For Ro'i Rotberg: 'Yesterday morning Ro'i was murdered', by Moshe Dayan - 1956

30 April 1956, Nahal Oz, Israel

Yesterday morning Ro'i was murdered. The morning's silence dazzled him, and he didn't see those lurking for his soul at the edge of the furrow. It's not among the Arabs in Gaza but in our own midst that we must seek Roi's blood.

How did we shut our eyes to the reality of our fate, unwilling to see the destiny of our generation in its full cruelty? Have we forgotten that this small group of young boys, settled in Nahal Oz, is carrying the heavy gates of Gaza on its shoulders?

Beyond this, hundreds of thousands of eyes and arms huddle together and pray for our coming weakness, so that they may tear us to pieces. Have we forgotten this? Don't we know that in order for the hope of our destruction to perish we must be armed and ready, morning and night?

We are a generation of settlement, and without the steel helmet and the canon's maw we cannot plant and build a home. Our children won't have lives to live if we won't dig shelters. And without a barbed wire fence and a machine gun, we won't be able to pave a path or drill for water.

The millions of Jews who were exterminated and have no land are watching us from the ashes of Israeli history and command us to settle and rebuild a land for our people.

But beyond the furrow that marks the border lies a surging sea of hatred and vengeance, yearning for the day serenity will dull our alertness, for the day that we'll listen to the ambassadors of conspiring hypocrisy, calling us to lay down our weapons.

Roi's blood is crying out to us, and only to us, from his shredded body. Although we have sworn a thousandfold that our blood shall not flow in vain, yesterday we were tempted again. We listened. We believed.

We will make our reckoning with ourselves today. Let us not flinch from the hatred that accompanies and fills the lives of hundreds of thousands of Arabs, who are sitting and longing for the moment their hands can get our blood. We must not avert our gaze, lest our hands be weakened.

That is our generation's fate and our life's choice -- to be willing and armed, strong and unyielding, lest the sword be knocked from our fist and our lives cut down.

Ro'i Rotberg -- the blond boy who left Tel-Aviv to build his home alongside the gates of Gaza, to serve as our wall.

Ro'i -- the light in his heart blinded his eyes, and he did not see the flash of the blade.

The yearning for peace deafened his ears, and he did not hear the sound of murder lurking.

The gates of Gaza weighed too heavily on his shoulders and defeated him.

Original Hebrew as Delivered

אתמול עם בוקר נרצח רועי. השקט של בוקר האביב סנוורו, ולא ראה את האורבים לנפשו, על קו התלם.

לא מהערבים אשר בעזה, כי אם מעצמנו נבקש את דמו של רועי. איך עצמנו עינינו מלהסתכל נכוחה בגורלנו, ומלראות את ייעוד דורנו במלוא אכזריותו? הנשכח מאיתנו כי קבוצת נערים זו, היושבת בנחל עוז, נושאת על כתפיה את שערי עזה הכבדים, שערים אשר מעברם מצטופפים מאות אלפי עיניים וידיים המתפללות כי תבוא, בכדי שיוכלו לקורענו לגזרים, השכחנו זאת? הן אנו יודעים, כי על מנת שתגווע התקווה להשמידנו, חייבים אנו להיות, בוקר וערב, מזוינים וערוכים. דור התנחלות אנו, ובלי כובע הפלדה ולוע התותח לא נוכל לטעת ולבנות בית. לילדינו לא יהיו חיים אם לא נחפור מקלטים, ובלי גדר תיל ומקלע לא נוכל לסלול דרך ולקדוח מים. מיליוני היהודים אשר הושמדו ואין להם ארץ צופים אלינו מאפר ההיסטוריה הישראלית, ומצווים עלינו להתנחל ולקומם ארץ לעמנו. אך מעבר לתלם הגבול, גואה ים של שנאה ומאוויי נקם, המצפה ליום בו תקהה השלווה את דריכותנו, ליום בו נאזין לשגרירי הצביעות המתנכלת, הקוראים לנו להניח את נשקנו. אלינו ורק אלינו זועקים דמי רועי וגופו השסוע. על שאלף נדרנו כי דמנו לא ייגר לשווא, ואתמול שוב נתפתינו, האזנו והאמנו. את חשבוננו עם עצמנו נעשה היום.

אל נירתע מלראות את המשטמה המלווה וממלאת חיי מאות אלפי ערבים, היושבים ומצפים לרגע בו תוכל ידם להשיג את דמנו. אל נסב את עינינו פן תיחלש ידינו. זו גזרת דודנו, זו ברירת חיינו, להיות נכונים וחמושים חזקים ונוקשים, או כי תישמט מאגרופנו החרב, וייכרתו חיינו. רועי רוטברג, הנער הבלונדיני אשר הלך מתל אביב לבנות ביתו בשערי עזה, להיות חומה לנו. רועי, האור שבלבו עיוור את עיניו, ולא ראה את ברק המאכלת. הערגה לשלום החרישה את אוזניו, ולא שמע את קול הרצח האורב.

כבדו שערי עזה מכתפיו ויוכלו לו.

For Anne Bravos: 'They say that only the good die young', by brother David Bravos - 2023

16 June 2023, Williamstown, Victoria, Australia

Firstly, on behalf of the family, I’d like to thank every one of you for coming today. It is no surprise to know that Anne was able to touch so many lives in the course of her own but it is heartwarming nonetheless to see what that looks like, also knowing that there are many more people who send their love and well wishes even if they can’t be here with us today.

Before I talk more about Anne and our experience with her, I’d like to touch a little bit on her illness. Seven weeks ago, Anne was outwardly fine. Even when she first had symptoms, she thought little of it… so little of it in fact that she didn’t seek medical help. She had other things to do and didn’t want to cause a fuss. Her housemate Gemma eventually spoke up, reaching out to the family because she was worried about Anne. We took the choice out of Anne’s hands but even then we didn’t seem to have much to worry about. That was just over six weeks ago. None of us knew at the time, but Anne had already spent her last night out of hospital. 

I want to share a few lessons we’ve learnt from Anne’s life today, and that is the first. Speaking up for those you care about can be such an important thing. Anne’s reluctance to cause a fuss was one of many things we loved about her however in this case, by someone speaking up, by starting treatment, futile as it may have been from the beginning, we were bought invaluable time with her. We owe Gemma a tremendous debt of gratitude. 

They say that only the good die young, and I suppose Anne very much showed that. She was so good, to so many people in so many ways, and she was far too young to bring us together like this. It seems so deeply unfair, and I’ve spent a lot of the last week wanting to take all of my sadness and frustration and hurt and anger and yell it into the void, as if it might ascribe some blame to some power that be. However, I know Anne would never be one for that sort of futile action. EVen at the last, she was very particular with the things and the people she used energy on, and she would choose to seek the good. 

She wasn’t always like that though, and the simple fact is I can’t stand here and say what a wonderful sister she’s always been because she wasn’t always. Louis recalls his first day of school when Anne told him his socks were on the wrong feet. He dutifully took his shoes and socks off- a slow task for a five year old- and switched the socks. Once he had his shoes back on, Anne once again insisted they were on the wrong feet, so he took them off and switched them again. Anne walked on. Louis was nearly late for his first day of pre-primary. I’m somewhat impressed by the depth of calculation that shows. Anne herself was only seven at the time and executed that with skill far beyond her years. I remember similar experiences growing up. Anne was never violent, however she was very clever when it came to teasing her two younger brothers (she was generally quite good with the youngest, Peter). Indeed, her method was generally to do something or say something that would stay with you. She chose torment over actually torture, calculation over callousness. She made it so I would doubt everything I did. If I did it poorly, it was because of my own faults, yet if I did something too well she’d remind me that I’d put in too much effort and that would never win me respect. Eventually- mercifully- she moved away, and when she returned, by which point myself and Louis were into adult life, we found that she seemed to have forgotten all about the 18 years prior, reaching out to us to spend time together when our paths crossed and being open to chatting whenever we felt like it. We pushed on, cautiously optimistic at first, wondering what ulterior motive she had, but in no time at all she had gone from the older sister everyone imagines to the older sister everyone wants. Having lived so far for so long I know Anne was always keen to catch up whenever one of us flew cross country, and we’d often message about all sorts of things. A few years back when I was on a game show, Anne drew a design, and organised tshirts to be printed so everyone who attended the filming could show their support. She did that all herself with no prompt or push from anyone; it’s just something she wanted to do for her brother. Whenever one of us had a new tattoo, we’d excitedly share it, and knowing Anne’s appreciation of tattoos you can imagine that meant we chatted reasonably frequently. That being said, and as much as Anne would never be one to brag, I doubt I was the only one excitedly contacted when the official Mad As Hell instagram reposted a tattoo that Anne had got of the kraken from that show. Ever Anne, she mused a few weeks ago how great a loss it was that no one would be able to appreciate her tattoos much longer. Having a love of theatre, I was always immensely proud of Anne whenever a set she worked on made it to Perth, perhaps none moreso than the production of Matilda. Anne had made a very small error when painting with a stencil, nearly impossible to spot unless she told you about it beforehand, but seeing that gave me tremendous pride that it was her work making its way around the country. 

In terms of family, Anne’s greatest impact was on her three nieces. Sophia, Eleanor and Lucy all had a terrific role model, the magnitude of which I’m sure anyone with a wonderful aunt or uncle can appreciate. Sophia and Eleanor spent a great deal of time with Anne doing all sorts of activities and learning a great deal. When my daughter Lucy was born, with the WA borders at the time impenetrable, we would frequently get postcards and pictures she’d drawn of us, generally out of the blue. The one time- and how we rue now that it was only one time- Anne spent time with Lucy, we expected that she’d have the same experiences as anyone else new, and Lucy would be troublesome. We were impressed but not surprised to find that was not at all the case; Lucy had a great time, and settled down when she needed to. I feel the three nieces owe some of the tremendous fortitude they’ve shown throughout this whole experience to Anne’s influence. I believe it is Anne’s three beloved nieces who have lost the most. 

Last August, Anne, Louis and myself travelled to the US for a family reunion, and since I travelled separately I arrived slightly later. Anne and Louis hired a car and drove from LA to San Francisco, and I recall a pang of envy seeing their adventures, not at what they were doing, but the time they were having. I suppose that sums up the sort of older sister Anne had become. Her and I travelled on together to New York from there, we spent the first day driving to a theme park, and whether out of thriftiness or just wanting me to be happy, we ran around the quiet park getting all the rides done as quickly as we could. I was immensely frustrated with her the next day, as we were right there in the Big Apple, and yet Anne elected to sleep in. She had had let me have the main bed and she took the couch in the living room so I didn’t want to wake her. I was then amazed, and again frustrated, that when I went into the city to try to fit as much adventure in as I could, Anne stayed in and took advantage of access to Netflix. Reflecting on this now, I see that as frustrating as it was, it was simply Anne being Anne. She’d identified that our accommodation had all the tools to keep her happy and comfortable, so why would one leave a cool, air conditioned space where she could do something she knew she’d enjoy, to go out in the heat and humidity for something you might not enjoy at all. As I said, Anne was always very particular about what she put her effort towards.

There’s so much than can give one pause when a loved one is facing a health battle. Partially because there is a lot of waiting to be done, but also how unusual it is to see so much of a hospital. What struck us all throughout Anne’s journey was how she was unwavering in the parts of her that made her, her. She was surprisingly philosophical throughout. Early on, when she was advised that treatment would have to begin as soon as possible, she quoted MacBeth; “'If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well / It were done quickly.”

Anne was always pragmatic, and whilst she was talking about treatment at the time, I feel that she would have applied it to the bigger picture.

What was particularly noteworthy, though perhaps not at all surprising, was how kind Anne was to those she dealt with. Anne slept in 12 different hospital rooms in her journey. Plans and ideas changed daily. The only thing consistent with the news she received was the fact that it kept getting worse. If ever there was a time for someone to be forgiven for letting a negative emotion slip, this was it. Yet Anne always listened and said thanks. It was truly amazing to see Anne calmly and kindly deal with the very worst news one can get, the very worst conversation one can have with a doctor, and ensure she said thankyou as the doctor left. Indeed, even as energy failed her and the mere task of speaking became unduly tiresome, she still made very sure to be thankful. Thanking her doctors and nurses was something she just did. Anne thanking her doctors and nurses were the last words I ever heard her speak.

People may imagine that with the benefit of foresight one might contribute to this sort of thing before they pass. I did try to discuss it with Anne, but as I said, she was unwavering in being herself. She made a joke then changed the subject and carried on as if I’d never mentioned it. I suppose that in life, as with her bullying at a young age, Anne left us to think about our lessons rather than teaching us directly.  

She taught us that people like her don’t exist in a vacuum. If she had all the tools needed to be a kind, caring person, I’ll bet the rest of us do too.

She taught us that who we are at our worst is who we truly are. For Anne, those two personas were one and the same. We can only strive to ensure we can say the same for ourselves.

She taught us that success and money aren’t the same thing. In terms of possession and money, I can’t think of anyone I know who had less than Anne. But if we define success as spending your time doing what you enjoy, then I know no one more successful.

