For Lisa Murray: 'There will never be another Lisa', by Michael Catley - 2016

Is it possible to sum up Lisa’s life in just a few short words? No, it is not. So what should I say about my beautiful little sister? Should I speak of her constant smile and sunny disposition? She kept her spirits high even in the darkest of times and hardest tribulations that she experienced. The death of her beloved baby daughter Madison something she always held close in her heart. Should I speak of her strength of character? The way she took charge in most situations, even as a small child, and led everyone forward towards better times or new places, earning her the nickname “The Captain.”

Maybe I should mention her wicked sense of humour or her great sense of adventure or her everyday joy at the interaction with her customers at work. Perhaps I should talk about her love for everyone she knew, her husband, her boys, her mum and dad, her sister and brother, a genuine, warm, radiant love that we all basked in. The way she ended every call to me with a sincere, “I love you Mike.”

All of these aspects of Lisa and many more combined to make her a unique and wonderful human being. Lisa was caring, kind, energetic and vivacious, filled with life and love and an unselfish need to care for everyone she knew, earning her the love and respect of her peers, her numerous friends and her family as is evidenced here today by all who are present. Although Lisa is now lost to us, she has left behind an everlasting legacy for all of us who she has touched and loved, guaranteeing that she will live forever in our hearts and minds.

There will never be another Lisa and we are all a little poorer now that she has left us. So let us now all try our best to be a bit kinder, a bit more sincere, a bit stronger and a bit more loving just like my beautiful little sister Lisa.

Thank you.

Lisa Murray, 1973

For Peter Sciotto: 'I looked up to him my whole life, and I loved him', by Santo Manna - 2020

28 June 2020, Montreal, Quebec, Canada

New York City based Santo Manna was unable to travel to his home town of Montreal to read this eulogy because of Covid-19. so it was read in his absence by his sister Nancy Manna.

There is a photo that I love.

It is July 1968.

I am all of 10 days old and about to be baptized.

It is the living room of the Sciotto family home, on Hurteau Street in Ville Emard.

I am cradled by my godmother, Biagina, who looks down at me with love. The same love that she showed me all those years until she was taken from us, far too soon, in 1986.

On her left is Peter, her middle child and eldest son – he is 17 years old, young and strong, and with piercing eyes gazing into the camera. His hand gently rests on my little shoulder.

They are impeccably dressed, and their look is solemn – they know they have been honored. Because in our Sicilian tradition, to be a godparent is an honor and a sign of utmost respect.

My parents bestowed that honor because these people, this Sciotto family, showed our family love and kindness when we needed it most. They took our family in when my father was about to take us back to Europe, as we had no home and the situation was dire.

And so the Sciotto and Manna families, counting 10 with my arrival, crammed into that apartment on Hurteau St. for the better part of that year. Think about that – perhaps 1,000 square feet of space, housing 5 adults, two teen boys, and 3 little children. What a sacrifice.

My dad never forgot it, and when he named Biagina and Peter my godparents, he gave me the greatest gift and honor too – because they gave me so much love in my early years, shaped me in so many ways, and I was blessed to be forever bonded with these fine people.

Biagina was a 2nd mother to me – she was wise beyond her years, so eloquent and modern in so many ways. She was always there, always caring and loving, always helping my parents. And the way she helped my parents raise me is the same way she raised Peter, and it showed.

He was aptly named, Pietro, because to me he was like a rock. My father was a rock too, but Peter bridged the gap between the old country and the modern world of Montreal and North America in ways my dad could not. He was a first-generation Sicilian Canadian too, but he had a 17-year head-start on me in terms of how to navigate that, and he gifted me that experience.

I looked up to him my whole life, and I loved him. He was larger than life to me, so strong, but so kind and good, and also playful and funny.

He used to do this thing where he put on a big gorilla mask and, when we least expected it, he’d burst out of a room screaming and yelling. Scared the daylights out of us!

Then there was that one time when I was misbehaving badly, and he made a big show of the police arresting me until I cried for forgiveness – he liked teaching me lessons like that, and I was a spoiled first-born Sicilian son so you can bet I needed it.

So many memories.

I remember his wedding, where I had the honor to be his little ring-bearer.

I remember riding with him in that vintage 1951 green Ford.

I remember spending time with him at the beautiful country house that he and Tony built in St. Sauveur – and that one time when we watched the Northern Lights from the deck, so beautiful.

I remember him impressing us with his feats of strength, like those one-handed pushups.

I also remember him bitterly complaining about how his dad forbade him to go to Woodstock!

He was only 17 in that photo. I was 17 when his mom Biagina fell ill. Both so young and with the world ahead of us. And life marched on for both of us.

I always felt connected with him, even as we spent many years apart. He moved out west, then I moved to New York City. We didn’t speak often. But he was always my godfather, I was always his godson, we were always 17 years apart, and that bond never broke.

