For Rita Moclair: 'She had to ride 64 miles on the back of the postman’s bike to fetch water from the nearest well', by son John Kelly - 2022

15th February, 2022, St Mary’s Catholic Church, Dunolly., Victoria, Australia

Rita Monica Moclair was the youngest of nine. She grew up in rural Galway in the West of Ireland in the 40’s and 50’s. She and her siblings lived in the toe of an old boot on the side of a boreen. She had to ride 64 miles on the back of the postman’s bike to fetch water from the nearest well and she walked barefoot to school every day in snowdrifts neck deep.

She was doted on as the youngest and loved her siblings fiercely in return. She missed them terribly when she moved to Australia. She is survived by her brother Joe and sister Angela.

Despite obtaining her GCE in Ireland, she returned to high school in Mildura as a mother of 8 and enrolled in a number of HSC subjects, excelling in Australian History which she read avidly up until the time she died.

She worked in London in the 50’s but her work there is still so controversial and sensitive that legislation prevents me from identifying it because- even at a remove of 60 years- Empires could be undone if it were to be revealed.

The 60’s were spent raising the first 6 of her 8 children in Belfast, Athlone and Killarney before moving to Mildura in January 1973 where Joe and Romy were born.

Killarney is one of the most beautiful places in Ireland-McGillicuddy’s Reeks, Innisfallen Island, Muckross Gardens, the Gap of Dunloe, Torc Waterfall and Aghadoe Heights were our backyard. Mum loved it despite the occasionally fractious relationship we had with Mrs Murphy next door who once emptied her house of all its furniture in order to build a wall between our two houses in Upper Lewis Road, dispatching her two young sons to patrol it, yelling insults that have passed in to family folklore such as, “Your ma can’t cook a banana.”

She was homesick and heavily pregnant with Joe when we arrived in Mildura, having spent a fortnight acclimatising to our host country at Mont Park Psychiatric Hospital watching World Championship Wrestling and queueing for soup in the canteen before driving through the Wimmera and the Mallee in a two-car convoy, through drought and dust storms and locust plagues and mice infestations before being delivered to vines and orange orchards and three-cornered jacks and pop-up sprinklers and cacti and bungalows and enervating heat. To console herself she’d play Mary O’ Hara’s Spinning Wheel repeatedly, mourning the old country and the family she’d left behind.

She was a model of resilience her entire life and she soon adjusted. Things took a turn for the better when she discovered an Edward Beale salon in Moonee Ponds and managed to get a decent haircut in the Australia of the 1970’s, notwithstanding that it involved two overnight trips on the Vinelander there and back, covering a distance of 1200 kilometres. In 1981 she supported us by opening a shop that sold religious artefacts, importing crates of tea and fabrics from Sri Lanka. She also managed 17 acres of vines, producing walthams, sultanas and currants for sale.

At the end of that year we piled in to our old Holden station wagon and made for Melbourne with Joe as her co-pilot manually operating the high beam by banging a button on the floor of the driver’s side. Mum supported us by delivering groceries and cleaning at half-way houses before securing work at the ATO where she made friends for life in Ranjanee and, later, Christine. The development of Menieres disease forced an early retirement. City traffic intimidated her when we moved to Melbourne, but within a few years she returned home thrilled with herself for having sailed through a congested intersection whilst blithely eating an apple.

One of the most formidable of her many qualities was the unstinting commitment she had to securing first rate educations for her children despite her inability to fund them. She coaxed Xavier College into taking Tony by reminding it of its core Jesuit charter of caring for orphans and widows. When she was called to Whitefriars to discuss Joe’s sub-stellar academic progress she chided the school for its inability to recognize the rare jewel she had entrusted to it. She auditioned a number of equally prestigious institutions such as Siena, Preshill and Sacre Couer who vied for the privilege of educating her precocious and brilliant progeny. She wouldn’t hear of payment.

She returned to Galway in 1984 and rented a house in Renmore. The Ireland she returned to was not the one she had left and that period was tough, although she was buoyed by the release of The Smiths second single which became a staple of her limited pop repertoire and, amongst her children, her most popular cover, totally eclipsing Betty Davis’ Eyes.

She returned to Melbourne in 1986 and lived in Blackburn before moving to Burwood. The backyard was always full of friends, friends of friends and partners and she was always cooking elaborate meals and consoling Pete’s girlfriends, Pete’s estranged fiancees, Pete’s aggrieved exes and women who were on the cusp of instituting proceedings to enforce their contractual rights against him. She continues to receive letters from one of Pete’s exes who is, apparently, doing just fine and has, like, totally moved on.

She left the city and moved to Timor in 2001. She described these 20 years as the happiest of her life. She lived on her own and committed herself to recreating Monet’s Giverny, a Sisyphean task she was never going to complete. Having complained bitterly in the late 90’s of how, despite raising 8 children of her own, she had not been provided with a single grandchild, a flood of fecundity soon ensued. Rebekah was the first in 2001. We were living in Alice Springs then and mum, Hanny, Pete, Tony and Romy drove from Melbourne in a hired camper van to attend her baptism and deafen her with Territory Day fireworks, a round trip of 4,500 kilometres. Being flown above the red centre by James Nugent remained one of her fondest memories.

Once the flood gates opened, Gabriel, Charlie, Maisie, Max, Frances, Eloise, Lucien, Dan, Raphy, Pippa, Ines, Claudia, Helena, Rita, Michael and Lucinda followed like machine gun fire and she was often glad of the geographical distance she had established. She had a prodigious memory and recalled everything of significance about each of them, their friends, their educations, their hobbies, their interests, their fears and aspirations. Each of them felt seen and understood by her.