And she taught me that you’re very unlikely to regret hugging someone you care about, and telling them how important they are. However, she also taught me that you might well regret waiting too long to start doing that. 

For Keith Connolly: 'But he was OUR old codger', by son Rohan Connolly - 2005

23 December 2005, Astor Theatre, St Kilda, Melbourne, Australia

I’m sure it’s pretty obvious to most of you by now, if it wasn’t already, that Keith Connolly was a name that meant very different things to different people.

You’ve had a glimpse of the young man, the political activist, the journalist, film buff. Now, as Keith’s youngest son, it’s my duty to fill you in on Keith Connolly, the Silly Old Bugger.

It’s fair to say Dad wasn’t the world’s most practical man. A towering intellect he most certainly was, a towering handyman, perhaps not. Dad could pop up to his well-stocked reference library and give the answers you needed to practically any question in a flash, but he was never likely any day soon to pop down to the tool shed to whip up a spice rack.

So good was Dad at being impractical, in fact, he might well have “clumsied” for Australia had it been a sport. Check your Commonwealth Games guides. It probably is.

Mind you, it never curbed his attempts to prove otherwise, particularly in the kitchen. In fact, dad was ahead of his time in many ways, especially when it came to culinary enthusiasms. He developed an evangelistic-like fervour about a short-lived eating utensil fad of the 1970s, the splade.

You might remember, it was supposed to be both a fork and spoon, but actually didn’t do either job very well. Perhaps that impracticality was the attraction, but I know for some years you’d get a scornful look from Dad if you ever dared hand him a mere fork!

He was very impressed with the brand new pizza cutter he brought home one day. So impressed that after several weeks constant use, the rest of us felt like we’d been living at Toto’s. There was his obsession for a time with marinading, with an accompanying basting brush. Even Dad realized he’d had gone too far the day, brush in hand, he stood over a large pot of soup looking completely perplexed.

For several years, as the last child left at home, with Mum traveling regularly overseas with her tour groups, Dad and I had just each other for company at 28 The Avenue. They were times which forged the very strong bond between us, much of that bonding done as we labored together to remove the black muck from the bottom of the burnt saucepan, or mopping up the laundry after he’d put a load of washing on and left the plug in the sink again.

By the time I started work on The Sun News-Pictorial, with dad working just 20 metres down the open office floor on The Herald, I knew what to expect. It was shortly after computers had replaced typewriters in the newsroom. Dad would regularly take that familiar-looking walk down the room to Sun sport to ask me how to clear his screen or log-on yet again.

The bloke who passed for an IT department in those days watched this scene repeatedly, both appalled and fascinated. One day he couldn’t take it any more. He sidled over to me as dad shuffled off and asked: “Who is that old codger?” To which my response was: “….. umm, ahh…..oh yeah, that’s my dad.” …. And yes, he is.”

But he was OUR old codger. And we, and anyone else who bothered to know anything of the man, realised the brilliance of the mind and decency of spirit in the heart beneath that obviously cunningly-crafted physical veneer of practical incompetence.

As a teenager, my friends certainly used to think Dad was pretty cool for an old bloke with silver hair and a walking stick. Particularly so after they learned that his role on the Film Censorship Board of Review basically consisted of being flown to Sydney every fortnight to watch porno movies.

He only told them because he’d caught a late flight home one night after another board meeting, stuck his head in the loungeroom door and sprung my mates and I watching the sort of movie that 18-year-old boys watch. If my friends expected outrage, they were sadly disappointed: “Dads weary response was: “Oh god, not again’”.

Of course, I’m most grateful to Dad for having instilled in me a love of both journalism and sport. I can still remember being taken to film previews in the city by dad, and going into The Herald office beforehand, where the exciting atmosphere of a busy newsroom and papers going to press got me well and truly hooked.

Dad never pushed it at me, but was always eager to help me learn what I wanted and needed to know about the industry. He was and remained to the end my own personal sub-editor, his mastery of the language and quick mind giving me that elusive intro with deadline fast approaching more times than I care to remember.

Sport is where Dad, metaphorically speaking, let it all hang out. In five years sharing office space with him, I lost count of the number of times people said to me: “I can’t believe Keith is your father”. To which my response was invariably: “You haven’t watched the football with him.”

Dad loved Essendon, but hated Collingwood with equal ferocity. I still remember coming home from the 1981 grand final to find him looking relieved but somewhat chastened, large pieces of what had once been a coffee mug scattered around the television set.

Sure, Carlton had once again thankfully denied Collingwood a premiership, but the Magpies had been 21 points up late in the third quarter. It was Mark Williams’ right-foot snap which had inflicted the killer blow on the china, dad mumbled apologetically.

Cricket was just as big, if not an even bigger passion, the game’s healthy literary tradition simply allowing him to combine two great loves in one, our bookshelves always jammed with the writings of Neville Cardus and a burgeoning set of Wisden Cricket Almanacs.

Dad took me to some form of cricket, be it a Test match, Shield game or even a district game at the Albert Ground, countless summer weekends in my youth. He took me to my first game of VFL football, many more, and was a regular at Essendon games in his reserved seat until only a few years ago.

I was always amused by dad’s “thing” about Kevin Sheedy. I really do believe that they in fact had plenty in common, namely endurance, and courage under duress. And, yes, each could waffle on at times. I’m really sorry I never got the pair of them together. It might have finished days, several dozen bottles of red and several hundred tangents later, but by Christ it would have been an interesting conversation.

As was any conversation involving Keith Connolly. Yeah, sure, he couldn’t change a washer, or even re-light the pilot on the gas hot water system, for that matter. But he was still the smartest, most thoughtful and decent Silly Old Bugger I’ve come across.

Goodbye Dad. This Silly Younger Bugger wants you to know how much he loved you, how proud he was to have been your son, and like so many of us here today, how privileged he feels simply to have known you.

For Jo Connolly: 'She could do it all, really', by son Rohan Connolly - 2023

16 July 2023, The Avenue, East Malvern, Melbourne, Australia

So you’ve heard about Jo Connolly’s political life and you’ve heard about her travel adventures. It’s my task today to tell you a bit about the other bit of her life, the more domestic part.

But if you thought that was just another way of saying more mundane, you’d be very wrong. Because nothing mum did or anything with which she engaged was ever mundane.

Mum had had to grow up quickly looking after four kids by the time she was 28. By the time I, the youngest, was a little kid, she had the whole motherhood thing down pat. She could do it in her sleep, effortlessly and successfully.

And so the routine that goes with helping little ones grow needed a bit of spicing up to keep both of us interested. And she loved that. She was incredibly resourceful, a legacy of growing up herself in a difficult time when people had to make do with very little.

All manner of household objects could be fashioned into toys by her capable hands. And her very capable mind could come up with all sorts of little games which served not only to educate but to entertain.

I remember vividly the times spent with her at home when I was three or four years old learning to read, to write, and to think. So good a teacher was she that by the time I started kindergarten I already felt ready to take on HSC.

And I reckon even then I could rattle off who’d won the VFL premiership in which year from 1897 onwards. It was mum, and dad of course, who fostered that love of learning for which all four of us Connolly kids remained ever grateful.

And look, let’s be honest, she wasn’t above a little sly indoctrination to go with that education, either.

Like probably became a little clear one day at home here in the early ‘70s, when mum asked a 10 or 11-year-old Linda if she could pop down to the milk bar and pick her up some chocolate, her parting words as her young daughter walked out of the house: “But not Cadbury”.

Linda duly passed this information on to the milk bar owner, who understandably then asked: “Why not Cadbury?” Even at that age, Linda knew instinctively there must be sound political reasoning, so responded with what (to us at least) would have seemed obvious. “Because they exploit the peanut pickers of third world countries”.

Upon arrival at home, almost as an afterthought, Linda checked again that she had the right cause. “So why couldn’t I get Cadbury?” she asked. “It’s too sweet,” said mum without batting an eyelid, clearly thinking wrong reason, right motive.

Mum was so smitten by South America and its culture that when she returned from that first six-month trip she had literally suitcases full of clothes from the region she’d bought for us and wanted us to wear, alpaca jumpers, ponchos, headbands.

I remember being taken along on a visit to some family friends so completely wrapped up in Latin American dress I felt like I was about five seconds away from being called Rafael instead of Rohan and being made to learn the pan flute every day after school. Not for the first or last time, I pushed back. But even then I recognized it was all out of Mum’s enthusiasm for different things, different cultures and different people.

That benefitted all of us, particularly me. Mum’s connection with the local Chilean community led to me playing soccer for South Yarra for several years with a team of Chilean kids. They were all very gifted at the game. I was far less-skilled but the bigger body they needed in defence.

It worked out well. Mum got to mingle with the Chilenos while I played, we had plenty of success, and I also got my first girlfriend, a sister of one our team members. I also nearly got the living suitcase belted out of me one day when were playing a Croatian team and things got willing between groups of spectators.

After we’d won the game and insults were exchanged, my impetuous 15yo sensibilities took over and I rolled down mum’s car window as we drove off to scream: “You’re a pack of fascist pricks”.

I thought mum would be proud of me, but it wasn’t really the case as we were chased up Springvale Rd by two carloads of rather pissed off Croatians who ended up blocking us in in the middle of a busy intersection.

It was about the one time I saw Mum’s sense of self-preservation overtake her maternal instincts as a group of angry young men started hammering on Mum’s car. “It wasn’t me, it was him,” she pleaded. Thanks mum.

Then there was the time in 1989 we were all very anxious when mum had taken a tour group to China and been in Tiananmen Square literally hours before the infamous events which unfolded there. Dad was doing long days at the Melbourne Film Festival in his role as film critic for The Herald, and so had set up an answering machine (this was pre mobile phones of course) as we crossed fingers we’d hear from Mum soon.

Dad, noted for his fierce intellect, but never for his brevity, had recorded a perhaps overly-detailed message for playback in which among other things, he talked about that year’s Ashes series in England, in which we were doing particularly well.

It’s fair to say Mum was a little short on time, money and patience when she was able to finally make contact days later. So when concerned patrons at the Film Festival asked Dad whether Mum was OK, he was able to respond: “Yes, she rang from the deepest recesses of the Mongolian desert to tell me that she was OK, and that I’m a fuckwit.”

Those here who follow football will know that unlike Dad, who had renounced his West Australian football heritage and become an enthusiastic Essendon supporter, something he instilled in all of us, mum resolutely refused to fall in line, waiting instead until the West Coast Eagles entered the competition in 1987 to get on board the football bandwagon.

Like all WA footy fans, mum did a beautiful line in conspiracy theory about the eastern states. Any reversals for West Coast were always obviously a result of biased umpiring or all that travel they had to do.

Mum’s loyalty to her home state was rewarded though, the Eagles having won four AFL flags over the journey. Until this year, anyway when the bottom of the ladder side started to stink it up like few teams previously.

In fact, and I hope this doesn’t sound too macabre, but I think Mum knew what was coming when she checked out, because in the first two games after she died, West Coast lost to Adelaide by 122 points, then Sydney by an incredible 171 points, the fourth highest margin in footy history.

Mum, if you’re listening to this, no, I don’t think with some fairer umpiring they might have cut that losing margin to under three figures, but nice try.

The other perversely serendipitous thing about the timing of Mum’s passing is that it happened so close to the sad loss of her lifelong best friend Liz Milne, whose sons Peter and David are here today, and thanks so much for coming guys.

They’d met when mum took me to kindergarten in 1969 and they simply loved each other’s company, as much at the end as when they’d first met and incredibly, in seven different decades. When Linda rang to tell me mum had had a stroke, only weeks after Liz had one and passed away, the first thing I thought was: “She’s gone out in sympathy”. A very loyal and a very mum thing to do.

I grumbled about how often mum was away when I was a kid, but boy did she step up to the plate when Lucia and I had our own kids, Andrea and David.

My brother Steve died just six months before our daughter Andrea was born 11 weeks prematurely in late 1995, another major trauma to deal with. But Mum’s resilience won the day and her care and support for our baby was something to behold.

It was repeated six or so years later when David was born even more prematurely. I know both of them remember very fondly the very special relationship they shared with their grandma, and the time they spent in this house in her care when either parent was working or otherwise engaged.

I know I lost count of the number of times I’d pick Andrea and David up to be regaled by some fascinating new fact they’d learned from their grandma, be it about history, geography, the arts, music, you name it.

Lucia and I are very proud of our wonderful kids and we know that mum has played a part too in making them the fine young adults they are today.

She could do it all, really. Play the political firebrand, the intrepid traveller, and yes, be a mum and a grandma, all with equal aplomb. Oh yeah, just thought of something, she was pretty damn good at Scrabble, too.

Mum, on behalf of us all, thank you so much. You touched the lives of everyone here in different ways, and we’re all grateful for it. I’m sorry though, no matter how much I love you, you’re never going to see me caught wearing a bloody poncho!