I saw him last December – so frail now, with that terrible disease having ravaged him for years. But still with that playful look in his eye. Still Peter.

I love the place where the Sciotto family rests in Cote des Neiges cemetery – it is far back in the cemetery and up a tree-lined incline, and the family gravesite sits alongside the road.

I have vivid memories of going there as a child, on those sad occasions when we laid to rest members of the Sciotto and Amico family.

I have one more reason to go back there now, to that peaceful and beautiful place, because my godfather Peter Sciotto will be there.

He was a rock, and that’s how I’ll always remember him.

Rest in peace, my godfather.

For Jessica Chan: 'Laugh as much as you breathe', by Divya Emanuel - 2015

15 January 2015, Our Lady of Lourdes Church, Singapore

Laugh as much as you breathe
Love as long as you live

These two lines sum up Jessica. She always had a smile on her face, laughed loudly and heartily. She spoke with passion and with such vehemence you wouldn't want to cross words with her. She loved food, friends and family. She was an impassioned Singaporean who showed us, her motley group of friends what true Singapore hospitality was.

She had a fiery temper, loved possessively and dearly and disliked with just as much fervor. She picked her friends carefully, but once inside her circle, it was a very special bond to be wrapped in.

Before I met Jess, our sons who were 6 months old were friends first. Jess used to bring Julian to the Bayshore clubhouse and my mum used to take my son there. While the boys played, Jess and my mum became friends. When my mum left for India, she asked me to go meet this lady Jess. One morning I went to the clubhouse, little knowing I was going to make a friend for life. So, thank you to 2 little boys here, for giving their mummies' such a beautiful journey to experience.

Life with Jessica was one big party. She organized endless events for the group. We participated in Christmas day lavish dinner, Chinese New Year open house, Julian’s birthday bash, Lantern festival, Halloween, all happening year after year. In between all that there were BBQs, trips to Pula Ubin and food trails to explore. She not only loved her friends dearly; she extended that love to our families every time they visited Singapore. If one thing shows in all of this, it was her energy and zest for life. She embraced it and made the best of her very short, young life.

When she was diagnosed with small cell lung cancer early last year in March 2014 at 46, Linda and I sat crying by her side ...she cried with us but by then had sorted this disease in her head. She told us her life had been full & complete and she had no regrets. She married the love of her life, travelled, had Julian her miracle child and lived in a landed house, a Singapore dream. She accepted her fate and felt blessed for the life she had enjoyed.

Jessica's threshold for pain was very low and her wish was to pass away quickly. Unfortunately, her suffering was long and painful. Watching her these last couple of months, was the hardest thing to do.

Her pain is finally over. She was robbed of a full life, and has gone too early from us but as she lays peaceful, I know she's always going to be present among us , dishing out her worldly wisdom because that's what ten glorious years with her has given us - beautiful memories to love, cherish and hold onto.
We will miss you forever Jess .

For Natasha Jones: ‘Such a beauty, such zest for life’, by Riley Jones - 2019

4 December 2019, Memo Music Hall, Melbourne, Australia

Some of you might think of me as a funny bugger, and may have even seen speak at Natasha’s Dad’s funeral back in 2015, where I managed to sneak in some Slovenian swear words and get some laughs. I’m not sure I can manage that today, though.

I’ve actually been dreading this for a long time. Basically, since the day that Natasha received her terribly cruel diagnosis, and if not that exact day then definitely that first week, I’ve lain awake at night, time and time again, wondering about what I might say at her funeral should she pass away. And now here we are, a little over 15 months later.

My thoughts ran the gamut from just angry ranting, to hysterical crying, to just focussing on the positives, to everything in between. I think today we’ll get a mix of all of those.

I should start by saying that we shouldn’t be here. She was only 43.

And apologies in advance to anyone who has survived cancer or who is even just over the age of 43, because I keep thinking: why do you get to live and she didn’t? And that includes me, I’m the sweet age of 46. Here’s an actual example of this thought process from yesterday: why is Moby alive? Nothing against him, by why him and not Natasha? I know Tash wouldn’t want me to feel like that, but she was much nicer and better than I. It’s just not fair. She should still be alive.

But her cancer was horrible, more horrible than I think we realised. In retrospect, I can now see that this was almost a certainty to happen, but we tried to keep hope alive, to try to ensure that she could be with us for as long as possible. And as it turned out, that was nowhere near as long as we expected. None of us, not her, I don’t think even her medical team, expected her to go last Tuesday. Only two days beforehand, on the Sunday, she’d told me that she wasn’t going to die this year.

