For Philippa Ryan: 'Mum valued literature for the window it offered into people', by daughter Kate Ryan - 2024

20 March 2024, Carmelite Monastery, Kew, Melbourne, Australia

It’s no surprise that, as Jo mentioned, one of Mum’s first jobs was a reader’s advisor because she was a wide ranging and extremely open reader. Despite her genteel air, Mum was not put off by challenging subject matter. In the last few years, my son Rory recommended Irish writer Sally Rooney’s Normal People and she consumed this novel of young adult sexuality, depression and family violence with great attention. Only a few months ago she read Richard Flanagan’s Question 7, a memoir about the strands of chance and history that allowed for Flanagan’s birth, including his father’s experience as a slave labourer near Hiroshima when the atomic bomb was dropped. For her 97th birthday my daughter Honor gave her the actor Gabriel Byrne’s Walking With Ghosts, a memoir of growing up poor in rural Ireland and discovering the transcendence of the stage, as well as revealing Byrne’s struggle with alcoholism and depression. Mum discussed the book in some detail with Honor, delighting in Byrne’s distinctive Irish voice, considering his personality, and admiring the lyricism of his language use.

Going back a bit, I remember Mum describing a family holiday at Dromana, where her adolescent protest and ennui was expressed in a sullen refusal to do anything except read War and Peace, even on the beach. She was fond of black humour in a book – a trait she shared with our father Maurice and passed onto all of us. In the last month of her life I lent her a book called O Caledonia by Scottish writer Elspeth Barker and though she did not have the strength to finish it, we talked about its brilliant sentences. And Mum was not bothered by the fact that, in the early pages, we learn that the heroine Janet was disliked by her parents, and fatally stabbed in a mouldering Scottish castle at the age of 16, an event which – believe it or not – is described with comic verve. Mum loved the characterisation of Janet’s nanny, a tough-as-nails Scot who had ‘a face like the north sea’. She was a big fan, too, of the William books by Richmal Crompton, a funny, ironic children’s series about a chaotic 11-year-old, leader of a gang called the Outlaws. Then there was Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis, a black comic tale about a reluctant history academic steeped in alcohol and extra marital affairs.

Mum loved the anarchic energy of Edward Lear’s poem The Owl and the Pussycat, with its unlikely lovers dining on quince and slices of mince, which they ate with a runcible spoon.

And I remember her delight in reciting an A A Milne poem for children entitled King John’s Christmas, about a king who longs for Father Christmas to leave him a present, but appears unlikely to get one, because he is – apparently – very unlikeable.

The first line is the following: King John was not a good man, he had his little ways, and sometimes no one spoke to him for days and days and days.

Just what King John’s little ways are, is not illuminated, It is in this gap, but also the fact that Father Christmas does, ultimately, take pity on him and deliver one longed-for present - a great red India rubber ball bouncing through his open window at the eleventh hour - that provided the humour for Mum. Humour bound up with an awareness of human frailty and of our propensity for compassion. Frailty that we all have and compassion that we all try to find within ourselves.

Philippa Ryan was Readers' Advisor at the State Library of Victoria, 1950s

Mum valued literature not for its own sake, though perhaps for this too, but for the window it offered onto people. She liked to analyse and discuss each story I published in some little- read literary journal and each made its way onto the section of her bookshelf dedicated to me.

At the age of 95 she read my novel not once but twice, almost certainly the only reader to do so. She said she would discuss it fully after the second reading as she wanted to consider properly the book’s structure and themes. She also seems to have recommended it to everyone in her circle, including her podiatrist.

For many years she was in a book group with her sister Brenda and her great friends Kaye Cole and Faye Courson. Kaye, who was known for strong opinions, would sometimes dismiss a book with little compunction, but I don’t remember Mum ever doing so.

Such willingness to go where a book took her reflected her curiosity, her compassion, her profound interest in people and how they functioned in the world. Books mattered to her, not as an escape from the world but as a way to understand it and those who inhabited it.

In her last days her book pile included Andre Agassi’s Open (she was a big tennis fan), Edward St Aubyn’s novel Never Mind, Robyn Davidson’s memoir Unfinished Woman and Gabbie Stroud’s The Things that Matter Most, a novel about the trials and tribulations of a modern primary school, probably because she wanted to keep in touch with the day-to-day life of her grandson Finlay, who was embarking on a teaching career.

Just before she died I read Mum Tyger Tyger by William Blake, a poem I remember her reciting to me as a child.

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 
In the forests of the night; 
What immortal hand or eye, 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

 In what distant deeps or skies. 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

This seems fitting subject matter. For all her gentle qualities, Mum was a courageous woman who embraced the complexity of life. She was fascinated with the world for what it was – humorous, dark, wondrous, sometimes frightening and often complex – but always interesting.

I will miss her greatly.

For Rosalinda Wearne: 'She was never without a "plan"', by Suzette Wearne - 2023

6 September 2023, Mornington, Australia

While everyone who knew Mum knew she was a force of nature, few understand how she became that. So I want to tell you a bit about how Mum grew up.   

Rosalinda was born in 1948 in Dumaguete, a small city in the central islands of the Philippines. She wasn’t born in a hospital with doctors and midwives, but on a makeshift bed on the dirt floor of a bamboo shack that was her parents’ home. Valeriana, her mother, gave birth to 10 children that same way, including two sets of twins.  

When she was four, Valeriana sent Rose to live with her grandparents in the jungle outskirts of Dumaguete. This was so that Valeriana could cope with her other children, and newborn twins one of whom didn’t survive infancy.  