For Amanda Brotchie: 'Goodbye, my beautiful girl', by husband Adam Zwar - 2026

5 January 2026, St Kilda RSL, Melbourne, Australia

On the afternoon of June 2, 2002, I was happy. There was no reason to be, and I’m not usually an optimistic person, so it felt great, but strange. The St Kilda Film Festival Awards were that night, and I’d already been told we hadn’t won because one of the judges had very much hated our short film Wilfred. And yet there I was, bouncing around that apartment.

That night, I arrived at the Palace Cinemas in St Kilda, took my seat, and seconds later, a woman sat down eight seats away. A minute passed. For no real reason, I leaned forward and looked down the row at her at the exact moment she leaned forward and looked back at me. In her memory of the event, she felt it was a serendipitous connection between two people. Whereas all I remember was – “Oh no, I’ve been caught checking her out”.

At the afterparty, the woman came up to me and said she was disappointed that Wilfred hadn’t won Best Comedy. She said her name was Amanda, and I asked her if I could buy her a drink. I was surprised she said “Yes.” A little later, she excused herself to talk to other people, and as she walked away, I remember thinking: That’s her. That’s the one. Dad always said, “Son, when you know, you know.” But Dad also gave Christopher Skase a reference, saying he was a fit and proper person to buy Channel Seven – so I took that rule with a grain of salt. But here I was – I knew. And I knew.

I tracked her down later and asked if I could buy her another drink. Again, she said, “Yes.” Again, I was surprised. There was another guy also interested in her that night. He asked for her number under the guise of organising a card game, which is Amanda’s weakness– she loves games nights. And, as she gave him her number, I was nearby, watching on, thinking – “There’s gonna be no card night, mate. No card night.” There was no card night.

Amanda and I went home to her place to watch the Big Brother finale, which she had taped. After that, we talked and talked. And for some reason, the conversation got onto cricket, and she correctly named the Australian batting order for the 80/81 series against India, which, of course, meant we would have to move in together. Later, she would tell me that when I hugged her goodbye, she said she felt “home”. I felt the same.

We moved in together within six weeks, and I lived to impress her. In those early days, we would lie in bed in the dark, chatting until very late, and I would try to make her laugh. And when one of my jokes didn’t get the requisite vocal response, I would lean over and touch her cheek to see if she was at least smiling. If she wasn’t – that simple act ensured she did. It sounds creepy and manipulative now I’m saying it out loud – but it was lovingly creepy and manipulative.

When I first proposed to her, she said something along the lines of “Wow, that’s a big step.” Now, an emotionally mature person would’ve responded by saying – “That’s completely fine. You take as much time as you want. I’ll be here when you’re ready.” But, I said: “No, don’t worry about it then!! I’m sorry I asked!!!”

I didn’t propose again until there was assurance – probably in writing – and notarised – that she would say “Yes”.

When we got back from our honeymoon, she acknowledged that an unwelcome pattern had emerged in her directing career. She would work with the writer on their scripts. (And by the way, her script editing always made scripts soar beyond their potential.) Then, just as the film was about to be financed, the producers would decide to replace her with a mediocre man, who no one would ever hear from again. And if we did hear from them again, it’s because they were selling duplexes in Parramatta. This was the playing field for Australian female directors in the late ‘90s, early 2000s. Even if they’d won an AFI award, as Amanda had. But she never held grudges. In our household, I ran the office in charge of grudges. It was an efficient operation. Particularly, when it came to anyone who’d wronged her. The receipts were logged and noted.

Sometimes I would bring up the slights others had inflicted on her. And she’d say, “Oh that. I’d forgotten about that. Can’t you let it go?” And I’d say, “No. I’m German, babe. This is what my people do.”

So, with her directing career in a quiet period, Amanda decided to return to Uni to pursue a PhD in linguistics, where she would live on a remote island in Vanuatu, creating a writing system and grammar for a language that had never been written down before, and then analysing its narrative structure.

To do this, she would need to learn Bislama – the lingua franca of Vanuatu – so she could communicate with the people about the language they were trying to preserve – and she would live in a hut in an isolated village for five months with one tap, malaria and 10,000 giant centipedes. If one of the centipedes stung you, the pain sensation was similar to a hot needle repeatedly stabbing you in the arm for three hours.

When Amanda told me of the plan, I remember being confused about why she was doing it. But I was looking at it from my point of view. What I hadn’t quite got my head around was that I’d married an adventurer. This was her métier. She loved it. She loved the challenge, the new experiences, the sleeping in the jungle. Whereas I love a concierge and a turndown service.

Before she left, I gave her a handmade book filled with blank pages for her to write a diary of her adventure. I have that diary at home. About a quarter of the way through, she writes about me visiting the island and describes me getting off the plane and looking “smaller than she remembered.” Which is not the compliment it sounds like.

When she returned home, we wrote the TV show Lowdown while she finished her PhD. I have memories of her sitting at her computer, her whole torso shaking with laughter. That generally meant she wasn’t writing the PhD. She was writing Lowdown, or more particularly, the character of Alex, which she used to exorcise everything that frustrated her about me.

Amanda loved learning. She was always curious. And honoured every challenge with a thoroughness and attention to detail. As Doctor Who showrunner Russell T Davies said of her: “She was bright and sharp and kind and questioning and always determined to make things better, better, better. Ooh, she could be beady, peering at the script, niggling away at something… until we all realised she was right! God, we adored her.”

Her perfectionism wasn’t pervasive. It was a happy perfectionism that got the job done.

That’s why not getting pregnant confounded her. We went on an Odyssean journey to get pregnant. Miscarriages, IVF, donor eggs. Finally, we decided to move to the US to adopt. We were matched with a birth mother through an agency. Met her in Florida. Flew her to LA. Paid for her medical expenses. Amanda took her under her wing, looked after her cat, and made her life blissful. The woman had the baby. She gave it to us. We were parents for two days, and then the woman decided she wanted the baby back. We were gutted.

But after spending a week on the couch, crying, fate intervened, and Amanda’s directing career took off. First, she directed Girlboss for Kay Cannon, then Picnic at Hanging Rock, A Place to Call Home, How to Stay Married, Squinters, and The Letdown with her friends Sarah and Al. After that, England and Sally Wainwright came calling with Gentleman Jack, Renegade Nell and Riot Women, and then Russell T. Davies tapped her for Doctor Who.

Amanda suffered from depression. She went through a lot of hardship. She pulled herself out of it with meditation, structure, and Wordle. And she was so happy in the final 5 years of her life. She loved her job. She loved her friends and family. She was so proud of her nieces Taylor and Brit. And nephew Cody. She said they were like oxygen to her. And then there was her sister, Rebecca. Rebecca was Amanda’s rock. The Dean Martin to Amanda’s Jerry Lewis. No matter where Amanda flew in her life - physically or emotionally - Bec and her husband, Daryl, were her safety net - they were there with emotional support, a bed, excellent advice, and sometimes a truck to carry stuff.

There was her pharmacist father, Norman, whose precision, sense of style and love of cricket she admired and inherited. And then there was her mother, Joy, actress and director. As a female director, she cracked the glass ceiling so Amanda could soar.

Some quick facts: Amanda had an otherworldly sense of smell – that she could also use to detect bullshit. She never called it out directly. Instead, she’d ask calm, reasonable questions, gently backing liars into a corner like a sweet, five-foot-three Perry Mason, until they either told the truth or burst into tears.

She never put down anyone’s creative output; she’d just refer to things as “not being her cup of tea,” which, coming from her, was devastating. She had a profound sense of justice. She liked things to be symmetrical. And she had an extraordinary ability to make people feel seen.

Amanda smiled at me whenever I walked into any room she was in. A smile that never stopped taking my breath away. Even when she was very sick, she would smile whenever I turned up. A few months ago, I thanked her for doing that and told her how much it meant to me. I’m not sure she was aware she even did it. The honour of having that in your life - the agony of it being taken away.

So here we find ourselves in an Amanda-less physical world. That smile, that laugh, that wit, and that unflappable happiness are no longer here.

And when I say unflappable. Not even dying rocked her. Five days before she took her last breath, the palliative care doctor told her, “Unfortunately, all we can do now is make you comfortable.” Amanda said, “Not unfortunately. I’ve had a great life. And now I’m getting ready for the next adventure.” The author Bradley Trevor Greive said it best when he called Amanda: “A deeply serious thinker. Slight of frame, huge of heart, she bent light with her gaze and held countless worlds inside her mind.”

On her last night of being conscious, she said she was so happy and so grateful. And here we are - so grateful and sad. Sweetheart, if there is an eternity, I will be looking for you throughout it. To find you and hold you again would mean everything to me. Goodbye, my beautiful girl.

For Ian Mason: 'The funniest man I ever met', by John Allen - 2024

4 September 2024, Camberwell Grammar School, Melbourne, Australia

In preparing these reflections, a colleague said to me: 'Mase seemed to know everyone, and everyone knew Mase'.

That led me to recall a tale told by John Stafford, whose long life we celebrated recently. Staff loved this story, so as he is no longer here to tell it, shall narrate it in his memory.

Many years ago Staff was taking a Year 9 excursion to the Port of Melbourne. The plan was for the boys to board a cargo ship but this apparently was disallowed. Staff and his fellow teacher were immersed in discussion with the Port Authority while the boys were waiting, standing on the pier.

A boom came over their heads, Sitting on top of it was a wharfie (sporting a tattoo; something CGS boys would never have seen, as they were the precinct of seamen, wharfies and criminals which often constituted the same identity), singlet in the of colour blue, fag in the corner corner of his mouth. The boom stopped just over the boys' heads.

The wharfie called out, 'G'day boys. You're schoolboys aren't you? I was a schoolboy once. What youse doin' here?

The class nodded at this chap, a world away from Mont Albert  Road Canterbury, One lad apparently explaining that they were schoolboys and apparently not allowed on the boat, and teacher was discussing matters with the captain of the cargo ship.

'School boys', mused the grarled figure on the beam. ‘I  know a teacher. 'Funny  bloke. Likes a sip or two. His name’s Mason. Do you know Mason.’

‘Sure’ replied a boy , ‘He's a teacher at our school'.

'Bloody hell! Mason!'

The Wharfie stood up on his boom and cried out, "Hey Captain. Let the kids on board or we're all out!'

What we all appreciate is that that tale could not be told of any person here... but no-one here would for a moment doubt the veracity of that story, or be surprised that its subject was that magnetic personality, lan Mason.

Only once, during his student years at CGS, did my son, Andrew, ask if I could place him in a particular class. Having had !an as his Year 10 English teacher, he asked if he could go into his class in Year 12.

'Why?' I asked.

'Well, Andrew replied, 'He'll make me work really hard with no excuses... and he's the funniest man I've ever met.'

These two qualities exemplified lan. With the minimum of fuss, no-one worked harder than lan —there at his table in the common room, later at his desk when we have had offices, by 7.20 each morning. School holidays didn’t exist for Ian. He was there every day – assiduously correcting student work, which was always returned for the next class, writing text studies, preparing exercises and tests, tabulating results, editing Spectemur and The Camberwell Grammarian. Yes he worked hard and demanded others, whether they be students or staff, to do the same.

Following Tony Brown, I was Head of English for 26 years. I simply could not have managed that unwavering task without the support of lan. The English classrooms in the M block are duly named in his honour.

Yet it wasn't simply work that made Ian such an important figure in the school. Once in my early years as a teacher I was struggling sa to know how best to maange a difficult situation. ‘Ask Mase’  advised a colleague. ‘He knows more about boys than anyone else here.’ 

As for 'the funniest man I've ever met'. Well, where does one start? At times one recalls almost incidental moments. While lan would not allow anyone other than his students to enter his classroom, I was able to sneak in occasionally. Some of you will  remember, prior to the advent of photocopies we had a gestetnor machine, where one ran-off light yellow copies of faintly printed material which smelt of methylated spirits. I recall one occasion in my early years going into lan's classroom where the boys were busy doing a test.

One boy came out was a very faintly printed question paper and said, 'Mr. Mason, I'm having trouble reading this'.
'Well, replied, his teacher, with tongue-in-cheek, it is after all a comprehension test.'

We were teaching the Ancient Greek play Antigone, by Sophocles, I came into Ian’s classroom as he was giving the class a spelling test of Ancient Greek names. ‘Oedipus, Creon, Jocasta. Now the playwrights. Aristophanes, Aeschylus, Euripides, Sophocles, Ponyrides.’

'Excuse me Mr Mason', queried one perplexed student. ‘Who was Ponyrides?'
"Oh,  hang on,"  said the teacher. I'm getting muddled. I looked at the
wrong list. These are the things I have to do with my daughter on the weekend, she likes horse riding. Pony Rides!’ Testing. Always testing, and creating hilarity in doing so. All of us here will have a catalogue of stories.

Together, lan and I were teachers of English at Camberwell Grammar School for 110 years. Hence I had the privilege of getting to know that veritable dynamo very well indeed. During that time he deeply enriched my life, as he did that of all present here this afternoon, together with thousands of students, staff and the extended family of Camberwell Grammar School and, yes, even the odd Wharfie.

Vale lan, dear friend.

.