She loved travelling and managed to see some of the worlds great gardens in Kent and Normandy and Tuscany and Ubud and Kyoto and Kalgoorlie and Coolgardie and Fitzroy Crossing. All of these were fed into her life’s work in Timor. She was a fiend for gazebos and pagodas and rockeries and Japanese bridges and ornamental totems.

In recent years she had eased off travelling and had stopped driving. She remained formidably curious and physically active, but she was deaf as a post. We, as a family, are deeply appreciative of the care for her provided by her neighbours in Timor especially Maree, the Fosters and Leigh who was entrusted with realising her endless projects.

She was a champion. I can’t believe she’s gone, but she was ready. Physically she had declined, but mentally she was as acute as ever. Living on her own terms was non-negotiable. She valued her independence above everything. She lived for her garden- it was a way of repaying Paulette for her generosity in buying Timor and providing it to her so she could live there on her own terms. Ensuring Gabriel attended the Australian Open was an unflagging priority and she hounded me to secure a ticket to the men’s final for him, insisting I call John McPherson to make it happen. One of the last things she did on earth was to sit and watch Rafa snatch his 21st slam knowing that Gabriel was at the venue watching it live thanks to her intervention.

What lessons do we take from mum’s life? Money comes and goes, it’s not important and shouldn’t guide your decisions. Do what you love and success will follow. Be the first to give. Don’t watch Rafa in the final of a slam. Don’t pray that Novak’s plane crashes. Remember that feelings aren’t facts and that you can compel your limbs and muscles to act rightly in spite of your feelings. Whether you can or cannot cook a banana is unimportant, except to the Murphy’s. Pass on your plum pudding recipes. Don’t get Pete to do the dishes. And by somebody I don’t mean Lovedy.

For Pete Gillies: 'We give God thanks and glory for Pete’s wonderful and productive life', by Andrew Gillies - 2005

July 2005, Aspley, Queensland, Australia

Pete William Gillies 23/1/1928 - 28/5/2004

For reasons now obscure, Pete Gillies was registered as Pete (and not Peter) William Gillies when he was born on the 23rd of January 1928 in Toowoomba to Olive and William Gillies. Olive & William were graziers on the family station “Plainview”. This station was near Dalby and was a large and highly successful enterprise.

Pete did not really get to know much of his father Bill, as Bill died when Pete was only six, and Pete’s only other sibling - Basil was only an infant. Bill had only sisters and Basil & Pete were too young to take over the farm, so the property was split up and sold. Olive and the boys moved to Brisbane’s north east suburbs to be near Olive's family, living first at Sandgate and then at Northgate.

During this time the boys both grew into young men. Pete did his high schooling at BBC graduating in 1945 Eventually Olive and Basil moved to Zillmere and established a poultry farm with some market gardening. By this time however Pete had heard and followed the call to ministry in the Presbyterian church. He first served as a Home Missionary, in numerous areas during breaks in study. Placements included Holland Park, Tambourine Mountain, and Maleny.

During this time he was pursuing his Arts degree and also theological studies. He was ordained in 1953 and accepted his first call to ministry in Innisfail where he remained for 5 years until 1957 when he accepted a call to the inner city Brisbane suburb of Hawthorne.

It was not here but on a church based holiday tour to Tasmania that Pete met a young teacher, Glenda Gillingham, a Methodist from the Sandgate area. A romance flourished and the two were married on the 9th of January 1960. Before long there were two additions to the family. Ian William born in 1961 and Keith Raymond in 1962.

During this period there was a shortage of Presbyterian Ministers in Victoria, and at the General Assembly in Melbourne Pete was headhunted to help fill this shortage. In 1962 he accepted a call to Morwell in Gippsland. Here in 1967, Andrew Peter was born. Just 12 months later Pete accepted a call to Merbein near Mildura in Victoria’s west and then in 1971 to North Altona- Newport in Melbourne’s western suburbs.

Both Glenda and Pete missed their extended family in Queensland, especially after the death of Pete’s beloved mother Olive in 1971. So in 1974 Pete accepted a call back to Queensland and North Ipswich. From Morwell on, all these parishes except for the first year or so in North Ipswich were co-operative Methodist/ Presbyterian and sometimes Congregational. During his time at North Ipswich, Pete’s Brother Basil came to live with the family due to his failing eye-sight.

In 1981, now part of the Uniting Church, the family moved to Camp Hill where Pete had accepted a call to the Coorparoo parish. They were minus one member because Keith had become a cadet announcer with radio 4MB in Maryborough. In 1982 Keith married Helen Carney, which meant that Glenda was no longer the only girl in the family. In 1986 after over thirty-five years in ministry, Pete was unwillingly forced to retire on health grounds.

The family moved to the old farm house at Zillmere which Basil owned. The farm had been subdivided in the 1970s. Pete remained active in ministry in retirement. He did supply at Aspley Parish in the year of his retirement. He also did supply as Chaplain to Prince Charles Hospital in quite recent years. He was never able to become an associate minister despite his strong desire to be one, but this did not stop him. Pete got himself elected as an elder, and was a very faithful visitor.

He loved taking his turn at prayers and readings. At one stage, until the presbytery disallowed it, he got himself elected as a lay representative to Presbytery. Whenever he was asked he would take a service. For almost all of the 18 years he lived at Zillmere Pete organised the Christians in Dialogue ecumenical studies in the Aspley, Geebung, Zillmere area - and this last Sunday was probably the first time he had missed the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity service in all that time. In recent years he did not often get the chance to preach until he was invited to preach monthly for the Crossroads service at New Farm. Despite being largely incapacitated, he managed to do his last service at New Farm on April the sixth, having to catch a number busses there and back.

On Monday the 24th of May Pete was admitted to Prince Charles, for rehabilitation, to get him more mobile. Shortly after admission, Pete had a raised temperature and was placed on an antibiotic drip. On Thursday night he suffered sudden and unexpected breathlessness and heart failure and died the early hours of Friday morning in the cardiac unit of the hospital. These are the bare facts of Pete’s life.