But it looks like it WAS her time to go, and as I’ve noted in a pretty distressing post on the Tash Tribe on Facebook, she went relatively peacefully, probably unaware of my desperate attempts to revive her. And many people have reassured me that, if she had to choose a way to go, as opposed to the timing, it was almost perfect. She was in her bed, having just had her first shower in days, warm under a blanket in her dressing gown with the love of her life looking over her, caring for her. Her last words were in response to Declan saying “I love you”, and she whispered back “I love you, too”.

And then a few minutes later, she was gone, and all of a sudden, it was just me and the kids left. I must say that, if I didn’t have the kids, I don’t know what I’d do, because there’s a big Natasha-shaped hole in my life, that can never be filled. I’m so lost. I keep wanting to tell her stuff, or watch a TV show with her, and then remember that I can’t. I still can’t believe she’s gone and I bawl my eyes out every day. And it’s only been a week. How can I do this for the rest of my life?

A life that used to be pretty great – only a year and a half ago – and which is now just miserable.
But, there is some light, because Natasha gave me you three beautiful creatures. And even with that, it seems like she was planning ahead and looking after me – which is very Tash. Y’all may not know this, but Xander has been comforting me, quickly coming over and giving me a hug whenever he sees me tearing up, and Elektra and Declan have been wonderful as well. But it’s my job to look after you guys, and that’s what I’ll do. I just worry I’m not going to be as good at it as she was, or anything else she did for that matter. But there are a lot of people in this room who have offered to help me, too.

SO, apart from my kids, I struggle to find any positives in this, but here goes.

The main positive is – she’s no longer in pain. Ever since the chemotherapy started, she required pain medication, and the pain only got worse towards the end. She was willing to endure it to be with her family as long as possible, but now, thankfully, she’s no longer suffering.

Another weird positive is that, once she was diagnosed, I had to step up and do all of the things she used to do, which was an astounding amount. And taking the kids to their dermatologist one day led to discovering that I had a small skin cancer in my scalp – it was benign, but could have got a lot worse. If Tash hadn’t been diagnosed, I wouldn’t have gone to that appointment, and I wouldn’t have had that skin cancer cut out, and then who knows.

Also, thanks to her diagnosis and treatment, I got to spend pretty much every minute of every day for the last 15 months with her, and a lot of time with the kids, too. Much more intense time than we would have had otherwise. And I must thank my work colleagues for being so flexible with us and giving me that opportunity – I don’t know what I’d do without you guys.

And that brings me to another positive, not of her death, but her life - we all got to be with her at some point during her 43 years on this planet. And I think we can all agree that makes us very lucky, because she was amazing.

I guess that makes me even luckier than most, as I was with this incredible woman for 23 years – half of my life, and more than half of hers.

For those of you who don’t know the story, Natasha and I got together 23 years ago in around November 1996. We had passed each other on the stairs in the Union Building at Monash Uni, our eyes had met, and we knew straight away there was a connection. We later chatted at a Union Night, trying to work out if we’d met before, but there was nothing we could pin down, so it just must have been destiny.

And then Natasha introduced me to her friend, Jade, and Jade told us that she had actually had to pull us apart at the Chocolate Ball at the Palace, here in St Kilda, many months before. So it was either destiny, or a drunken pash that neither of us remembered, but it turned out that we had fortuitously each found our respective soul-mate.

She was my wife, lover, travel companion, fellow music aficionado, partner in all things and, most of all, my best friend. We did pretty much everything together and I can confidently say that pretty much every good thing I’ve ever done and every good memory I have – she was there.

I loved everything about her – the obvious stuff that you all loved – her kindness, her smile, her thoughtfulness and generosity. But I also loved weird stuff – I loved her taste and her smell. She used to complain sometimes that she hadn’t had a shower and thus would smell, and I honestly told her numerous times that she had never smelt, never had an unpleasant odour, EVER. I meant that very seriously. It’s a pity the feeling was not mutual… (Let’s just say that she didn’t think my natural, aluminium-free deodorant from Byron Bay was very effective.)

Another thing I loved: her voice. Not just her singing voice which some of you may have heard – she sang like an angel. But her regular voice – I told her that I loved listening to voicemail messages she left, because hearing her voice just gave me a little thrill.

And I loved her feet. Not in a fetish-y way. But her nerves were a bit damaged from the chemo, and something she really appreciated was her feet being rubbed. So I would volunteer every night to massage her feet, and she looked surprised every time, and then happily thrust her feet at me, nearly kicking me in the face, and I would massage her feet and calves for an hour while watching one of our many TV shows that we mutually loved. Because we didn’t have as much alone time together, it was something I looked forward to.

Also, she was super-hot, but we all know that.

Another thing we all know is that Natasha was the nicest person you could ever meet, and so thoughtful. Even when going through the worst things personally, she would think of others.

As a very weird example, she kept suggesting women I could be with after she died, who would be good for me and the kids, and maybe even put up with my comic book movies. Some of her suggestions are in this very room! But I had to beg her to stop thinking like that, and pimping me out to her friends – I was married to her, and I didn’t want that to end, or to even have to think about it. But she was still just trying to look after me.