For Jan Deane: 'I just loved to hear her voice' , 'Our Fiery One' by Joel Deane - 2024

5 September 2024, St Brendan’s, Shepparton, Victoria, Australia

Memories.
Like the corners of my mind.
Misty watercolour memories
Of the way we were.

Those are the opening lyrics of Barbra Streisand’s signature song, ‘The Way We Were’.

Jan loved Babs… And she loved that song… And she sang it more than once… And, believe me, she could sing.

Jan had such a powerful voice. She really did.

The first time I remember hearing Jan’s voice was in a production in the 1970s.

I’m pretty sure it was Oklahoma… but don’t quote me on that.

I was just a kid and there was my aunt – up on stage, up in lights – burning the house down with that voice of hers.

The image and the sound of her up there is emblazoned in my memory.

From 1978 to 2014 – opening with Carousel and taking a final curtain call with A Month of Sundays – Jan worked on a string of highly-professional productions for Shepparton Theatre Arts Group, Bendigo Community Theatre, and the Albury Wodonga Theatre Company.

Over those 36 years, she won multiple Georgy Awards and Victorian Music Theatre Guild Awards.

Out of all those stellar productions – too many to list – two stand out because they demonstrate Jan’s versatility – and longevity.

In 1979, Jan played Maria in STAG’s production of The Sound of Music.

Thirty-four years later – in 2013 – she returned to The Sound of Music… but this time played the Mother Abbess in an Albury-Wodonga production – and, according to reliable reports, brought the house down every night.

As I said, Jan had a powerful voice – but she didn’t just use her voice to sing.

As a TV star on GMV6 in the 1980s – she used her voice as the host of The Morning Show to inform and entertain thousands of people across regional Victoria and New South Wales.

As a co-host on 3SR’s morning radio show – she kept using her voice to entertain and sang live in the studio every Friday.

But – professionally speaking – I feel Jan really found her voice when she moved to Bendigo to work as a journalist at 3BO, then the ABC.

I may be biased there. Jan and I both started working in the fourth estate around the same time – in the 1980s.

And, for the uninitiated let me explain, newsrooms can be a bit like a large, dysfunctional family – except your journo siblings are a collection of pirates and bleeding hearts and broken toys… and they play indoor cricket in the office and have the cheek to call your desk the Jan Deane Stand.

The point I’m trying to make is this: journalism is more a way of life than a job – and Jan loved it and excelled at it.

Speaking as a fellow journo – I know my aunt particularly loved her time at Aunty.

She worked in the ABC’s Bendigo, Ballarat and Melbourne newsrooms – before finishing up back at home in Shepparton.

And I was always so proud when I heard her read the news on 774.

Proud because I knew she’d sweated over every fact and figure – not to mention the syntax – and I just loved to hear her voice.

That doesn’t mean I always agreed with what that voice was saying.

You see, I worked as a press secretary for the Labor Party for many of those years.

Interactions between press secs and journos are often antagonistic, but – I have to say – the ABC journos treated me very well back then.

I suspect they were kind to me because I was Jan’s nephew.

I suspect some of the politicians I worked with also put up with me because I was Jan’s nephew.

One of those politicians – Premier Jacinta Allan – called me shortly after Jan’s death.

It wasn’t a perfunctory phone call.

Jacinta remembered Jan very well and very fondly – particularly from her days at 3BO – and was upset that she’d died too soon.

In the interests of editorial balance – which Jan was a stickler for – I should add that Wendy Lovell, the Liberal Member for Northern Victoria Region, also posted a heartfelt message honouring Jan as her friend.

Jan certainly made her voice heard in public – but what about her private voice?

Born on October 31, 1953, …

daughter of Patrick and Jean Deane, both of whom she adored, …

sister of Barry, Peter, Ann, Paul, Patrick, Denis, Kay and Margo, …

the second of four daughters and seventh of nine children, …

Jan grew up just around the corner from here – at 15 Oram Street.

Castle Deane is gone now but its front verandah was Jan’s first stage.

You see, 15 Oram Street was a drop punt from Deakin Reserve. That meant hundreds of footy fans walked past the Deane’s front yard after a Saturday game.

Twelve-year-old Jan – with Kay and Margo singing backup – made the most of this captive audience, belting out a medley of Beatles tunes.

Jan was also a diligent student at St Brendan’s Primary and Sacred Heart College – she loved French poetry – but she and Kay did cause a minor scandal when they sang the Beatles’ ‘Let It Be’ during a lunchtime concert.

Apparently, the nuns thought the line about ‘Mother Mary’ unsuitable.

But what was Jan really like with her family behind closed doors?

I think Margo put it best. She called Jan ‘our fiery one’ and ‘a tower of strength’.

Growing up, I saw Jan’s fiery side more than once – but here’s the thing: Jan’s anger was never directed at her many nieces and nephews.

Jan’s anger was almost always about some injustice – some wrong that should be put right – rather than some annoying kid.

I’m not saying Jan was perfect – after all, she barracked for Essendon; which might explain her gift for ballistic profanity – what I am saying is that, within the Deane clan, she was a voice of reason.

I spoke with Jan often in the years after the death of my father, her brother Barry, and she helped me come to terms with that loss – and, in those conversations, she was, as Margo said, a tower of strength.

I know I’m not the only person – within and without the family – to have benefited from Jan’s fiery strength.

And I will never forget something Jan said in our penultimate conversation – after her wonderful 70th birthday bash, before the July funeral of her brother Paul.

We were discussing the factional dynamics of large families when I asked Jan how she dealt with, let’s say, disagreements – and she said to me:

‘You don’t have to agree with someone to love them.’

Wise words from a strong woman.

Perhaps that’s why there’s been such a huge outpouring of love for Jan since she died.

ABC Shepparton and Albury-Wodonga ran on-air tributes. There were articles in The Shepparton News, The Australian and Radio Today. And I’ve spent hours reading wonderful social media posts from dozens of colleagues and friends.

On behalf of Jan’s surviving siblings – Peter, Patrick, Denis, Kay, and Margo – I want to thank everyone for your kind thoughts – and prayers.

Jan Deane had a fierce voice … a funny voice … a forgiving voice … a beautiful voice.

Hers is a voice we will not hear again on this temporal stage – but I believe it is now singing on the spiritual plane.

God bless you, Jan.

For Gladys Hammond: 'Happy birthday, my lovely mother', by Joan Cavanagh - 2019

16 March 2019, Frankston, Victoria

This was delivered by daughter Joan on what would have been Gladys Hammond’s 102nd birthday. It was the day of her funeral.

Dearest Mother I thank you for many things

I thank you firstly for the gift of life and for giving me over 70 years of unconditional love .

I thank you for all those good wholesome meals while growing up including the rissoles- done to a frazzle wiith mountains of cabbage supplemented by tonics like Parish’s Food, Saunders Malt and Cod Liver Oil. (while on the other side teaching the neighbours the intricaticies of choux pastry.)

Thank you for dancing the Charleston down the passageway in our house. The image of your skirt flapping, lovely legs flying, imaginary beads twirling and the fancy footwork will remain with me forever..

Thankyou for the memory of the goodnight kiss smelling of humble Three Flowers Face Powder in early life and fine French perfume in later years.

Thank you for protecting us from the savage goat which was attacking our glass doors when we and you were all ill with measles I thank you for telling us we were beautiful.

Thankyou for teaching me that education is important for women.

I thank you for the enormous personal sacrifices you made to raise and educate us.

I thank you eeking out the few shillings from that tightest of tight budget for my piano lessons.

Thank you for understanding my separation anxiety and taking me (and only me) on what was to be your child-free holiday to Queensland with Dad.

Thank you for the times you shepherded four small children onto public transport to visit the Museum, Art Gallery or Botanical Gardens but perhaps not for the time you put us in the train carriage then dashed to the loo and the train went without you. Thankfully our screams were heard.

I owe to you my love of flowers and gardening, of animals and of nature, of music, literature, theatre,and film. (Just as you had the experience as a child of seeing Anna Pavlova dance, so you took me as a young girl to see Dame Margot Fonteyn)

I thank you for the experience of having a mother who always saw the best in people and who had the ability to rise above adversity. You could easily have despaired at your lot and perhaps you did this privately at times.

I thank you for mirroring my joy when receiving the news of my pregnancies and at the birth of my children and for being a loving grandmother to them. I laugh when I recall my phone call to tell you that Adam was on the way after a couple of years of marriage and you saying ” Oh Joan, thank goodness. I thought you were too thin”.

I smile when I think of your trips to Melbourne having the pleasure of the purchase but returning it when reality hit. This was much to the chagrin of our father.

I thank you for the example of friendship. You had friendships that spanned more than 65 years – with Wynne, Ethel and Betty Knight. I watched your friendship with Betty Thompson nurtured through letters that went back and forth between Brim and Ferntree Gully, chatty epistles that outlined the daily rhythms of both your lives.

Thank you for teaching me the importance of community- you lived this example until you could physically no longer do it. Always participating in events including the local flower show ( where you won first prize for your floral arrangement), to being an active member of the Ladies Guild and church community and many other community activities in FTG and Frankston.

I thank you for your generosity- not just to me but to everybody including every charity that sent a self addressed envelope! I recall you saying that Mr Grey from the Cancer Council had written to appeal to you personally for help.

I have in my wardrobe the jacket from your favourite outfit, your Fletcher Jones suit. It fits. I will wear it knowing I will continue to be enveloped in your love. What I hope is that I can also fill your shoes and walk the rest of my life with the same grace and dignity that you did.

Today is your birthday. Happy Birthday, my lovely Mother.

Joan

For Corey Williams: 'Gaze. I got this', by Andrew Gaze - 2024

Honouring Corey ❤️

Andrew Gaze had some very special words to remember his great mate. pic.twitter.com/0hm6Unhase

— NBL (@NBL) May 18, 2024

18 May 2024, Melbourne Sports and Aquatic Centre, Melbourne, Australia

Andrew Gaze eulogy for Corey 'Homicide' Williams

Thanks very much. It's an honour and privilege to be here today to share some time and some thoughts about Corey. And it's one when he'd be looking down on this and be so proud. So proud of the number of people that are here, the turnout and see him. And he'd know I'd be a bit nervous up here and I can hear him saying, 'You got this, Gaze. Gaze. You got this.' And that's the way he was. He had that infectious personality, would light up the room, didn't matter where you were from or what you did, he had a personality that would embrace and would unite.

And for me to see that and learn about him as he went through his challenges, both as a player and a commentator. To see him, the way in which that he would light up a floor, MVP of the competition, the way in which he would antagonise his opponents, the fans, the bravado, the self-belief is something he was born with, and he was infectious in the way in which he extended that out to the larger community.

There's not anyone in this room that's been involved in basketball that hasn't felt that, and also hasn't been on perhaps the wrong side of it as well, because he spoke his mind! And he didn't mind sharing his thoughts. And for me, I can still remember growing up having a love and for Corey and myself and Leonard Copeland coaching the Sydney Kings and playing the Adelaide 36ers and going through, to having a tough one, losing the game, and going through the tape at the end of it and Corey commentating,. And boy, was that an experience.

It's tough when he says 'all the coaches and players should be fired! Get them out of here!' And then the next day you'd run him into him at the airport and he'd give you a hug and give you some love and explain that '! 've got some work to do! And I'm here to motivate you, to make you a better person, a better coach, and better players!'

That's the way he was. And he was so willing to share his thoughts. When he was commentating, it was always going to be a fun experience. You'd go into that to prepare for a game. I'd have my computer, I'd have my notes, I'd have the stats, and Corey would come in with a napkin! A napkin with a couple of notes on there. And I said, 'Corey, you're ready to go here, brother, because we got two and a half hours of TV to do!' And he said, 'Gaze, I got this!' It comes from here and it comes from here. That's the way he rolled. And I got to do that from the commentating booth, and I also got to do that on, he'd come in, Andy Maher and I do a radio show, and he'd come in every week, once a week to share his thoughts.

And when he'd come in there, it wasn't just about basketball that he wanted to talk about. He knew the game, but he loved to share his thoughts on life, on the experiences that he was going through. And this is ... Philly, this was a time before he'd met you, and he was the ultimate multitasker. You'd be sitting there and broadcasting either the commentating booth or doing it in the radio studio. He'd be in the room, he'd be talking, looking at his phone, and you'd think, is he with us? Is he concentrating on what we are doing? And we are having a chat. And out of the blue, he'd come in there with that loud, booming voice and bring that personality that he was renowned for. He'd also, like I said, want to share his time ... with life. And Philly, we were there when you first met and he brought you into the studios at SEN and off air, he came to Andy and I and he goes, 'Gaze, when do you know you found the right one?' A deep question when you're just in an ad break ready to go on the radio. And we talk about it. 'I said, wow, you just got to feel it in your heart.' And he goes, 'gee, I think I've found the right one.' And we are thinking that, well, this is an off air conversation. And then the light goes on and he wants to talk about when we found the right one! And this is a sports radio programme, so we are there and he's there, and he said, 'but you know what Gaze? We all got non-negotiables. We've all got those things in a partner that we can't deal with.' And we go, 'yeah, Corey, what is it? What's your number one non-negotiable?' He said, 'I can't have it when they got cracks on their heels. '

And 'Corey, I know you're talking about maybe the love of your life, the person you want to spend the rest of your life with. I reckon you might have to look past the cracked heels.' Philly, I know you don't have cracked heels because there's no way my man Corey was going to deal with the cracked heels! But that was the way Corey was. He was an open book. He wanted to share his life. He wanted to motivate, he wanted to inspire.