There was however much more to his character. Pete had real determination. You’ve already heard how Pete when determined to do something, like being involved in ministry, could not be stopped. If he couldn’t do it the normal way, he’d find some way around it. In Innisfail, the bathroom was under the verandah & the verandah floor had holes in it. The Session Clerk told him there were no builders available to patch the holes. Pete himself was never a handyman, so he found a builder, got him to do the repairs, and presented the bill to the committee of management.

In these last days when he was confined to a wheel chair or a walking frame, he insisted on paying the paper bill himself. It took him half an hour to get from the car to the counter and back, but he did it. The greatest sign of his determination was the way he never let his many illnesses stop him from doing anything he really wanted to do. From teenage years he suffered from a permanent bronchitis like condition, which hospitalised him at least once. From the time he was a young man he suffered from uneven pigmentation in his skin and had skin cancers removed on a regular basis. In Innisfail he got tropical ulcers in his ears, which probably contributed to his later deafness. From the 1970s on he suffered from high blood pressure. From the 80’s on he suffered from a heart condition and in the mid 80’s he developed bi-polar disorder or manic depression. He also had major bowel cancer surgery and surgery on an enlarged prostate. In the 90s he was diagnosed as borderline diabetic and then with Parkinson’s disease. In the 2000’s it was discovered he had a blocked artery to the brain which prevented him driving, but not getting around - it’s amazing where busses and trains will take you if you’re prepared to use them. In the last twelve months of his life he developed sciatica, which made it very painful to walk.

None of this stopped him, not any of it, apart from the sciatica and only really in this last five weeks. Despite the pain, it didn’t stop him at the start of this year travelling by himself by train to Andrew’s recent induction into the Clermont and Capella congregations. His illnesses did not stop him from being a Rotarian, serving as a board member on multiple occasions, and also as President of the Chermside club, with a perfect attendance record for over 30 years until he reached exemption age. It did not stop him from being an A grade doubles pennant winning champion in church union tennis, in the glory days of the 50s, as well as being the association secretary. He was a keen cricketer, and cricket follower - being a member of the cricketers club and attending countless shield, test and one day games. He was a member of the Geographic Society, the English Association, a Friend of the Ipswich Art Gallery, and loved to attend public lectures on diverse subjects as well as musical and theatrical performances. Most recently he especially enjoyed the BMAC concerts.

On any occasion he could he would go out and also eat out. he loved to be with people. Nothing could stop him. And this list is far from complete.

Not only did he have incredible determination, Pete had a thirst and passion for knowledge. Many people who never met Pete will know his voice and face. That’s because he appeared on numerous television and radio quiz shows. In the early days he appeared on “Information Please” and “Bob Dyer’s Pick-a-box.” He was on “Money Makers,” in all three of its incarnations, the Coles Quiz, Great Temptation, won the major prize on Casino 10, and appeared on three series of Mastermind making it to the quarter finals twice and the semi-finals once. Most contestants did best on their special subjects and less well at their general knowledge - Pete excelled at general knowledge. When trivia nights came into vogue Pete attended every one he could get to and only the most severe of illnesses would stop him. A recent highlight was his appearance on Who Wants to be a Millionaire - he didn’t make it to the hot seat - his reactions were too slow but he got all three questions right.

He was also a keen debater, representing University of Queensland at the national titles, with the team winning that title at least one year. In addition to his BA Pete completed a Grad Dip in Religious Education and qualified for his MA although the thesis never quite got finished. He never tired of learning new things and not just facts and dates, he remembered names and people and all about them for years, often after only the briefest of meetings. He was determined, he had a passion for knowledge and Pete had a passion for justice.

In the mid to late 60’s when Pete was in Country Victoria he joined forces with his Methodist colleague - the Rev. Brian Howe (later to be deputy Prime Minister), to protest against the Viet Nam war. In Queensland he frequently took part in various justice related activities. For the Synod he was Chairperson of the Social responsibility committee for a number of years. For ten years (1971-1980) he was a member of the Labor party. His interest in these areas never flagged, he attended protests, wrote letters, tried to organise English classes for oppressed migrant workers, volunteered as an industrial chaplain, went to information nights and gave donations.

In most houses religion and politics are banned from the dinner table - in our house they were the main themes of most conversations. In our household while salvation was most definitely by grace through faith in Christ, that salvation was to lead to the life of good works for which we were created. Pete held his convictions strongly but he was always open to argument, and could be persuaded to a different point of view if the case was strong and just.

He was determined, committed to justice, had a passion for knowledge and Pete loved his family.

Like most Dads of his era, Pete was sometimes emotionally distant from his children, but he took a real pride in their achievements. Although not a fan of quizzes, Ian takes after his Father in his ability to store and recall knowledge. Pete was very proud of Ian’s success in It’s Academic and Who What and Where, and also in his matriculating and gaining entry to University in more recent years.

He was also proud of Keith’s success in the world of radio and in nabbing a wife. He never stopped encouraging Andrew & Ian in this regard. He was really pleased to be able to conduct Keith & Helen’s wedding. If one of the boys was on the phone he always wanted to speak to us- often at great length. He was very happy that Andrew followed in his footsteps into ministry and liked to show him off when he got the chance.

One of the proudest days of his life was when Glenda graduated with a BTh from the BCT and he went in to bat for her when she was not accepted as a candidate for the deaconate. He always made sure that the boys had all they needed, sacrificing financially to enable Keith to go to a private school and help Andrew to get through Uni.

