward here.
Reflecting on this epic journey I am barely touching on.

The fifties were soon upon him
which was good for him I know.

His dance moves were something I did my best as a kid to imitate.
Likely, to no justice because Dad was the one those moves belonged too.

Apparently, he built a record player, somehow from scratch.
So that he, Roger and his sisters could get that twist down pat.

He knew he had more to do than be a farmer and work the land.

He soon chose to get the mechanical fitting and turning trade on the go.
He was a teen now and well onto making his own choices.

He needed some wheels, so he thought he’d give a motorbike a try.
His apprenticeship wages came in handy for that.

Bev recalls that choice caused the first and only family argument she witnessed in her youth.
Grandma and Grandpa obviously had grave concerns.

Rightfully so, as motors on wheels later caused some crisis.

But building fast things that slid sideways with grace and grunt
Were high on Dad and Roger’s agendas.

Go Karts and midgets were built on their production lines.
Projects for racing fast.
Dad’s life was also quickly picking up speed.

Inventions of a super spreader was his last farm boy hurrah.

Speed boats were the first real craftsmanship.
They needed to be, because at best they should stay afloat.
Most of us know the story when Roger’s Jenny couldn’t swim.
When one boat went under.
Lucky there was plenty of booze on board that day
with flotation in the eskies.

So, Dad is still in his teens building boats mind you!

A house was close to follow.

Yes, the house he was to house his family
before the fact he said.
It was the right thing for a man to do.

He was still barely 18!
He bought a block across from the Golden Fleece on Main North Road.
And built it brick by brick as he learnt on the go.

Going to a back story–to imaginary places Julie and I told Dad to go the other night.
To help settle him into his groove
on his track into new adventures.
Julie said she’s convinced he must have ancient ties
to building Machu Picchu
or even the pyramids perhaps.

Anyway, the family home was good and ready.
His journey with Lynnette was right ahead of him.

Like two creative souls
fusing their energy,
those two were on their way.

There’s many days ahead on the River and Porters Lagoon.
Or any water deep enough–even far northern lakes.
Lake Ayer to name a few. He’d drag a boat behind a grader
if he needed a way through.

There’s Yvonne and Trevor; and Fury to add to the mix.
With Hootin Annie and her V8 motor as loud as it could go.

There’s Bev and Gary and many more.
Bowker’s Linbar and other egg-beaters
on Earls and McKendrick’s boats.
Likely I’ll get corrected on that later.

There’s the need for more speed and grace
so there’s water skiing to master.

He could ski on anything.
I remember fence posts,
if somehow there was no ski
Or maybe he wanted to show off.
Nah, he never did that!

Malcolm Heinrich has memories of railway sleepers
as a makeshift ski
How the hell you’d steer one of those!
On a skin full of beer, or a port or two!

All the way from a river pub back to wherever.
There’d be a fire to stoke, and wood needed to burn.
So, on that sleeper would go.

Not too much further on his way, there were little eyes to look into.
Three little ones: Robyn, Me and Timothy.

We had no choice
but to take on those ancestral lines.
We were little shits
and so practical jokes were on tap.

Go figure, when Tim pissed on Uncle Jeff’s leg.
He thought it was funny.

But, till recently, I liked to remind Dad
of what, I am told he was like as a kid.
He was the one, with some likely accomplices,
who pissed over the top of the haystack
onto the head of the swaggy,
poppa Day let sleep in the shed.

Grandma told mum at their wedding:
‘Well, I hope you can do something with him
because I never could!’

The family home project still had things to embellish it.
One day he came home with his first backhoe.
He said he’d go out and practice.

Out the back he went,
and soon there was a hole
big enough for a swimming pool.
I never knew it was one of the first in Clare.

I had no idea at that stage how much my father could do.
And that he was any different to other Dads.

It’s no wonder I build things now,
and can apparently never keep it simple.
Hey Gordon!

Growing up; I could mostly observe Dad from afar;
the pride for my father built slowly like a fire.

It was hard to get his attention.
I dealt with that quite personally.

Dad was leading by example,
of what work and dedication could achieve.