And you learn about the character of individuals when they're faced with the greatest test. Corey was faced with the ultimate test. And to see him, his body weathered, life draining out of him, skin and bones, and to see how he confronted that situation, was nothing short of his continued desire to inspire. He motivated. He wanted those around him to feel better. Even in those darkest, darkest times, he would say, 'I got this.' And I'm looking at him and saying, 'it's hard to believe, but I believe you, Corey', because he had a sense of positivity about his journey and what he wanted to achieve.

You saw in that video, what did he want to become. He wanted his daughter to say, 'there goes my dad'. He wanted his mom to say, 'there goes my son.' He achieved that, and his legacy will live on forever. Thank you very much.

For Giovanna Manna: 'The plain evidence, in those hands, of a long life', by son Santo Manna - 2024

2 February 2024, Montreal, Canada

Giovanna’s son Santo delivered the following eulogy in Italian and English. We will post an all-English version first, and then the bilingual speech below that.

12 years ago I stood before you in this church, on the occasion of my father Pasquale’s funeral.

Today I do the same, on the occasion of my mother Giovanna’s. Their life together was a love story, an immigrant love story, at that.

 You cannot tell his story without telling hers, and vice versa. 

 Their lives were intertwined.

***

They met in Sicily in the mid 1950s – in Santa Lucia del Mela, near where they were born, she in 1931 and he a year later.

She had already rejected several suitors – one of them, as she relayed to my sister, because he wasn’t nice to his mother.

Pasquale was smitten – he proposed to her, and she accepted, but there was one problem – his family was so large, and so poor, that there was no way his parents could afford a proper wedding. 

So, as was his character, he did what he thought was best for his family – he asked her to elope, and leave together for Switzerland to start a new life together.

She was devastated – she had looked forward to a traditional Sicilian wedding, and her bridal dress was ready. 

Yet, she accepted. 

All it took was his beaming smile, his gentle and kind demeanor, and his beautiful blue eyes, for her to take the leap. 

That, and how nicely he treated his mother.

They were married in December 1959, and from then on, they were inseparable.

They lived in Vevey for 7 years, where my sisters were born.  And in 1967 they crossed the ocean to settle here in Montreal, and welcomed me into the world.

And here is where they built their lives and family.

It was not without hardship. 

Soon after arriving in Montreal, they found themselves in dire straits and my dad, disillusioned, starting planning to return to Europe. 

They were saved by the kindness of the Sciotto family, and of my late godmother Biagina, who took all of us in until my parents could get back on their feet, and in whose home on Hurteau I was born in 1968. 

I mentioned it in 2012, and I’ll say it here again, that was an act of selfless love if there ever was one – 10 of us, including 6 kids ranging from newborn to 19-year old, all crammed into that duplex apartment for close to a year.

Tony is here with us today, the last surviving family member, and his presence is a comfort to us.

***

With the rest of my parents’ immediate families still back in Sicily, the Sciottos would  become our family in Montreal. 

And so did the rest of our paesani from Santa Lucia – the Amicos, with whom we spent so many Christmases together,  the Liparis and Salvadores, the Andaloros, Giannones and Boggias, the Rapazzos and Siracusas.

This Messinese community, our comare and compare, were a source of support for my parents and helped them get through the hard times – while creating a loving extended family for me and my sisters.

And my parents reciprocated, always striving to maintain and strengthen the bonds formed within that community, and offering its members support whenever needed.

***

My parents lives were defined by an intense LOVE for their family, and a stubborn resolve to make our lives better no matter what it took. 

And that was obvious, in the way that my mother lived her life.

There was her WORK ETHIC.  To put food on the table, she worked HARD – as a cleaning lady at Place Ville Marie in the 70s, at the button factory in Ville Emard, or later on at El Pro in Cote St Paul making leather purses. 

She worked tirelessly, and they saved every penny, for us.

She was ASSERTIVE.  My dad was a softie, but Giovanna was a tough cookie, fiercely protective of her family and children, and didn’t suffer fools. 

On one occasion, some mean kid down the block hit my sister Nancy – my mom found out and confronted him, and he never dared bother any of us again. 

She was STRONG.  That came from her mother Anna, who would walk miles with heavy sticks on her back in the old country. 

Then there was her sharp intellect and wit, and SENSE OF HUMOR, which she inherited from her father Domenico, who was jovial as can be.  He didn’t just ask my grandmother for dinner, he would say “Piripi Piripo, pesce stoccu vodiu io”.  She had that same gift, and often left us in stitches.

And last but not least, she expressed her love through her CUISINE. 

There were the Sicilian arancini – rice balls, with the mozzarella, Bolognese sauce, carrot and pea filling.

But especially, her famous and delicious meatballs – somehow, she managed it so that the very center of each meatball was juicy and moist.

As a first-born Sicilian son, I was shall we say just a tad spoiled, and my mother doted on me.

At the age of 15, I attended a sweet 16 birthday party, and succumbed to peer pressure and drank beer.  A bit too much unfortunately.  I was brought home and stumbled into the house, with my parents and my sister Anna, now awake, watching.  As I somehow made my way to my room and collapsed on the bed, my mom was next to me the whole way, and she sat down next to me on the bed, with grave concern.  A bucket was nearby for obvious reasons, some retching took place. 

Now my mom was very religious.  And at that moment, I said probably the worst words I should have said to her… “Pregge per me, mamma” – “Pray for me, mom”.

***

 She always had the support of our compare and compare in the close-knit Santa Lucia expat community.

But her rock, the constant in her life, was Pasquale.  They were a team.

Until 2012, when he was no longer there.

My father passed away on April 5th that year, and by September my mother had withered away. 

Not eating, suffering from depression, doubting her ability to go on without him, she had lost her will to live.

Until later that fall, when a little kitten, white with black spots, came into her life thanks to my sister Anna – she named him Bianco, and he gave her a reason to go on.

And she did.  She never went a day without missing my dad, but she managed, kept in touch with family and friends, and enjoyed family gatherings.

For more than a decade she lived alone in the house on Giguere, until the age of 92.

But she was never truly alone.

It was the constant devotion and attention of my sisters, Anna and Nancy, that sustained her, especially as old age started to take its toll. 

I want to recognize them here, along with our eldest niece Sabrina – for all that they did to ensure our mother felt cherished and loved – they acted selflessly, and so often at the expense of their own lives and families.

Now you can start to reclaim your lives, comforted in knowing that you made hers so much better.  You can let go now.

***

Santo with his mother Giovanna

 My mother’s decline slowly set in – starting with Covid, which was so difficult for everyone. 

Then her Alzheimer’s began to take root, and her memory, always sharp and precise, began to suffer. 

Her physical strength, always a point of pride for her, began to desert her.

She suffered from anxiety, and fear set in, including of being alone at night.

When your strengths become weaknesses, when the independence you have known your whole life is gone, you cease being you. 

And that’s what happened to Giovanna – and it led to her no longer being able to stay in her home – she spent the last 10 months of her life in a nursing home. 

It was a nice suburban home in Beaconsfield, and she had all the comforts she needed, but it signaled the beginning of the end.

Her health deteriorated over the last month or so, to the point where she wasn’t even able to walk without great difficulty. 

We brought her to the hospital on Sunday and were given the sobering news that she didn’t have long to live.

We caressed and comforted her, but looking into her eyes, it felt like she was already somewhere else.

I held her hands, and examined them closely – I had done the same with my father shortly before his death, in the palliative care ward at the Montreal General.

There were the creases and wrinkles, the callouses and moles, the scars, all accumulated over the years. 

The plain evidence, in those hands, of a long life – a life of hard work, and sacrifice. 

And the ring they each wore, a reminder of their bond of love. 

A love that endured long after my father’s passing, long after she could no longer clasp his hand, though she prayed for that moment when it would happen again.

Now, her prayers are answered. 

As my niece Sabrina envisioned, they are walking together, hand in hand, on their new journey.

They are in God’s hands now. 

 You can read Santo’s 2012 eulogy for his father, Pasquale Manna here

Here is the bilingual version of the eulogy for Giovanna Manna, 27 January 1931 - 29 January 2024

J.R. De Costa: 'The Deafening Silence', Sermon honouring victims of Viscount Air Disaster - 1978

A Deafening Silence - Viscount Air Disaster - 8 September 1978

Rev J.R. De Costa

8 September 1978, Cathedral of St Mary and All Saints, Rhodesia

This speech was made at the funeral service for the massacred survivors of the Viscount air crash in Hunyani by Rev: JR Da Costa. Air Rhodesia Flight 825 was a scheduled passenger flight that was shot down by the Zimbabwe People's Revolutionary Army (ZIPRA) on 3 September 1978, during the Rhodesian Bush War. Soon after Flight 825 took off, a group of ZIPRA guerrillas hit it on its starboard wing with a Soviet-made Strela-2 surface-to-air infrared homing missile. Thirteen passengers survived the crash landing. Ten of those were rounded up and massacred by the insurgents with machine guns. Three people survived.

Clergymen, I am frequently told, should keep out of politics. I thoroughly agree. For this reason, I will not allow politics to be preached in this cathedral. Clergy have to be reconcilers. That is no easy job. A minister of religion who has well-known political views, and allows them to come to the fore, cannot reconcile, but will alienate others, and fail in the chief part of his ministry.

For this reason, I personally am surprised at there being two clergymen in the Executive Council. It is my sincere prayer that they can act as Christ’s ambassadors of reconciliation.

My own ministry began in Ghana, where Kwame Nkrumah preached: "Seek ye first the political kingdom and all these things will be added to you." We know what became of Kwame Nkrumah. We are not to preach a political kingdom, but the kingdom of God.

Clergy are usually in the middle, shot at from both sides. It is not an enviable role. Yet times come when it is necessary to speak out, and in direct and forthright terms, like trumpets with unmistakable notes. I believe that this is one such time.

 Nobody who holds sacred the dignity of human life can be anything but sickened at the events attending the crash of the Viscount Hunyani. Survivors have the greatest call on the sympathy and assistance of every other human being. The horror of the crash was bad enough, but that this should have been compounded by murder of the most savage and treacherous sort leaves us stunned with disbelief and brings revulsion in the minds of anyone deserving the name "human."

This bestiality, worse than anything in recent history, stinks in the nostrils of Heaven. But are we deafened with the voice of protest from nations which call themselves "civilised"? We are not. Like men in the story of the Good Samaritan, they "pass by, on the other side."

One listens for loud condemnation by Dr. David Owen, himself a medical doctor, trained to extend mercy and help to all in need.

One listens and the silence is deafening.

One listens for loud condemnation by the President of the United States, himself a man from the Bible-Baptist belt, and again the silence is deafening.

One listens for loud condemnation by the Pope, by the Chief Rabbi, by the Archbishop of Canterbury, by all who love the name of God.

Again the silence is deafening.

I do not believe in white supremacy. I do not believe in black supremacy either. I do not believe that anyone is better than another, until he has proved himself to be so. I believe that those who govern or who seek to govern must prove themselves worthy of the trust that will be placed in them.

 One looks for real leadership. One finds little in the Western world: how much less in Africa?

 Who is to be blamed for this ghastly episode?

 Like Pontius Pilate, the world may ask "What is truth?" What is to be believed? That depends on what your prejudices will allow you to believe, for then no evidence will convince you otherwise.

 So who is to be blamed?

First, those who fired the guns. Who were they? Youths and men who, as likely as not, were until recently in church schools. This is the first terrible fact. Men who went over to the other side in a few months were so indoctrinated that all they had previously learned was obliterated. How could this happen if they had been given a truly Christian education?

Second, it is common knowledge that in large parts of the world violence is paraded on TV and cinema screens as entertainment. Films about war, murder, violence, rape devil-possession and the like are "good box-office". Peak viewing time is set aside for murderers from Belfast,, Palestine, Europe, Africa and the rest, to speak before an audience of tens of millions. Thugs are given full treatment, as if deserving of respect.

Not so the victims' relations.

Who else is to be blamed?

The United Nations and their church equivalent, the WCC. I am sure they both bear blame in this. Each parade a pseudo-morality which, like all half-truths, is more dangerous than the lie direct. From the safety and comfort of New York and Geneva, high moral attitudes can safely be struck. For us in the sweat, the blood, the suffering, it is somewhat different.

Who else? The churches? Oh yes, I fear so.

For too long, too many people have been allowed to call themselves "believers" when they have been nothing of the kind. Those who believe must act. If you believe the car is going to crash, you attempt to get out. If you believe the house is on fire, you try to get help and move things quickly. If you believe a child has drunk poison, you rush him to the doctor. Belief must bring about action.