He loved his family, he was committed to justice, he had a passion for knowledge he had real determination, and Pete also had a passion for the Gospel. In the 50s and 60s Pete was a supporter of and involved in the Billy Graham crusades. As we heard earlier he had a passion for preaching and leading worship. He never really enjoyed RE but taught it willingly. His greatest strength in ministry was visiting. He could talk to and when in pastoral mode, he could listen to anyone. He could gently proclaim the promises of God and was always willing to pray with those he visited. His brief ministry at Prince Charles was deeply appreciated by staff and patients alike. For may years he was a board member and also secretary of CTAQ - because he could see the importance of TV as a medium for presenting the Gospel.

Two incidents relate both his passion for the Gospel, and the central place it took in his life. In what was supposed to have been his final service at Camp Hill, the children’s address was not a moralising sermon, but a simple statement by Pete to the children, that he hoped that they would come to know Jesus Christ as their Lord and Saviour.

The other incident is recalled by Andrew. “I’d gone with Dad to give him some company when he preached at Bald Hills. He began by saying that today was Social Justice Sunday. The old man in front of me groaned. But then he said, but while I’ll be using the prayers for social justice Sunday I won’t be preaching on that today, because it’s St Andrew’s Day. When he said this I groaned - because Dad was always going on about our Scottish heritage, kilts, shortbread, highland dancing, Rabbie Burns, and Dad has a great collection of bagpipe records. But when it came to the sermon, instead of Scottish kitsch, he spoke about Andrew in the Gospels and how he introduced other people to Jesus- his brother Peter, the young boy with the loaves and fish and the text for that day which was the Greeks wanting to see Jesus. He encouraged the congregation to do what St Andrew had done- introduce others to Jesus. ”

Pete William Gillies had real determination, he had a thirst for knowledge, he loved his family, he had a passion for Justice and also a passion for the Gospel. In his retirement speech to Synod, he called on us to be prophetic. Through his life he practiced and so calls us to acts of compassion, and in the sermon at Bald Hills he calls on us to proclaim the Good News of Jesus. The same Jesus who by his love and grace, gives us the foundation for our good works of compassion and Justice. The same Jesus who was the foundation for Pete’s life, faith and ministry.

Like all of us Pete was far from perfect, but we loved him and love him still. We will keenly miss him until in time we will meet him in heaven, where the pain and frustration of these last few months will be healed, and where the life time burden of illness will be lifted. Minister, pastor, prophet, teacher, friend, team member, husband, and Dad, his mark on us will never fade.

And so we give God thanks and glory for Pete’s wonderful and productive life.

For Jade Barker: 'You are loved by all, we are incredibly sad that for a moment you lost sight of this love', by Maree Angus - 2018

25 July 2018, Hobart, Tasmania, Australia

Maree is the mother of Jade

Good morning. Thank you all for joining Jade’s family to celebrate her life. Our thanks also to Jill and the Millingtons for their efforts in ensuring today’s service is just right. Jade would have it no other way.
As her Mum...and her senior English teacher, I am very aware of how eloquent Jade was....and am feeling a little pressured...as I know how well she would have spoken if our roles had been reversed… as we had always expected.

So I’m sorry Jade…I’m not speaking with just a few dot points jotted on a piece of high quality paper, as you would have done… …and I may even read quite a lot…but Jade, know the words come from a place of love…they are from everyone who has reminded me of your strength, your conviction, your passion and your many other skills. A common observation from so many has been how much love and care you have always given to others, we worry that perhaps you didn’t take enough time to care for yourself.

Phil, thank you for allowing me to pay tribute to Jade on behalf of you, Ben and Eliot, Jade’s grandmother Marjorie and her sister Katie, your Mum Leonie, and although he is no longer with us, your father Graeme, Jade’s father Vynn and partner, Chrissie, my partner, Denis and each of our extended families.

As Phil and I have discussed, Jade’s passing cannot define the life of a wife and Mum, a granddaughter, a daughter and daughter in law, a sister and sister in law, a niece, a work colleague, a volunteer and a friend. As each of you know, Jade was so much more than the darkness that has sometimes overcome her throughout her life and obviously became too much for her to bear last week.

I’m sure since losing Jade, we have all reflected on our times with her, the fun, the discussions…ok ..discussion may be an euphemism for heated arguments about issues and causes Jade passionately believed in… the placards…the marches… the great food…the themed parties...the quirky costumes, the black tie fundraising balls …the dress up nights… and the very, very clever facebook posts that we all read and loved ...and wished we could emulate.

Some of you have probably seen or received one of her beautifully bound holiday organiser booklets…each day carefully planned, costed and timed ….Lonely Planet Guides don’t hold a torch to Jade’s productions. You may even have been with her in October or April and had to try to explain what to do with the clock when we changed to or from daylight savings…for a very bright women, she never quite understood THAT concept… You may have once mentioned to Jade that you needed help to organise something…and then found that a few days later she had not only organised everything for you… she had also provided you with a colour coded manual to ensure everything ran smoothly. ….and even if you haven’t been there in person, I’m sure you have at least seen a photo of the Barker/Millhouse clan in their Christmas outfits…although I’m still not 100% convinced that Phil wasn’t the ideas man for that annual tradition.

Let’s not let the manner of Jade’s passing overshadow the joy she bought to each of us. We must hold firmly to our memories ....replay them as often as we can ...and share them with Jade and Phil’s sons Ben and Eliot every chance we have. Because these memories are what really define Jade’s 40 years of living, not the tragedy of last week.

I know many of you have sat at that big timber table at Jade and Phil’s home, enjoying Jade’s amazing cooking topped off by Phil’s decadent deserts. At that table you have been embraced by the love and laughter that their home has always exuded.

Sitting there this week thinking about the many occasions that Jade and Phil had bought together friends and family, I recalled my first memory of Jade preparing food for others.