Others had a hard time getting Dad to stop
so they could get his attention
Because when he did, “boozy happenings” could follow.

He had some good mates,
Although these are my memories
so please forgive me for leaving some out.
I know you have many more memories as his friend.

There’s Percy Pearce, Peter Hall, Don Morrison, the Paines, Pigot and all the Heinrichs.
John Fidge was the quieter one! Old Betty made up for that!
Pool parties at 44 main north road were very well known.

There’s one particular “Getting Gerald’s attention” situation.
We tried to get him to come up from the shed one night.

Peter Hall called from out the front of the big house,
a few times I am sure.

‘Gerald, your Tea’s ready’,
Mum never failed to provide a hot meal
Bless her generous heart.

‘Gerald, come up for your tea,
it’s getting cold.’

Still no sign…

‘Gerald, the house is on fire!’

Well, after ole Chum Braddock heard that
from the other side of the valley
far away through the trees,
the fire truck quickly turned up;
with Dad coming up from behind.

That’ll learn him, I said.

All the while, it wasn’t just backhoes, excavators and trucks Dad worked with.
He wasn’t that keen on the cold weather
So northern safaris were the answer.

A V8 should go into a new Toyota landcruiser
That’ll make her go.

‘I am going up north’, he’d say
with Rex Elis’ punters in tow.
Mum would get to go on some earlier ones.
And a few times us kids got to go too.
We learnt all about messy races
and being shuttled reluctantly to our swags
out the back of the Birdsville hospital
or somewhere, maybe safe.

Gratefully, I got my first inspiration to do what I do to this day.
Connecting to red sand country and the first nations people too.
This was something I was blessed with,
on these incredible experiences up north.

So now I’m still drawing spinifex mice
and many other illustrations too.
Telling people how they may feel this country in their bones
Just like Dad and Mum knew how to do.

Bedfords and Oka trucks,
camel strings would be the go.
Up over many sandhills
of many relentless shapes and forms.

The Simpson and the Canning Stock Route
were only just a few.

In amongst the very full aspects of Dad’s life
he continued to pull off spectacular projects.
Just because these were the plans
he dreamed upon until the end.

He pulled down many historic homes
and old wineries in this Valley.
He would pile his loot from those demolitions
in amongst the place of many trees.
Toolangatta was that place.
This is where he and mum
chose to build the next family home.

He hardly slept between the hours up on his machines.
Let alone on that incredible place He and Mum co-created.

Stone by stone, masonry master,
Helmet Zora got him on his way.
Over 7 years it took.
Many other hands came in to help.
It was Mum’s dream to make it big enough
for a bed and breakfast.
It would have been Clare’s first.

We got to move into the bottom storey.
While the top story had its bones in place.

It was a space I never ceased to behold.
Nothing was done by halves.

Many parts of Clare’s architectural bones live there.
And doors from spaces
with many more stories to tell.
Many reused materials make up that place
A place we will treasure for ever.

As a young teenager, I was in awe of my father.

In amongst those trees,
life started to move on
to an end of a chapter.

When Dad threw his swag
in his hotted up old 4x4 ute
I knew that chapter was closing.

Dad had seen a new light
shine over a sand hill up on the Simpson.
That was a major adjustment for all of us.
Lovely Lesley came into our lives
From way over the ditch.

She quickly took the him to the city
But she was not able to take
the country out of him.

I have so far failed to fit in,
the times up on the River
50 years ago, at Roonka Station near Blanchetown,
we pulled up our houseboat
It still had paddles on the back.

Nanna and Grandpa Boyd wanted a retirement plan.
So an old River Queen they acquired
along with Mum and Dad.

Soon the paddles were off
And a jet engine was installed.
They called it Boydy’s Lazy Days.

Ironic, Dad was not really ever lazy!
Not long after Grandpa’s life was cut short.
He never got to retire on his beloved houseboat.

Life on the houseboat was our timeout;
and a time for connection.
Not only as a family but
further with nature.

Speed boats and fast Monaros
wasn’t so much Dad’s thing by then.
But he did know how to stop
to appreciate the river.