Yet churches, even in our own dangerous times, are more than half-empty all the time. We are surrounded by heathens who equate belief in God with the Western way of life. In many war areas, Africans are told to "burn their Bibles". If this call was made to us, what sort of Bibles would be handed in? Would they be dog-eared from constant use; well-thumbed and marked? Would they be pristine in their virgin loveliness, in the same box in which they were first received?

There are tens of millions of all races who call themselves believers, who never enter any house of prayer and praise. Many are folk who scream loudest against communism, yet do not themselves help to defeat these Satanic forces by means of prayer, and praise and religious witness.

 For, make no mistake, if our witness were as it ought to be, men would flock to join our ranks. As it is, we are by-passed by the world, as if irrelevant.

 Is anyone else to be blamed for this ghastly episode near Kariba? I think so.

Politicians throughout the world have made opportunist speeches from time to time. These add to the heap of blameworthiness, for a speech can cause wounds which may take years to heal.

The ghastliness of this ill-fated flight from Kariba will be burned upon our memories for years to come. For others, far from our borders, it is an intellectual matter, not one which affects them deeply. Here is the tragedy!

The especial danger of Marxism is its teaching that human life is cheap, expendable, of less importance than the well-being of the State. But there are men who call themselves Christians who have the same contempt for other human beings, and who treat them as being expendable.

Had we, who claim to love God, shown more real love and understanding, more patience, more trust of others, the churches would not be vilified as they are today. I have nothing but sympathy with those who are here today and whose grief we share. I have nothing but revulsion for the less-than-human act of murder which has so horrified us all.

I have nothing but amazement at the silence of so many of the political leaders of the world. I have nothing but sadness that our churches have failed so badly to practise what we preach. May God forgive us all, and may he bring all those who died so suddenly and unprepared into the light of His glorious presence.

Amen

For Ben Cordner: 'I will miss your uncontainable zest for life', by Geoff Cordner - 2019

11 February 2019, Macquarie Park, Sydney, Australia

I remember vividly at Ben’s 21st birthday party just a few short months ago, as the speeches concluded, and Linda, Ben, Tim and I, were standing arm in arm facing the crowd, I felt a wave of happiness wash over me that was like something I had never ever felt before.  At that moment I truly believed our life as a family was perfect.  We literally had all that we could ever reasonably have asked for.

Then just over two weeks ago our world changed forever.

But it has changed in ways we could never have predicted.  If you read or watch the news, which we haven’t for more than a fortnight, it is tempting to think the world is going to hell in a handcart.  But our experience over this past couple of weeks has been completely the opposite; there is so much goodness in the world it is impossible not to still have hope.  The support we have received from all of you, and from the wider community around us, has made us realise we are not alone in this – we are all in it together.  And there is enormous comfort in that knowledge, and strength too.

The second very important thing we have learned is that, no matter how much we might have loved and admired Ben while he was here - and we loved him with all our hearts – we never actually gave him all the credit he deserved for the person he had become.

The stories we have been told this past fortnight by so many people about aspects of Ben’s life that we didn’t already know about have swelled our hearts even further with pride, and helped us to more fully understand that the pain we are feeling is shared by so many others.  Because Ben touched so many lives while he was here.

It seemed to me that Ben was as happy this year as I have ever seen him.  All aspects of his life seemed to be giving him so much pleasure.  His relationship with Laura, his relationships with us, with his friends, his University course, his work, his sport.  He was saving money, he was planning for the future, he was looking at the entire world around him with that captivating, infectious smile on his face, and it was smiling back at him from all sides.

I am indescribably sad that Ben has died.  But if we had to lose him, then I am so glad I can carry forward with me the knowledge that he was truly truly happy when that happened, and that his life, cruelly short as it was, really meant something to him, and to all of us.

A few memories that I will always treasure:

The way Ben’s tongue, when he was small, seemed too big for his mouth, so that every word spoken was accompanied by a healthy spray of saliva.

Ben’s laugh as a young boy: now I know I might be accused of bias, but I would argue this was the most joyful sound in the history of the world.

Standing in the kitchen at our house about six years ago in tears after something on the TV had triggered a memory of my nephew Daniel, and having Ben come and hug me long and hard until the tears finally ended, and then a bit longer again, without either of us needing to say anything.

The many wonderful hours Ben and I spent putting together the slideshow for my Dad’s Celebration of Life.

The night we spent at the Big Bash just four days before Ben died.  Tim was away on his bus trip, and Ben and I decided at the last minute to go out to Spotless Stadium to watch the Sydney Thunder play.  I remember sitting with Ben that night at the game and feeling like we were just a couple of mates on a night out; like it was the most natural and comfortable thing in the world to be hanging out with your 21-year old son, completely relaxed in each other’s company. 

Ben I am so glad you got your hair cut very short recently, because I will never ever forget the feeling of stroking it as you lay on that hospital bed during the final hours of your extraordinary life, and the love I felt for you as I did that will never leave me.

Ben I will miss you so much.

I already miss seeing you walk out through the kitchen to the bathroom in the morning, one hand on your phone, and the other hand on your junk

I miss the way you called me Papa Bear

I miss the way you filled in the missing answers for me in the cryptic crossword

I miss your razor-sharp wit, and the cut and thrust of our regular repartee

I miss the way when I used a word you hadn’t heard before – like repartee for example – you would repeat the word, and say “Who says that?”

I will miss standing at first slip while you kept wicket, and having you calm me down when some poor unfortunate misfielded, or dropped a catch

I will miss calming you down when you misfielded or dropped a catch

I will miss hearing you say “How Good’s Cricket”

I will miss the fact that we can never play Fambrose again

I will even miss that permanently messy bedroom

I will miss your uncontainable zest for life

And most of all I will miss that beautiful beautiful smile

I love you Ben, and I always will

Geoff also spoke at Ben’s Celebration of Life event, as did Ben’s mother Linda Cordner. Both speeches are on Speakola.

Geoff writes regularly about his son at his blog The Beniverse, You can check out a post like ‘Batting with Ben’

For Father Bob Maguire: by John Safran - 2023

5 May 2023, Melbourne, Australia

I spent so much time with Father Bob over 20 years, I feel I can auto-generate an A.I. chat between him and me, regarding today.

“Bob, you’re dead. Do you want a state funeral?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Ooh, I’m not sure about the state and the church colluding in matters spiritual. It worries me… I want a Tibetan sky burial, where they take you up the mountain and you’re eaten by the birds”

“Or I could push you out to sea on an iceberg”

“Oh yes, I’d like that”

“But Bob, a state funeral, because it’s such a rare honour, will really annoy your enemies, so it will be like, ‘needless to say I had the last laugh’”

And he’d go “Hmmm, enticing… but still no!”

And then I’d say “You always said, there’s no you and me, there’s only we. And the great we - all the people who loved you - need a chance to come together and say goodbye. And they’re not going to fit on top of that mountain in Tibet”.

And he’d say “Oh go on, have the state funeral. But no flags!”

Bob was like a reverse Native American. He thought his soul would be taken away if a camera wasn’t pointed at him. But it wasn’t because he was vain, it was because he felt such joy, and he knew it provided others with joy, grappling with the important questions of life in an irreverent way. A funny way of being serious, he would say.

While he might have been ambivalent about a State Funeral, he was always interested, obsessed even, with gauging the success, or otherwise of projects he was involved in. Calling me to ask about podcast download numbers, overnight ratings, book sales, follower counts. So, Bob you’ll be delighted to know that the eulogy I tweeted about you, was a blockbuster, my biggest ever, with 400 thousand views, 12 thousand likes. I’ll read it for you Bob, upload it to the cloud you’re no doubt sitting on now:

What was Father Bob like privately? Somehow kinder and funnier than he was publicly. We somehow ‘fought’ nonstop from the moment the record button was pressed in 2003, through documentaries, radio shows and books, right through to filming this year, but we never once fought. More than being kind in broad brushstrokes, he was kind in small ways. When an elderly congregant couldn’t catch the Collingwood matches, he organised tapes from Channel 7 that he would slip to her, along with the Eucharist wafer, during communion. Bob was wise as Buddha. He attracted all manner of outcasts, not all pleasant, but he was open hearted to those people too. I asked him how he did this and he said, “You don’t have to like people to love them.” When filming, it was an editor’s nightmare to cut from the shot before I’d burst out laughing each time Bob finished a sentence. I never thought Bob would ever stop making me laugh, but with the sad news of today, he finally has.

Thank you.

For Edward Kennedy: 'It was our final history trip together', by niece Caroline Kennedy - 2009

28 August 2009, John F Kennedy Library, Boston, Massachusetts

Thank you.

Thank you, Mr. Vice President and all the speakers tonight for the gifts of Teddy that you have given to all of us. And thank you Vicky for loving him with all your heart for so many years, bringing him so much happiness, and to Karin, Teddy, and Patrick, Kiki, Karin, and Caroline for making him so proud, bringing him so much joy. And to Jean, I know you've lost your soulmate because you and Teddy lived each other's lives for your whole entire lives, and all your nieces and nephews are here to help you as best we can

Welcome to this library that Teddy built and brought to life with his spirit and dedication to public service. As many of you know, over the last few years, or really for most of my semi adult life, one of my part-time jobs has been introducing Teddy to crowds of people who already knew him incredibly well.

Although this process was unbelievably stressful for me, it was just another one of the gifts that he gave me. When he saw that I was nervous, he would give me a pat on the back. When he knew that I was sad, he would call up and say, 'I've got a great idea. There's a convention coming up, and maybe you'd like to introduce me?' <laugh>,

And off I would go on another adventure in public speaking, but no matter how nervous I was, I always knew that when I stepped down from the podium, I would get a big kiss and hear him whisper. 'Now I'm going to get you back,' and I can't believe that's not going to happen tonight.

The other night after Vicky called Ed and I went outside. It was a beautiful summer night. The moon had set. There was no wind. The sea was calm and the stars were out. I looked up and there was this one star hanging low in the sky that was just bigger than all the rest and brighter than all the rest, with a twinkle and a sparkle louder than all the others. I know it was Jupiter, but it was acting a lot like Teddy.

His colleagues have spoken tonight about his work, his devotion to the Senate, the joy he took in helping others, his thoughtfulness and compassion, his inspirational courage, and his commitment to the ideals of peace and justice that his brothers gave their lives for, and that he fought for his entire career. In our family we were lucky to see his passion, his self-discipline, and his generosity of heart every single day. He had a special relationship with each of his 28 nieces and nephews, and with the 60 people who called him great uncle Teddy.

He was there for every baptism, every school trip to Washington, every graduation and every wedding with his big heart, his big shoulders, and a big hug. He knew when we were having a tough time or a great time, and he would just show up and say It's time to go sailing. He convinced us that we could ace the next test, make the varsity team win the next race, whether it was sailing or politics, and it was okay if we didn't. As long as we tried our best.

He did it by letting us know that he believed in us, so we should believe in ourselves. He talked by example and with love. He showed us how to keep going no matter how hard things were, to love each other, no matter how mad we got and keep working for what we believe in.

He never told us what to do. He just did it himself, and we learned from his example. Though it was sometimes overshadowed by his other gifts, Teddy was a creative spirit. He loved painting and singing in the natural world and the sea. He was always looking for new ways to bring people together, to make a better world, to get things done, and he was always doing things that other people could have done, but he was somehow the one who did it. This is true in the Senate, as we've heard tonight, as it is in our family,.

So I thought I'd tell you a little bit about one of the less known examples. His creation of the annual family history trips. Visiting historical sites is something anyone can do, but Teddy made it into something special. He realised that a family reunion was wasted if it was just a cookout, so he made it a chance to learn and share the love of history that he got from his mother and honey Fitz.

In my childhood, these trips were relatively simple affairs. An occasional visit to the Nantucket Whaling Museum where Western Massachusetts campaign swing that included the Cranes paper factory where dollar bills were printed, and the studio where Daniel Chester French created the statue of Abraham Lincoln. And no visit to gram's house was complete without Teddy's recitation of the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere. When I was young, I thought Teddy was just entertaining us, but as I grew up, I realised he was passing down his belief that each of us has a chance to change the course of history.

Teddy lived for the future. Now he loved the past, but when a new generation came along, in typical Teddy style, he decided to take it all to a new level. He wanted us all to share his love of being together, his passion for history, and to learn about the sacrifices upon which this country was built, so that we would understand our own opportunities and obligations. He took this on with enthusiasm, and his organisational magic, helped as always by the extraordinary team that are all here tonight and will be working for him forever.

Teddy illuminated the world around us and brought the past to life. The trips were open to everyone, and although there was always some pre-trip moaning and groaning among the teenagers, no one ever wanted to stay home. We visited the monuments of Washington by night and Mount Vernon by boat. We walked the Civil War battlefield of Antideum, Fredericksburg, Manassas, Harpers Ferry, and Gettysburg. In Richmond, we saw the Tredegger Iron Works and the church where Patrick Henry made his immortal speech about liberty. We went to Fort McHenry in Baltimore, Valley Forge and Constitution Hall in Philadelphia. We walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and learned about the Battle of Long Island. But the culmination of this tradition was our trip to Boston. We took a ride on the old Cape Railway and learned about the building of the Cape Cod Canal. On the way to Boston, we went to Plymouth Rock.