In that respect, the timing of her passing also seems like she planned it. In particular, she completed her magnus opus – the renovation of our house. She had been driving that for almost two years – getting permits and dealing with heritage issues and so forth, so when she was first diagnosed she asked me, if she died, would I complete the renovation. And I said “no”, because I’m an idiot. But she just went “Right!”, and decided to get it done. And for most of the last year, while she was dealing with everything else, we’ve been living in our partially renovated home. But it was finally completed so that we were able to move back in in late in October. And she loved it, and got to enjoy it for her last month, referring to it as her legacy, while snidely remarking that my next wife had better appreciate it.

She also stuck around just long enough to teach me most of what she knew about running the house and raising our three beautiful kids.

The first day that I drove the kids to a school thing after last Tuesday, Xander said to me “Dad – it’s lucky we’re all so used to you doing this for us”.

So that’s small comfort, but more importantly, the kids also got to have the best Mum ever. She devoted herself utterly to them. She fought tooth and nail to get them into their school, to help them with any health or other issues, to encourage them and drive them to whatever activities they were interested in. She was so proud of you all, even though she might ask you to play outside, or clean up your pig-sty room, you were still her pride and joy. OUR pride and joy. You three are truly greater than the sum of your parts – you’re like Mum, you’re like me, and ultimately you’ll be better than both of us.

There are so many other things I’d like to talk about, if I could go all day. Her love of books and the fact that we were hoping to one day to open a book bar for her to run. Her love of photography – she was so talented. Her love of travel, of course – she’d famously been to 56 countries. Her connection to Slovenia and Australia’s Slovenia: Tasmania. I hope she would appreciate that her coffin is hand-crafted Tasmanian Blackwood. Her dog, Indy, who gave her so much joy. And, of course, her many, many friends. She has SO many friends, and many of them have written very touching tributes to her online and on Facebook. A common thread with all of them is that Natasha made everyone she spoke to, everyone she dealt with, feel special. Because she thought you were special.

So when it came to organising today, I honestly found it too hard to pick even a few friends to speak – it would just always leave someone out, some group out, which is why I basically just went with Myshell to talk about Natasha pre-Riley, and me to try to cover everything post-Riley. But know that she loved you all, individually, and cherished the time she spent with each and every one of you.

Everything about this has been hard, so I want to just quickly thank some people who have helped me and our family through this. (I then went into some personal thank-yous...)

And that brings me to possibly the hardest thing about this service: choosing photos for the upcoming Tribute. How could I fit her life into 80 photos? She’s in so many AND looks great in all them. In the end, I just had to pick a selection from the ones already on my computer, so I know it’s not representative of her whole life. There are numerous trips around the world that are completely missed. But fortunately the booklets you’ve received today include some of those photos plus many others.

Also, I deliberately chose not to have any photos from the last month and a half, when she really started deteriorating.

These photos remind us of Tash in her prime. Such a beauty, such zest for life. A shining star.
I also want to explain the two songs accompanying this Photo Tribute. They’re both by Biffy Clyro, a band Natasha and I saw many times and which we even managed to take the kids to, back in 2014. The first song is called Folding Stars, and it was written by the lead singer when his mother, Eleanor, lost her battle with cancer. It’s very on point and will likely make you cry. The second song is Mountains. This song is a bit more uplifting, but also has a special connection to me and Tash. She bought this picture here for my birthday a few years ago, with some of the beautiful lyrics from Mountains on it. “Nothing lasts forever, except you and me. You are my mountain, you are my sea. Love can last forever, between you and me. You are my mountain, you are my sea.”

For Neill Dunlop: This is all too soon', by daughter Sally Brincat - 2015

21 August 2015, Melbourne, Australia

To my darling Dad, This is all too soon.

I know you didn't want fanfare or photos or fuss, and I hope you will forgive us for doing it anyway. Your life and your adventures deserve to be celebrated. You spent most of your life giving to others and today we give back to you the love and kindness you have shown to us over your life. You touched many people Dad, and today and for the days to come we will remember that.

We miss you terribly. You gave me courage and tenacity (or is that stubbornness?) and you did what great fathers do - you taught me that I could do anything.

I know you were as proud of me as I was to call you my Dad. You were a fantastic father-in-law and grandfather to Lucas and Eden and your little princess will grow up knowing you through our memories of you (and some pretty funny videos we have of the two of you being cheeky together). She's been talking to you on the phone the last few days and telling you about her adventures. I hope she keeps doing that Dad, because she adored you, just like we did. We'll keep making her Vegemite toast just like Grandpa used to.

The blossom trees have bloomed in the week you've been gone and they will forever remind me of you. We are in a million bits. Who will call me 'buttons' now? I love you to the moon and back.