Water skiing did continue though.
Juda II and many others
dragged Dad gracefully through the water.
On marathons and relays, and many other gatherings.

Dry starts off the side of the houseboat
when the Schmidt’s or Bayliss’ turned up.
The sandbar was our favourite place
Just up from Roonka we’d go.

Easters and Christmas’s and birthday parties.
The river was our second home.

So anyway, on the horizon
there was another sparkly gem
that did catch Dad’s eye.
Julie was the one.
She was to be the most learned love of his life.

He got better at negotiating relationships
I say thanks to lovely Lesley.

So, Julie was Dad’s rock, and roll.
And roll up and down that river they did
In the loved houseboat they then called Days Off.

Julie was the perfect fix for Dad up to this day.

Dad felt such love for Julie.

We’ve all seen his tender side.
He’d cry for his gratitude
Dare he’d say
‘what he would do without his love for Julie’

It was a true love through and through.

They spent a wonderful 27 plus years together.

Julie was particularly good at “family”
With her Simon and his brood with Marissa in Holland–Lisa and Sven.

So Dad’s grandchildren were also hers.

There’s was my Adam first,
and then Robyn’s Coen next.
And then Tim was the later starter.

Tim’s Evan was next.
All the way from the US or the UK,
he was blessed to spend many days with his Pop and Julie.

Well Tim chose a less quieter life.
Maybe he should have bought another TV.
But he and Sarah brought Dad more apples
to fall not so far from his tree and carry the name.

There’s Harvey and Maddie, and now Ella too.

And while all that’s going on
Adam brings in the great grands
In Marley and Layla Lyn.

Just to remind Dad he’s an aged man
despite his consternation.

So, while all this breeding is going on,
Pop still has many projects on his agenda.

There’s continuing the home build in Blanchetown
he’s co-created with Julie
close enough to the river.

Sadly, Dad’s more recent years,
as most of you know, weren’t the best.

I could see there was an urgency
To retrace some steps.

We did the family run
back to York Peninsula.
Where the Days established pastoralism
And even the local government.

We did another important trip.
We had some stone arrangements to find.
Dad seen them on the Stony Desert
back in the 70s.
Long ago on some Coongie Lakes reconnaissance.

Young Russ flew him up to the Simpson
and over the Great Stony desert.
Dropped down in front of the Birdsville Pub
where we drove in to meet them.

We picked up a local man, Don.
The traditional Keeper of the stones.
We flew around and then drove around
Over the border, despite the covid cops.

And yes we found some stones.
They were laid down in formation,
likely thousands of years ago.

Before the return trip home
Russell came banging on the Birdsville pub room door.
He reckoned if they got in the plane really quick
they could ride the front of a storm
without getting wet.

So they flew home with their tail in the air
over sand storms below.
The must have broken the Cessna air speed record back to Clare
They didn’t even need to stop at the creek for fuel.

That trip carried the last little spring in Dad’s step.
The red sand country remembered him.

It got his attention.

So, Dad was indeed a good pilot back in his day.
He did love to fly.
Even aerobatics
I found out just recently.

Very soon after
his body was letting him down.
Despite losing all his physical functioning
and even his beautiful voice.
Unlike most, whom may have curled up and given in,
he just kept on going,
stoking the fire in his belly.

Dad continued on his way,
however, he could.
Extra innovations kept him at their home
with his beautiful mallee views and
with his Love by his side.

‘This is my last project’,
he told my Gordon, last Christmas
He started the gazebo.

He said it was always planned
for their Blanchetown home.

This was in amongst all sorts of other tasks
and written orders
for this and that.

Part way through building his gazebo,
While I cared for him, he wrote to me:

‘Kristy, get me up at 7 in the morning!’

This was in the middle of the night
in amongst his medication runs,
as I cycled the pain out of his arms and legs.

Sorry Julie
but you need to know,
how well you trained me
to look after Dad on my own.
For those few treasured days,
you and Sarah had the most well deserved break.

Thank you!

Although he looked like he was ready to die;
he had to be up at 7,
dressed, fed,
and craned into in his wheelchair!