When we got here, we visited the USS Constitution, saved by Honey Fitz. Bunker Hill, Paul Revere's house, the old North Church, the Old South meeting house, the house where grandma was born, and the spot where the Irish immigrants came ashore. We toured the Kennedy Library and had picnic at the Boston Harbour Lighthouse.

Although the rule for history trips was that they were day trips only, we all knew that to Teddy, Boston was special. He had a surprise for us, which was that we were going to get the chance to camp out on Thompson Island. He didn't tell us that for most of the year, this facility is used for juvenile detention until after we had set up our tents in the dirt. It was about 98 degrees. The bugs were out. It smelled like low tide all night long, and the planes from Logan were taking off and landing right over our heads. We figured Teddy was trying to teach us something, but after a boiling hot 16 hour history day with 20 children under 10, we weren't quite sure what it was. In any event, that was when Teddy decided that even he had had enough of history, finally, and snuck out under Cover of Darkness on his secret getaway boat, and headed for the Ritz <laugh> Once again, he had it all figured out.

Yesterday, as we drove the same route up from the Cape, I thought about all the gifts that Teddy gave us, and the incredible journey he took. I thought about how lucky I am to have travelled some of that journey with him and with all the wonderful people that he embraced, so many of whom are here tonight. I thought about how he touched so many hearts and did so many things that only he could have done. I thought too, about all the things he did that we all could do, but we just figured Teddy would do them instead.

As we drove through the Boston that he loved and saw the thousands of people who loved him back, I realised that it was our final history trip together. Now, Teddy has become a part of history, and we have become the ones who have to do all the things he would've done for us, for each other and for our country.

For Andrew 'Andy' Smith: 'Cheer, boys, cheer we’re for Melbourne', by MUFC club president Andrew Donald - 2023

25 January 2023, Le Pine Funeral chapel, Essendon, Melbourne, Australia

During the last Test Match, I took a friend from Sydney to the Museum at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. On display were handwritten rules for the game of Australian football and dated May 1859, being the first recorded rules of the game. On Saturday, 28th May 1859, University played St Kilda in our first match with the match reported in Bell’s Sporting Life published on 4th June. Such was his longevity that one half expected to see the words “Timekeeper A. M. Smith Esq.” recorded in the match summary. Although self-evident, such is the esteem in which Andy was and will forever be held, we have called upon our most senior official to deliver this eulogy on our behalf.

Fifty-year celebration

On Saturday 4th August 2012, the Blacks held a luncheon in the old pavilion to celebrate Andy’s fiftieth year of honorary service to the Blacks and to the men’s football programme at the University. That service included occupying nearly every post, including two years as president of the M.U.F.C. in 1984 and 1985, performing a myriad of tasks for Blacks and managing teams in the M.U.F.C. intervarsity programme.

 As one would expect, the luncheon was fully subscribed with attendees from five decades from the halcyon days of premierships in the Victorian Amateur Football Association’s A Section to the equally celebrated premierships in the sections below.

The renowned scribe and keen observer of life, the Black Hack (one suspects a nom de plume) observed in his article published on 9th August 2012, “in any case, my choice of attire for this Saturday gone was a very straightforward affair. It was Andy Smith Tribute Day and a V-Neck pullover was the only way to go. As I packed my tram timetable and handkerchief in order to complete the outfit, I considered all that had occurred during Andy’s 50 year tenure – from wars to droughts, from colour TV to iPhones, from woollen to lycra jumpers – and that if Andy were to have a sav blanc for every year of service he could give you an opinion on all of them.”

A marvellous luncheon was had on a memorable day for the Blacks.

 The universal theme from those speaking on behalf of generations of Blackers was a deep affection for Andy and a genuine appreciation for his tireless work. Of course, Andy’s service didn’t end there and continued for more than a decade and into the 2022 season during which after more than sixty years of service Andy called time on his life as an official and life as a spectator beckoned.

Ern Cropley

Andy was chuffed when, in 2014, the new pavilion was aptly named the “Ernie Cropley Pavilion” after his great friend and house mate of many years, “Croppo”: curator of the hallowed turf for fifty years and described on the M.U.F.C. website as “the most colourful and best-known and best-loved character in University cricket and football circles.”

Blackers’ reflections upon Andy’s passing

 I have been provided with many reflections, a selection of which is as follows:

“A wonderful selfless servant of the club.”

“Andy was there at my first game in Reserves in 2001 and last game 2015.” He loved regaling me with stories of swindles he and my old man got up to at intervarsity games in the seventies. Something along the lines of cash bets and getting the opposition drunk with free booze before the games. I loved his brutal assessments post-match which were delivered with love.”

When letting a Blacker down lightly having missed a mark at a crucial time in a match “Moff, your old man wouldn’t have dropped that.”

“A warm man who made everyone welcome. No one went through our club without being bailed up by Andy for a chat.”

“Heart and soul of the club and part of the old firm along with Jack Clancy who schooled new players on the history and what it meant to play for Uni Blacks.”

 “So loyal and such a supporter of all who represented the Blacks. I rarely got to the Pavvy without a post-mortem and a 3.2.1 of the best and, at times, a 3.2.1 of who shouldn’t be in the best.”

 “My earliest memory of the Blacks was in 2001 after playing a practice match at Williamstown. My first game of football in years, lying on my back after the game exhausted with no skin on my knees and dazed. I am jolted out of my daze when Andy’s dogs are doing a great job at licking the wounds on my knees with Andy standing beside them with a cheeky grin.”

 And I remember a conversation out at C.B.C. St Kilda’s ground in Murrumbeena around 1990 when I was Blacks’ secretary Andy “Can you look after m’dogs, while I time-keep?” Me “Do I have to?” Andy “Yes”

And one final quote which transcends the generations of Blackers and ultimately defines the mood “Part of the Blacks’ furniture who helped make the University Main Oval such a special place for us all.” Such a special place for us all.

The A.M. Smith Perpetual Trophy for the Best Clubman

 Presentation nights represent the finale to a season and provide a serious forum in which serious awards are presented, serious speeches are made, and a club reflects in an earnest manner about the season just completed.

The best club person award is more than an award for significant contribution but is an acknowledgement of the value of the selfless acts of one person for the benefit of others (and the cohort generally) and an appreciation that those acts underpin a club’s very existence.

In the early nineties, the Blacks annual award for the best clubman was changed to the A.M. Smith Perpetual Trophy as a permanent acknowledgement of Andy’s contribution to the life, times and prosperity of the Blacks. To better understand how valuable this work is, it is worth spending a moment on the concept of the best club person. Although awarded on an annual basis, the truth is that usually the recipient has years of honorary service week in week out under his or her belt: managing the teams, keeping the time, field umpiring the reserves, (back in the day) numerous trips to V.A.F.A. HQ to register players, sweeping out the rooms after an under nineteen’s match, spending hours on a Saturday morning preparing for a legendary Blackers’ afternoon tea, sitting in a car listening to a player earnestly express his feelings about his relationship failure of three months.

The list is endless but, in essence, for up to eight months a year, it is assuming operational responsibility for the logistics in deploying more than a hundred players and officials to somewhere in metropolitan Melbourne and dealing with what has now become the complex business of running a community football club especially in a grade where the competition is fierce.

But Andy was not simply an official who came on matchdays, kept the time and went home. He was far more than that. He knew all the players and officials young and old well and was a welcome and active participant in the Blacks’ social life including the famous Black Spot which for many years held top billing on Thursday nights at the Clyde.

Andy’s love of the game of lawn bowls

It would be remiss of us not to talk about Andy’s love of lawn bowls a fact well known to all at Blacks. We enjoyed the fact that it gave him so much joy. We note that the Moonee Ponds Bowling Club was established in 1891 is situated in Queens Park, a beautiful garden, a short distance from here and is noted for having among the best bowling greens in Victoria and priding itself on providing a great family environment to around 150 social and bowling members.

It is a rarity for a person to be a life member of three sporting clubs with the M.U.F.C. (since 1980), the M.P.B.C. and the Carlton Bowling Club now the Princes Park Carlton Bowls Club.

Andy’s health no bar to his support for the Blacks

Over the past few years, Andy had his health issues but that didn’t stop him from attending the footy and expressing his views about all things Black in his usual forthright manner.

Last year, I visited Andy at the Royal Melbourne Hospital. Our salutation was that of two blokes who had known each for a long time as I was allocated to Blacks in 1979. We vaguely nodded at each other. Shooting the Blackers’ and general M.U.F.C. breeze and happily discussing the Blackers’ return to the Premier Division where the Blacks belong, well over an hour passed effortlessly.

As I left, our exchange embodied the idea that the ties that bind are often in what is not said. Me: “S’pose I’d better go” Andy: “S’pose you’d better.” Me: “Good luck with the operation.” Andy: “Thanks”.

Loyalty

In an age of fatuous over-statement, the word “loyalty” gets a fair work-out but one wonders how often its meaning is considered or used carefully. Synonyms are “faithfulness”, “constancy”, “commitment”, “dependability” and “reliability”.

In the mid-nineties when the Blacks were collapsing through the grades, at a low ebb, and where resources were very thin, one A.M. Smith stayed the journey, continued and remained faithful to the cause: constant, committed and dependable. Values which by his conduct Andy imparted to generations of University footballers who have gone onto to lead the way in business, the professions, academia, the arts, science, government and public administration and in professional sport.

Vale Andy

Our condolences to Andy’s family. We thank them for giving us an opportunity to speak.

“Cheer, boys, cheer we’re for Melbourne. Now we’re on the road to victory. We will beat them all round, at our home and any ground” the first lines of the traditional song of the University Football Club and successfully reintroduced into the Blacks after Andy led a long campaign.

And so we say goodbye to a favourite son. Blackers unum et omnia, Blackers one and all.

For Shane Warne: 'That's what humanised him to us', by Nick Riewoldt - 2022

8 March 2022, FoxFooty studios, Melbourne, Australia

That was one of the things, as a kid, about getting drafted to St Kilda. There’s the excitement about, you’re drafted, your AFL career is starting,

I remember it was dad when I got drafted as an 18-year-old that said ‘you know Shane Warne’s a Saints fan?’ And I kinda loosely knew but I thought ‘oh yeah, you’re right! Maybe I’ll get to meet him one day!’ And I think any kid who got drafted to the Saints, that would go through your mind at some stage.

That moment came pretty early for me. We had a BBQ at (ex-St Kilda president) Rod Butterss’ house to welcome all the new players, and there were some board membes there, and Shane Warne was there.

Rod had a tennis court, so the boys got out on the court and everyone was doing their impersonations (of Warne), just hoping that he’d come out, and he did.

As soon as he grabbed the ball there was a fight over who was going to grab the bat, and so Milney (Stephen Milne) somehow won the battle for the bat, and I thought ‘well I’m not silly, I’m gonna go stand behind the stumps!’ So I went and stood in the keeper’s position.

He rolled in, he bowled a leggie, and Milney being Milney, he tried to hit it from Middle Brighton to North Brighton, over the train line. Missed it, I’ve taken it behind the stumps, taken the bails off and from there - here I was, this 18-year-old kid, growing up loving cricket, Shane Warne posters and all of that stuff.

I took off. I ran down the tennis court to embrace him like I’m bloody Ian Healy, and we’ve just won the World Cup! And I think about it now and I actually cringe - what were you thinking?

But just the excitement that he brought to all of the guys that encountered him, knowing that he was a Saints supporter and here was this guy who had achieved everything but somewhere deep down he would love to have actually been doing what you’re doing. That’s what humanised him for all of us.

Patty Hearst: 'Death to the fascist insect that preys upon the life of the people', eulogy for fallen SLA members - 1974

7 July 1974, Los Angeles, California, USA

Greetings to the people. This is Tania. I want to talk about the way I knew our six murdered comrades because the fascist pig media has of course been painting a typically distorted picture of these beautiful sisters and brothers.

Cinque loved the people with tenderness and respect. He helped me see that it’s not how long we live that’s important, it’s how we live.

Gelina was beautiful. She exploded with the desire to kill the pig. She taught me how to fight the enemy within through her constant struggle with bourgeois conditioning.

Gabi practiced until her shotgun was an extension of her right and left arms. She taught me that patience and discipline necessary for survival and victory.

Zoya, female guerrilla. Perfect love and perfect hate reflected in stone cold eyes.

Fahizah was a beautiful sister who taught me to shoot first and make sure the pig is dead before splitting and I’ll always love her..

Kahjoh was the gentlest most beautiful man I've ever known. Neither Kahjoh nor I had ever loved an individual the way we loved each other. Our relationship’s foundation was our commitment to the struggle and our love for the People. It’s because of this that I still feel strong and determined to fight.

Our comrades didn’t die in vain. The pig lies about the advisability of surrender have only made me more determined. I renounced my class privilege when Cin and Kahjoh gave me the name Tania.