I was at teacher’s college and came out to the kitchen early one morning to find 6 year old Jade standing on top of two sandwiches...one foot on each. She had got up early...sliced the bread....fairly thickly...and made lunch for her sister, Katie and herself. Even at that young age Jade realised that food made with love needed to also be aesthetically pleasing. She clearly understood that a sandwich 10cm high didn’t quite look right...particularly for school and day care lunch boxes!

However......already solution focussed...tiny Jade had worked out that by wrapping the sandwiches in cling wrap and carefully stepping on them to flatten them out, the sandwiches would be much more appealing. And they were.... Katie had a lovely lunch, Jade’s creative skills in the kitchen were unleashed…and her mother began to buy the sliced bread Jade actually preferred!

It will come as no surprise that although Jade went to a number, at each of her schools she quickly made friends, was elected to leadership roles, joined sports teams, performed in plays and musicals and captained the debating team, competed at regional level in swimming and state level for athletics.
Even as a child Jade was a strong believer in “If I’m going to do it...I’m really going to do it…and I’m really going to do it well”.

Jade was a beautiful swimmer and although the stroke wasn’t pretty at first, she could swim the width of the pool before she turned two. When she returned to the coast to live, Vynn encouraged and supported her swimming and most mornings she would head off to swim training in the dark before school.
Those of you have seen Jade swim will know that the training paid off….particularly if you weren’t quick enough to say that you would “just make a donation” to the cause she was raising money for and had foolishly sponsored her for each lap she swam! Often a very costly exercise.

In addition to fundraising, highlights of Jade’s adventures in the water were swimming with her grandmother, Marj and the Winter Solstice Nude Swim…she loved both! I too love Marj, so can understand the joy of spending time in the pool with her…I’m still unsure of the appeal that nudie swims in the middle of winter this close to the south pole hold.. Perhaps that is just because I’m a mainlander!

When she lived on the Gold Coast, Jade was a coastie …she has always embraced the community she lived in…she wore Billabong clothes, owned the rip curl school bags and loved the beach. The one thing Jade couldn’t manage as a coastie though ...as any of you would know if you have been to the beach or pool or an outdoor activity with Jade...was a suntan… a beautiful shade of very hot pink…no trouble…Jade could become beetroot red simply sitting under an umbrella with a rashie on if the sun was shining.
When she came to western NSW to live Jade again embraced the lifestyle...”if Im livin in the country..Im going to ride horses, muster cattle, catch wild pigs and compete in dressage… and I’m going to be a country girl, I’m going to look the part...in a very short time the billabong and rip curl were gone and Jade was rocking the RM Williams boots, the turned up collars ..the pearls and the Akubra hat. I often wonder if this was the beginning of her lifelong love of dress up!

Kate reminded me that it was around this time that Jade began to really enjoy the challenge of running. Like most kids when they come home from school, Jade’s first stop was the fridge …she would open the door…check out the fridge contents…and then work out how many ks she needed to run before eating. Pavlova was usually a 5 ker across the paddocks…and off she would go. We both obviously cooked too much as Jade quickly became an accomplished long distance and cross country runner.

When Jade left school it was time to travel...she tried Sydney and Melbourne...again...if I’m going to do a city ...I’m going to do a real city...and we got phone calls to say “I’m off to London in three days”....and off she went. Jade lived in London for two years and like most Aussies working in London spent many short breaks doing Europe and loved the snowfields, the shops, the food and the parties. Jade seized these opportunities with both hands and really enjoyed her time working overseas.

Eventually Jade returned to Australia but decided that she would spend time in the West. Ben was born there. She was incredibly proud of Ben and of being a mother. This has never changed. And Ben, I know she would be particularly proud of your courage and of all that you have done in the past week. You and Eliot are a credit to your Mum and Phil, and to your extensive network of family and friends.

Not only is Ben a great son, he was also the impetus for Jade to head east and come home to Tasmania to be close to her Dad and her grandparents.

.....and then along came Phil...and as those clever Facebook posts continually affirmed, Jade had found her great love and with Phil and her sons Ben and Eliot the “best years “ of her life began.

I understand now the romance may have been a little tentative at first…simply because Phil was a very wary of one of his workmate who also happened to be Jade’s Dad, Vynn.

Despite this wariness, Jade and Phil’s romance quickly blossomed and Katie and I were very curious to meet this wonderful man…who was just sooo amazing and sooo amazing with Ben. I’m not sure if you remember, Phil, but we met you at Darling Harbour before you both went to a Powderfinger concert. Den, Katie and I all decided there and then you were a keeper…Jade had obviously already decided that she loved you and that you were a keeper…so you were actually a goner!

The birth of Eliot was another great milestone and Jade and Phil were now a family of four. Ever the romantic, Phil proposed on the beach in Bali…when somehow they had managed to have a quiet walk …not easy when three couples and four kids are holidaying together.

At Jade and Phil’s wedding, the speeches, although written separately by very different people all had a common theme…Jade and Phil’s deep love for each other and for Ben and Eliot, their strong partnership, their tendency to “dress up” and how their very different personalities and interests complemented each other.

Jade and Phil’s strong, loving relationship provided both with the safety net to allow them to step out of their comfort zone and try new things. I know Jade didn’t love the abseiling down the Gordon Dam…I think words like terror and fear were used…but she loved Phil so much that she mastered them…or at least lowered the decibels of her screams.

My favourite photo of Jade and Phil together is when they marched in Mardi Gras. I am sure that prior to meeting Jade, parading down Oxford Street bare chested and in a kilt was not on Phil’s top one hundred…however because Jade wanted him to, Phil joined in…and although it wasn’t on his “to do” list…I now know he actually loved it!! (Phrases like “looking buff and feeling like a rock star” may have been used…I know that was certainly the social media response to Phil’s participation in the march)

We all know that Jade had a very strong sense of social justice. The majority of her career choices and her volunteering have centred on this. Jade not only believed in, she fought and worked tirelessly to ensure everyone was cared for and treated justly. Jade gave up many hours of her time to volunteer on the boards of Women’s Health and TASCARD. She spent countless hours door knocking for the Labor party candidates and organising events to raise awareness and money to fight AIDs, to combat discrimination and to promote not just acceptance but celebration of diversity… to name just a few of her endeavours. Although like most of us, she didn’t support the plebiscite; Jade was overjoyed when the marriage equality act was passed.