That motorised wheelchair
sped him across to the shed.
And at top speed so he didn’t get bogged!
He had to be there for Mark and Leanne
when they yet again turned up so faithfully
to help build his gazebo.

He’d draw shakey little drawings
and write to communicate.
To make sure every part of his gazebo
was built exactly to his spec.

Partly along the building process
I showed Mark photos of Dad’s past building projects.
Mark looked at me with awe and terror in his eyes.
He reckons he would have run a mile
If I’d have shown him those photos before
when Dad asked for their assistance.

Red wine vat oak timber cladding
over steel posts form the structure.
A bluestone pizza oven
which some of us
had a part in learning to build somehow.

Tim McBride and Angie were the perfect match
for the houseboat’s next chapter.
That was one of the harder things Dad had to let go of.

All the while.
Dad is progressively incapacitated by the day.

In June for his last birthday,
The last project was just about completed.
Dad called in his siblings and other’s closest to him
His chapter was ending and coming to a close.

He completed the cosiest warm hug,
that Gazebo now called LeMark.
And AKA, Gerald’s pizza hut
by his beloved Bev.

But hsng onto your seats
wait these’s more!

Right up till the day,
just over a week ago
when Dad said, that’s enough.

He was now placing his spring ducklings in a row.

On that day, his final project hurdle
was making sure the wacker packer
he could hear start up outside
didn’t crack the edge of his Gazebo’s floor.
King William street footpath slate
he’d rescued from the Wingfield tip

He twitched and made a scene sitting on the loo.
Julie couldn’t get him off there quick enough
and into his chair so he could see.
His helpers had his best interest at heart
just like he did for others all his life.

Including for his community
he helped all the ways he could.

As I wind this one up now
or start to unravel.
I feel you may see
the common thread in this story.

This was Dad’s story
from my perspective.

But it’s plain to see.

Dad had all his ducks in a row,
Right till his ending hours.

Right down to making sure
Roger got on his way
to the Red Dirt Rally in WA,
Leaving this Sunday.

As Roger keeps those Model T wheels
turning in memory of Dad.
Along with Roger’s entourage of sisters,
they will remember him
in the red sand country, he loved.

So there is in fact a moral to this story.
I did get my father’s attention.
Even though he was robbed of his physical abilities.

Like someone said a few days back
What God would do that to a man.

What did endure,
was the goodness of his heart.
He never ever complained.

He had no choice but to find his Truth
In that spirit running through from his heart.

And that, I selfishly claim was my purpose.
Dad and I did get each other’s attention.

I can now say with conviction,

I love you so much Dad.

On his beloved Murray River, his ashes will scatter
At Roonka, hosted by Dad’s beautiful friends, Brian and Ali.

Good neighbour Gavin, you are expected to be there to sing your song for Dad;
Or take the piss till the end as you did
just for Dad’s shits and giggles.

Now at home here in Clare
The place where his spirit never left.

We give thanks to this amazing man.
For all that he leaves behind.
His footprints in the sand.

Go well our beautiful man.
On your next extraordinary adventure.

You will always be so loved
And close to our hearts.
As your spirit continues.
On its ancestral line.

Dad told me last year
when I asked him what his spirit animal will be
to let us know he’s close by.

‘A Kookaburra!’ he said.

So I wrote this short poem for when you’re next contemplating in nature.

It is called…

I am
the Kookaburra

I am the kookaburra
in the redgum beside the river

I am the reflection
laying softly upon the water

I am the kookaburra
laughing at the end of day

I am the sound of silence
as the cross-lighting makes
everything gold

I am the kookaburra
Remember me.

Another eulogist on the program was Alina who delivered the following poetic tribute ‘To Gerald’

On God’s own earth there was a man who knew how to live life to – the - brim

through every action and fibre of his being.

With a twinkle in his eye,

and steadfast determination,

No project too big (Actually the bigger the better)

No stone left unturned.

To see sunsets, magic in campfires, beauty in thunderstorms and

peace in the rain through his eyes was a heartfelt blessing like NO OTHER

Experiencing with him

The Flow. The Love. The Land. The Majesty.

Of Be-ing,