While I have no death wish, I’ve never been afraid of death. For this reason, the brainwash duress theory of the pig Hearsts has always amused me. Life is very precious to me. But I have no delusions that going to prison will keep me alive.

And I would never choose to live the rest of my life surrounded by pigs like the Hearsts.

Death to the fascist insect that preys upon the life of the people.

For Gerald Day: 'Dad had all his spring ducklings in a row', by Kristy Day & Alina Warnock - 2022

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,

Of Being, truly alive and connected to All.

Thank you Gerald for all your immeasurable, treasured gifts.

Your example of how to live life deeply has

Lodged forever

in our …Hearts

Minds

and

Spirit

And SO TOUCHED,

US,

ALL.

Gerald Mart Day
10/06/1938 – 01/09/2022

For Bert Newton: 'He cut his 21st cake on television and stayed there for his entire life', by Eddie McGuire - 2021

12 November 2021, St Patrick’s Cathedral, Melbourne, Australia

Thank you to Patti, to Matthew, to Lauren for the opportunity to speak of Bert. And if I can be so bold I’d like speak on behalf of those who worked with him,. who loved watching Bert over a lifetime in showbusinesss as the consummate entertainer,

I have the impossible job of condensing our feelings for Bert and his legacy into 4.5 minutes according to the office of protocol, but as Bert would say, we’re live and I have the microphone so I might go a bit longer.

Albert Watson Newton AM MBE, to Graham Kennedy he was ‘Herby’, to Don Lane he was 'Moonface' and to all of us he was Our Bert.

Today we honour his life with a state funeral and Premier Andrews, Patti has asked and the family have asked for me to pass on their deepest gratitude to you and the state of Victoria for bestowing this honour.

Since Bert's passing there has been recognition of his incomparable compering and performances but what has been underlined from story after story is Bert's amazing generosity of spirit.
On camera, on stage, behind the microphone, Bert Newton gave of himself to make a show work, a segment pop, make his colleagues look as good as they could be, to give everything for his beloved audience.

Friend and colleague Peter Ford was one of the many with stories of Bert's generosity, of his noblesse oblige, ‘to whom much is given much is expected’, and Bert never forgot. Peter told the story sworn to secrecy until Bert said he'd carked it, of Bert hearing of a man dying of HIV/AIDS at a time when sufferers were stigmatised and isolated. Not only did Bert visit and spend hours with every person in the ward but gave the man one of his beloved gold Logies, An amazing gesture, one that lifted the morale of all in the depths of their despair with the only reward being that Bert gave those on their worst day something to remember as their best.

Patti had never heard the story until last week when Peter broke it. It did, however, go some way to solve a family mystery. Bert had won some 36 Logies over his career but the family could only find 17. Suddenly it all made sense.

It was just one of a myriad of stories shared by friends and colleagues and strangers and fans. Sam Newman reminded me of the famous Mr Anonymous speech written by Paul Keys, and delivered by Richard Burton in 1983 in paying tribute to Frank Sinatra, another giant of show business. I feel it articulates perfectly the essence of Bert Newton so to paraphrase: 'Bert was a giant, among the givers of the world he stands tallest. He has more than paid rent for the space he occupied on this planet, forged as he is from loyalty and compassion, carefully hidden, hidden because he ordered it. I appear as the heralder off grateful multitudes who have opened those unexpected envelopes, special delivering answers to prayers, those awakened by late-night phone calls which remedied their problems. Those performers, business people politicians and the sick, down on their luck, who suddenly landed the role they never expected and still don’t know who to thank. And for untold beneficiaries of the caring and kindness of this splendid man, who truly was, his brother’s keeper. And they are legion, those whose lives took a turn for the better, because of this man.’

Bert was such a legend that to be even acknowledged by him was to feel like you'd made it.

When he named his toupee ‘Eddie’, he said at the time I was on everything else I may as well be on his head, I was honoured and gratified, first that he knew who I was, second because I'd become part of his act. But thirdly because it was pure Bert - a punch line, a laugh and a nod of support to his colleagues. We've heard of people getting a segment on his shows, the note of congratulations, a phone call, a text, on your best day but more importantly on your worst, because Bert knew both.

Shakespeare wrote in Julius Caesar that “it is common proof that lowliness is young ambition's ladder, where to the climber upward turns his face, but when he attains the utmost round he then turns his back, looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees by which he did ascend.” The first part is pure Bert. The second is the antithesis. For Bert never turned his back on his people. He joked, he sent them up, he understood them, but was always there for them and he never left them.

But lowliness was his young ambition's ladder. When Bert was a boy, having lost his father age 11, the Fitzroy of the 1940s and 50s was a far cry from the hipster headquarters that it is today. It was one of the toughest parts of the country, it was a notorious slum. So fired by his imagination of what could be, inspired by the Marist Brothers who saw something in this Year 7 boy who had a knack for radio plays, that he walked from his family home to the city, down the very streets outside as a 14-year-old to 3XY.

One year later he was on air, self-taught, self-driven, what he missed in the classroom he learned in the arena of life. Elocution, diction, general knowledge, music, panelling, timing, vaudeville, how to adapt in a fast-changing world, how to interview, how to perform.

He cut his 21st cake on television and stayed there for his entire life. At 84, he was still making headlines with posts on Instagram from his hospital bed. Bert never stopped evolving, never stopped learning, never lost his insatiable appetite for what's new. He was the least jaded old-fashioned performer you would ever meet.

Probably the first performer poached by Channel 9 from Seven, his partnerships have been the most successful and enduring in Australian television history. With Graham Kennedy, they lit up the small screen and would then do an encore performance the very next day on the radio. Bert, the perfect foil for the genius of Kennedy, never there to upstage, always to deliver. Later it would be Don Lane, live crosses to the world, Bert's Wheel, always there was this sense of adventure. As Shaun Micallef said, waiting for the Bert moment that would be the talk of the schoolyard and the workplace the next day, that sense of danger, excitement in a suburban Australia.

But also for us, that sense of pride as we watched "our Bert" match it with the best.

To watch Bert with the likes of Sammy Davis Jr and Debbie Reynolds was to watch kindred spirits riffing out live on TV, unrehearsed, unrestricted and hilarious. In a business known for its enenity and jealousies it was no fluke Graham was best man at Bert and Patti’s wedding, that Don on winning his Gold Logie said, ‘six months at your house, six months at mine pal.’ To watch Bert in his natural habitat at the Logies was a television highlight of the year. How he'd glide onto the stage moving like a dancer, his newly cut suit as he would describe, his patent leather pumps with that air of "I know you've seen all the stars and acts tonight but get ready for this." That mildly amused grin on his face as he readied himself to bring the house down again.

Alongside Bob Hope, John Wayne or an inebriated foreign star it made no difference, Bert either made a performance great or saved the day. As we saw a moment ago, his celebrated sparring with Mohammed Ali was made even more memorable in hindsight by not the so-called faux pas, but by the way Ali realised there was nothing sinister, that Bert was a good man. The Greatest knew greatness when he saw it.

But it wasn’t just the superstars that inspired Bert’s work. He never missed an opportunity. Ali was one thing, Belvedere and Moira, they became household names. Max Morrison, Peter Win, his great friends Pete Smith and Phil Brady, when you were part of Bert's crew, you were there forever.

Bert encouraged so many.

Hugh Jackman said, "By watching Bert I learned how to handle the spotlight with grace, dignity, honour and class."

Rove McManus said, "I lost a mentor and a friend. Our country lost an icon. But most importantly, a family lost their hero and soul mate."

Rhonda Burchmore spoke of Bert being there always with encouragement.

Paul Hogan said he was Mr Television, never took himself seriously but took his job seriously.

Phillip Adams wrote: "Bert is the electronic friend, he is there when you want or need him. Bert is company."

Russell Crowe: "Bert is not about fashion or trends, he's watched them all come and go. He is about intellect, he’s about wisdom born of experience. My life is richer having him as a mate."
Channel 9's Michael Healy said, "Bert was a star."
And Jane Kennedy: "Bert would always support new talent, was up for the gag, he wanted you to succeed."

New Faces' may have been his show, but behind the scenes, Bert lived its ethos.

So Vale, Our Bert, who turned a piano factory in Richmond into television city. The first Melburnian to become the king of Moomba. When the marquees dimmed it was Bert who helped relaunch theatre in this town. He was a star on the wireless and ran the first sports-based radio station. He loved his footy and his beloved Fitzroy and his horses, fittingly passing on Derby Day, the day of the champions.

He sang "It's Time", he looked forward not back. In passing, he has been recognised by the Prime Minister, afforded a state funeral by his beloved Victoria with a flag of his country draped on his coffin, which Patti said he would have loved.

The other constant in his life is the Catholic faith, his funeral here at St Patrick's Cathedral. Last night, the theatres of Melbourne dimmed their lights in Bert Newton's honour.

Seventy years ago, could that young boy have dreamt of what was in front of him? And while there was Bert and Graham, and Bert and Don there was nothing like Bert and Patti.
What a combination. Patti, you shared your husband with us all. Your highs and your lows, your family, Matthew and Lauren, your grandchildren who filled Bert's last few years with love and joy.
There would always have been a Bert, but he was enhanced so much by his Patti. Whether the Gold Logie becomes the Bert Newton award or a theatre, or similar be named in his honour, show business and this city will never be the same.

The young boy from Fitzroy who became a star, then a legend, then an institution and now our greatest memory of the golden years of television. Forever, our Bert.

for John Delaney: "I know you are very proud of the adults we have become", by Anne Delaney - 2020

Anne Delaney's eulogy for her father John Delaney, 22 Sept 2020, Corpus Christi, St Ives, Sydney

22 September 2020, Corpus Christi Catholic Church, St Ives, Sydney, Australia

Hello - Anne here, John & Joan’s 4th child.

Thank you for coming to Dads, (John Delaney’s) funeral mass – I really appreciate your thoughts and prayers today. I am sorry that I cannot be with you all to formally say farewell to dad but pleased to let you know we are viewing from Melbourne, where we are in our second lockdown to beat this horrible COVID-19 virus. "

2020 will be a year that will be remembered for many reasons – but one, The year we lost our “Big John”.
I did explore all options of what I could do, to be in Sydney, but our health, everyone’s health is most important, and I am at peace with my decision to bury Dad at the earliest time available since he passed, so he can finally be reunited with mum.

As most of you know, my relationship with Dad was a bittersweet one... I can honestly say, it was sweeter more often than not, around 97% sweet. Dad loved us all so much, he lived for the family, “his family”, and that is what he installed in all of us kids. ‘Family is key’. He may have had his favourites, just like we have a favourite footy team we barrack for, or a favourite meal we choose for our birthday dinner, or a favourite season in the year... but his love for the six of us kids was equal. Dad was a homebody, he worked hard in his Insurance job Monday to Friday, and then on the weekends... he loved spending time in his home, and in his garden. He had a good sense of humour, he liked a joke or two, but his faith was very important to him – never missing a Sunday or an All Saints Day mass. When we left home, he would test us by asking, Did we go to Church on the weekend?, and if we said “yes”, he would ask us, what was said in the sermon? or what Saints day was during the week?!

Dad was a proud and private man, with sound work ethics and very strong in his beliefs and thoughts. He thought he knew best.... We as adults always thought it was funny, when he would try to give us advice on “how to sell a home?”, “or buying a home?”, so funny, as the only house he ever bought was 30 Apps Avenue, North Turramurra. This was his castle, and he was happy there.... so happy that he did not want to contemplate leaving.

Dad was a strict and protective dad, he did it in a very caring way, we were the neighbourhood kids, that never received bikes as gifts growing up, as he was concerned about us falling off, or getting hit by a car .... which to his credit, he was right! As I was hit riding a friend’s bike when I was 9 years old and ended up in Hornsby Hospital with broken bones.

Dad was a great provider, he cared for all of us well, allowing us to grow up in a loving, safe family home, in a leafy neighbourhood with a pool in the backyard, and attending nice schools. An area, where we have made lifelong friendships, still to this day. Dad what you did provide us all with, was many hugs, too many that I lost count in my younger years.... but that is why I cannot be with you today, as I am a “people person”, and love a kiss and cuddle, and me not being able to hug my brothers or sisters, or my nieces and nephews, and friends, would be too hard... so best I keep my distance. A 900-kilometer distance.
Thank you for the many great years we had you on this earth, as eighty one years of the 84.5 years you lived, you were in perfect health... just the last couple of years we had a few health scares, but you always remained independent and resilient. There were some testing times, where you really pushed my buttons, but I look back and I believe it was me pushing your buttons, to live your life differently or try something new, like join a friendship group, or go to the theatre, thinking I knew what was best for you, maybe a little bossy at times. I know you are very proud of the adults we have become, just like – we are proud of you. How you managed, after losing Joan, our mum at such a young age, being a widower at 53 years young... you coped well, really well.

As mentioned, Dad, loved time with the family, that was when he was happiest.... I will come to Sydney when we are able to travel across borders and without restrictions, and we as a family can have a celebration of dad’s life.

Rest in peace Dad – I love you - love Anne