Whatever she did, Jade did because she cared. She also did it because she wanted to ensure the world that their sons, Ben and Eliot would grow up in was one full of love, tolerance, equality and respect for everyone.

Jade adored Ben and Eliot …and adored her role as their mother. The boys were an enormous part of her happiest years. Phil and Jade’s house was made a home not just by the love shared between the four of them, but by the physical messages of love and inspiration, the quirky and beautiful personal touches, like the photo books, the carved rocks and the endless cushions. She was constantly thinking of how she could make things better for their sons. Jade generously threw herself whole heartedly into school activities and fundraising and the boys’ many sports. Jade didn’t hesitate to manage the soccer team, be the taxi for the boys and their friends…or host an awesome birthday party for Ben and Eliot. Their holidays whether to Bali or Noosa or Bruny were all planned around what the boys would enjoy. Ben and Eliot were the centre of the universe. Phil and Jade grabbed every opportunity they could to go to Bruny with the boys and family and friends and she loved it there. She also loved social media. I’m sure I’m not the only person who waited with bated breath for the next instalment that provided a window in to the lives of the Big one and the Small one! Ben and Eliot… many people know you well because your Mum loved you so much and proudly shared her joy in all that you did with the rest of the world on facebook.

The messages of condolences all refer to the importance Jade placed on her love of the boys and Phil. Eliot and Ben, Mum loved you dearly and the love you gave to her in return made her incredibly happy.
Phil, Ben and Eliot, this past week has been tough on everyone, but particularly on each of you. Our world has been turned upside down.

We all have many questions that may never be answered. What I do know, and what those of us who have known Jade her whole life know, is that her time with Phil, Ben and Eliot and the “Millhouses” has been the best 10 years of her life. Phil, I thank you for the love, the joy and stability you and your family have given Jade in your time together. I know that you have been told countless times by many people that she loved you, Ben and Eliot . I need to say it again.

In and beyond this room are people who love and care for each of you. Phil, yours and Jade’s warmth, love and friendship have created the village required to successfully raise wonderful young men. We wish we could help ease your pain, and we want you to know that we are all here to help you in the future.

Jade you are loved by all, we are incredibly sad that for a moment you lost sight of this love. We miss you and we love you. We hope that you now rest peacefully.

Jade died on 18 July 2018.

For Neil Alister Turner: 'He always hated that name. Neil', by Matt Turner - 2018

10 September 2018, Perth, Western Australia

Speaker’s note: I am the eldest son of six siblings. My father had invited me to go on his annual fishing trip. He died of a heart attack on the small boat 30kms offshore. It was Fathers' day.

Neil Alister Turner,
He always hated that name. Neil.
Just last week at the Airport, when we were checking in the lady wanted to know who this Neil Turner was?
Dad had to bring out his drivers license and explain the whole story to prove who he was.
He turned to me and said “stupid name - every time I go to the Airport , this is always a fucked up show”

Alister Turner
That was the name of my Dad.
I was proud of my Dad.
Not because he was a brilliant surgeon who changed so many lives.
Not because he was a loving father who brought up a horde of kids in difficult circumstances.
… but because he was good man.

He wasn’t one to show too much emotion.
He hated big dramas and fuss.
He never got angry … well maybe a little bit when his racehorse ran badly.
But he was always there to help no matter what. He just wanted to fix things up and then get on with life.

Growing up he showed me what it was to work hard.
He would get up early, 6 days a week and work all day in a job that not many of us could do.
He never complained and always had time to help us with a costume or a some school project that was always due the next day.

My Dad loved books. He was always reading some crappy crime thriller. He always tried to palm them off to me; I must have 3 boxes of them in my shed.
He even wrote a few of books himself. I think one may be coming out pretty soon.
Seriously … Licorice Lunch. It is autobiographical.
Go out and buy it.
You are probably in it.

I reckon it will probably need one more last chapter added.

My Dad had a swagger about him, like he was almost arrogant.
He thought he was a great dancer. He was actually pretty good.
He thought all the women loved him. Maybe they did.
He said to me one day “I have been working out at the gym Matt. I am feeling really strong. But no matter how hard I train my muscles won’t get any bigger”
If you ever saw my Dad in shorts you would know he had legs like a crayfish.
He complained “My calf muscles just won’t grow”
I told him “ You are nearly 80 years old … what do want with huge calf muscles?”

I was lucky enough to get invited along on my Dad's annual fishing trip last couple of years.
The Happy Hookers.
These guys have been going up north for decades. During the day they go out on the boats fishing and at night the play cards and …. have a couple drinks.
Tits Turner, as they called him, was always amongst the winners of best fish at the end of the trip.
He seemed to be able to be pulling up Red Emperors when everyone else was getting catfish.

Recently he has not been as strong as he use to be and struggled to pull fish up from a great depth.
He would turn to me and say “Dan , here you better pull this one up”
As I hauled in a large Coral trout , I would be like ” Geez Dad my name is Matt, Dan is you other son ….the one who would be spewing over the side of the gunnel.”
Sorry Dan.

This year Dad was worried the fishing trip was going to be no good. That nobody would enjoy it.
He thought the accommodation would be crap. The boat would be too small. The weather would be bad and the fish wouldn't bite.
It didn't turn out like that.
The cabin was fantastic, the boat was best ever. The ocean glassed off at high tide each day and the fish were varied and abundant.
Pulling up fish and putting down cans of export with his mates out on the ocean.
I am only speaking for myself but I think that was a perfect way for my Dad to go out.
Dad if you listening “Your journey was a success, it was not a fucked up show…. you nailed it perfectly”

For Roy Taylor: 'Despite his death we have not ‘lost’ Roy', by son Nico Taylor - 2007

28 December 2007, Bowral, NSW, 2007

So, this is Roy’s day. A day we’ll laugh. A day we’ll cry. A day we’ve come together to remember.

But we will not be alone in our thoughts.

Roy has bonds with people far beyond his family's reach. For instance, in the early 90s, Roy’s job meant he was responsible for the livelihoods of many thousands of men and women, and their families. I remember he would come home upset every day he had to let just one of them go. Despite his best efforts, obviously his sincerity did not go unnoticed. And so when he was terminated at the onset of his illness, his farewell party was strictly ‘standing room only’, and the chief of the workers’ union openly wept.

Yes, my father had a remarkable effect on people.

*

No one knows why, but Roy’s health noticeably declined in 1995. We learned much later that his brain was accommodating Dementia with Lewy Bodies—a neurodegenerative disease akin to suffering both Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s at the same time. Simply put, his brain was patiently ‘shutting down’. Over thirteen years Roy progressively lost: his movement, his speech, his rationality, his intellect, and his memory.

But there are many more things Roy never lost.

Roy never lost his sense of humour. I remember countless times over a beer when Dad would turn to me and whisper something he thought funny. I’d look at him to try and catch it, but he’d already be cheekily grinning—so much so, that his eyes would near close. At times I wouldn’t know what he had said, and more often than not, when I asked nor did he. But it didn’t matter. We just sat there and laughed together anyway, albeit for entirely different reasons.

Roy never lost his dignity. I remember years after Dad’s health had declined, a good friend of mine found a children’s maths book on the kitchen counter. Assuming it was mine he said, “Gee Nico, you are not that bad at maths are you!” Unfazed, Dad confessed that the book was his and kindly explained how mental exercises helped preserve the functioning of his brain. Perhaps my mate had learned about Dad’s illness the hard way, but how Dad handled it with such tenderness has stuck with me.

Roy never lost his personality. I remember when Dad mistakenly took some tablets from the medicine cabinet as well as his own. He fell into unconsciousness and didn’t recognise anyone. When I arrived at the emergency ward later that evening he bucked up and quite calmly said, “Oh hi, Nico, it's good to see you!!”. Moments later he whispered to me, “Do look after your Ma and the girls,” as if they were making a fuss over nothing. Overhearing the doctor ask Ma if he should be taken into private health care, Dad leapt up and said, “Shit! And how much will that cost me?”

Roy never lost interest. Dad, Liverpool beat Derby County two-one away from home in their Boxing Day match.

Roy never lost his kind-heartedness. I find it hard to imagine playing a football match without Dad coming to watch. He was ever-present. In the end Dad would invariably travel two or three hours to see me play—on buses, on trains, and on foot. It meant so much to me then, but now those memories of Dad perched on the touchline are among all I have left.

And most importantly to Roy, he never lost the love of his family. We were all there for Dad: through the tumbles, through the trips to the emergency ward, through the stuttering, and through the blank stares—but none more so than his wife, Jan. Whilst I am lucky to have had such a lovely man as my father, it is, in no small part, due to him finding such a strong and caring woman. Much love, Ma. And on behalf of your ‘Roystie’ once more, thank you.

*

Despite his death we have not ‘lost’ Roy; I’m sure we all hold many more treasured and tortured memories of our own. May it be some time before they fade.

N.A.J. Taylor
Bowral, NSW, Australia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This later post from Sandberg was posted 4 June 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11 January 2017, Temple Beth Israel,  Melbourne, Australia

My husband had a magical cape.

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

We were bedazzled, and anything seemed possible.

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

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

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

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

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

We all knew him because he let everyone in.

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

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

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

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

And here are your instructions –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don’t want to be here.

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

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

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

 Barry loved a short Mass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was – according to reliable reports – a tearaway.

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

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

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

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

And he always kept that kid-like quality.

Maybe that’s why he loved cars.

He’d always be asking about your car.

How was it driving?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, Toorak.

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

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

She got out.

The door closed.

We drove off.

“She’s not for you, pal.”

Another example.

One Sunday Joel slept in and missed a bus.

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

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

What did he do?

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

Barry loved his cars.

He loved his boats, too.

But they didn’t always love him back.

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

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

He loved his boats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he loved to see the world in motion.

… needed it to be in motion.

… and he loved to be in motion.

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

Now he is still.

Now he is at rest.

And now he is at peace with God.

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

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

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

John Hutchinson - son

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

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

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

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

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

If you can keep your head when all about you  

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,  

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;  

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

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

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

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

 

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

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

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;  

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

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

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

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

 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

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

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,  

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

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

 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,  

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

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

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,  

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

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

Mandy - daughter

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

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

I have these little snap shots of Dad at:

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

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

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

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

His Story telling was legendary, and often quite long.

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

Demonstrating how to roller skate - zoom zoom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks to all of you who visited him there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter Hutchinson, a great servant and player with Powerhouse FC

Gwennie Hutchinson - wife

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dom - son in law

Thank you Gwennie and all the wonderful previous speakers.

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

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

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

Well he was rather an intimidating figure.

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

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

I thought I could handle myself pretty well.

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

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

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

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

I started Losing touch with reality….

Pete being the great host out came with the port

Things started going downhill

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

I was hitting my straps becoming quite witty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

For when the One Great Scorer comes

To write against your name,

He marks-not that you won or lost-

But how you played the game.

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

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

for Robert 'Arfur' Sublet: 'Time on, final quarter, but this time the siren has sounded to end the game', by daughter Anna Sublet - 2015

11 November 2015, Wattle Park Chalet, Melbourne, Australia

A few years ago, when dad was home alone facing what he felt at the time was a medical emergency, he began to write us an email. He thought his time was up. The subject line was:

Time on, final quarter...

As happened many times with dad, that time he defied the odds and got to play on!

Dad was eternally optimistic about his situation when it came to medical issues. Maybe it was more pure stubbornness or defiance-he was never going gentle into that good night. He certainly wanted to rage rage against the dying of the light. 

He never complained. He didn't bemoan his situation, nor moan about pain. At times he grimaced, as if he were trying to deal with a jolt of electricity to his limbs. Once I thought he was groaning about the antics of us kids, getting progressively noisier and more drunk as we downed another bottle of red. No, he wasn't annoyed at us, of course he never was! He was in pain, but sometimes we hadn't known it. He was permanently of good humour, with a great sense of fun, a wonderful laugh and a love of stirring.

Football, and barracking for Collingwood, was a bond we shared as a family, though mum was the outlier as a nominal Blues fan. Going to the G with dad as a kid was one of those rituals which makes me think of the MCG as a cathedral-a field of drama and endeavour, of high emotions and passions. It was certainly a place of worship. We went throughout my childhood, and I have great memories of sitting side by side on the old wooden benches. Sometimes Arfur would nearly get into some argie bargy with an opposing supporter. Just for the hell of it! I will always remember him yelling, in a guttural mangle : GO COLLINGWOOD!

In 2010, we knew things were bad when Dad wasn't well enough to come to the Collingwood St Kilda Grand Final with us all. Thanks goodness the game was a draw! We were all there the next week to see the Pies bring home their first flag in 20 years. It meant so much to us all that Dad could be there. There are some great photos from that day, though the sad faces belong to Noah and Mark who barrack for the Saints. (Yes, it was a very tough week in our household!)

Growing up in our gorgeous house in Camberwell, I have many wonderful memories of Dad. The smell of mower petrol on his gardening pants, the greasy feel of the fabric, as I touched the trousers, hanging in the shed; the scent of freshly cut grass after he had mown three or four levels of lawn. Him laying bricks to pave an area under the tree, or making a tea-tree fence to shield us from the railway station. That fence is still there.

One of the strong images is of Arfur standing on the back verandah in his undies, smoking one of his many Marlboro cigarettes of the day. Sometimes we took the cigarettes and burned them-he never really got mad at us; he always had more!

When we were teenagers, Dad ran for election as a councillor in Camberwell. He didn't get involved for personal glory, or from ambition. He wanted to preserve the amenity of the area and make a useful contribution. He went to meetings nearly every night, giving his time to constituents. Many years later, I also stood for election to local government in Darebin, along with my partner Mark. We didn't get elected but I know that having seen Dad get involved in local democracy had inspired me.

Some of this spirit goes right back to the Eureka Stockade, where Charles Sublet de Bougy fought for the rights of the diggers. Robert’s Swiss ancestor, Charles, came from a small village called Bougy. He came in search of gold, but found a home instead. Robert's involvement with Eureka's Children was something I was keenly interested in, and we all attended Ballarat marches and museum openings, working alongside Gough Whitlam, who was patron at the time that Dad was heavily involved.

I found an old essay on my political socialisation that I had written at Uni. Here is what I had written about dad:

'Dad...conveyed a strong sense that equality was of paramount importance amongst any group of people. H(e had a) fair, just, anti-selfishness and anti-greed stance...'

When writing about my respect for (or lack of respect for!) authority, I wrote extensively about how little I respected the hypocritical teachers at my school, and also politicians of all persuasions (funny that!). However, I wrote: 

'I have not been totally disillusioned due to the effect of dad's calm and steady, unobtrusive and smooth-running depiction of control.'

Dad didn't force his views and values upon us-he wanted to allow us freedom to explore ideas and beliefs. 

He and mum had been married in the Catholic Church, although he was an agnostic with no interest in adhering to religious belief systems. I always marvelled that he never actively undermined mum's religion; he never said 'that's rubbish' to us as young kids. When he married mum in the church (because he would do anything to marry her!) he made a commitment to bring us up with a Catholic education. Just to say: it didn't stick!  But he was a man of his word. As Pete sings in his song 'what you say, you do.'

Arfur was a man of constant, constant love. It never wavered. He was reluctant to show too much emotion at times, while at other times he let it be clearly seen. He had a great laugh and was great company-he even made connections across language barriers. He had a beautiful voice, and was also a good dancer. He was a loving and funny grandfather, always good for a hug. He has given countless hours of advice and support to all of us, even as adults when we came to him for his solid wisdom. He was so generous with this love and support.

He was also a helpful and encouraging critic, when it came to my writing. I am glad he got to see some of my words published, especially about an issue in which he had a stake of personal family history: the Eureka Stockade. I will miss sharing political observations and discussions with him.

We left for New York when he was fairly unwell but he had been unwell before. He wanted us to go and enjoy my 50th birthday celebration, and I believed he would be fine, as usual, and his time of muddle and complications would be got through as invariably happened.

This time it went wrong. We decided to fly home early when we learned he was not able to receive dialysis. Charlie tells me he raised his arms with two clenched fists when he heard we were coming home. We didn't make it back in time to see him, but I know he heard me when I spoke to him from LA airport. I was so sure he would hang on til we got home, but maybe knowing we were on our way was enough for him. And now, it must be enough for us...

I drank a lot of negronis in New York City to toast my dad. I didn't know we'd never share one again.

Time on, final quarter, but this time the siren has sounded to end the game.

Cheers, to Arfur! Well played.

Robert 'Arfur' Sublet' with his three hildren and the family Valiant.

Arfur and Anna at Rippponlea party.