Mum loved telling us how she traipsed many miles of perilous mountain landscape to and from elementary school every weekday.  

Rosalinda is in the centre of frame

By her own account, Mum was a mischievous little girl. The childhood stories she told had the flavour of a Looney Toons episode set in the Third World. Let me give you an example:  

When she was seven years old, Mum was sitting atop a large carabao (water buffalo) in her grandfather’s rice field, by her own account shouting bossily at her cousins from a great height. Eventually one of Mum’s cousins had enough, and kicked the carabao hard on its rear, causing it to bolt. Mum fell off, landed on her head and passed out. 

On regaining consciousness, little Rose found herself alone in a vast rice patty, with no way to tell how long she had been unconscious other than the fact of the sun setting where it wasn’t before. In a brain scan Mum had in 2017, an area of damage consistent with this accident was discovered. Still it was a story Mum loved to tell, and it finished as all these stories did, with her rambunctious: ‘HA!’ 

Though Mum’s early life was one of great poverty, she never said a bad word of it. She didn’t once complain about the starvation, violence and grief that coloured her early years, and that left an indelible mark on her personality. The one thing Mum exaggerated was her good fortune. Despite being sent away from her mother several times in her formative years, or maybe because of this, she thought Valeriana hung the moon.  

Mum’s father Daniel was a complicated man who died very young in circumstances shocking enough to justify a memoir. Mum used to recall how he would sing to her when he came home drunk of an afternoon ‘Rosalinda, Rosalinda, you are my darling.’ Mum named her accidental third child after her Dad. 

It isn’t fashionable to say this but the religious fervour that has a stranglehold on the poorest parts of the Philippines gave Mum her fortitude, optimism and extremely generous nature. Mum’s Catholic faith shaped her very straightforward worldview. She loved God heaps. All of her life, In any argument, on any subject with any opponent, Mum believed she could establish dominance by citing from memory the books of the Old Testament: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy, Joshua, Judges, Ruth, First and Second Samuel and so on. It was her ‘Checkmate’. 

In 1975, Mum was a seamstress altering clothes from the window of a rented dwelling in Davao when she first clapped eyes on a skinny 30-year-old Australian with a motorbike and a guitar and more than a passing resemblance to John Lennon. In Mum’s eyes this guy occupied a category above that of the world’s most famous rockstar: he was a catholic priest. 

However complicated their union was from the start, Mum and Dad cared for each other deeply. Their love knew no boundaries and it never went away. The first chapter of this love story was passionate and exciting, but also, because of Dad’s commitment to the church and the gossipy milieu in which they found each other, it was a secret. No one knew could know about Peter and Rose but Peter and Rose. 

In 1976 Mum and Dad’s romance was punctured by a pregnancy scare. It was bad timing because Peter had shortly beforehand arranged to return to Australia to convalesce after a stomach bug caused him to lose a huge amount of weight. Before leaving Mum’s side, Dad had asked her to please, when her period came, let him know that she wasn’t pregnant with a Telegram message only the two of them would understand, that wouldn’t give away their illicit love affair. That code was: ‘The Eagle has landed.’ 

 In 1976 Rose’s only way of communicating to Peter across the oceans was via Telegram. A Telegram was a message from one party to another typed out by a third party, that could be read by any number of postal workers. Like a Whatsapp message but with a total absence of privacy and a three-week delay. 

Three weeks went by before Peter received the Telegram, much anticipated albeit with an unexpected message: ‘Peter. The Eagle has not landed. I am PREGNANT. Rose.’ 

Perfect golden-skinned baby Philip Jerome Wearne was born in Cebu in October 1977. Peter and Rose married the following February.  In conversations about their future, Peter asked Rose if she would consider relocating permanently to Australia. He had not finished the question before Rose was zipping up her suitcase and marching to the consulate office, Visa application in hand.  

Always, Mum was on a forward trajectory that makes Bill Gates look lazy.  She was never without a—and this is a word I will forever associate with Mum—‘plan’. Most of her plans were realised because, let’s face it, most involved paving. When we arrived at Gascoyne Court, Frankston in 1990, our new home was a rustic, mid-century cedar-roofed house, embedded in dense native flora and glorious Eucalypts, at the end of a crushed rock driveway. Mum thought it was pangit ka-ayo. Ugly as fuck.  

She achieved dominion by paving every square inch of the front and back yard. To this day it is a monument to one woman’s belief in the potential of the humble brick.  

To save up for this, and of course to send material financial support to her beloved family in the Philippines, she worked like a trojan. She produced a range of products for her market stall and also incredibly well-made bespoke items. If Betty wanted her husband’s recliner re-upholstered by the following weekend, Mum could deliver. Ironing board cover blown out and needing one to match the living room curtains? Rosalinda to the rescue. At the peak of her career, the whole of Victoria knew who to call for any of their manchester needs. How else to account for Mum’s proudest claim that she once sold six chair cushions to Nick Riewoldt’s brother’s wife.  

Mum worked strange hours. Before a weekend craft market she sewed through the night, and at dawn would depart for Shepperton, Dingley, Frankston or Main Street Mornington. On setting up she would put one of her children in charge of serving customers while she slept hidden under decorated card-tables for an hour or two. Occasionally one of her limbs would take the opportunity to flop into public view. A thin brown forearm, or a leg in a parachute tracksuit, a little bare foot with a cracked heel. To be one of Mum’s children was to often feel like Polly or Manuel from Fawlty Towers trying to conceal from a hotel guest something absurd and very funny.  

Wednesday evenings after the Main Street Mornington market we’d share a meal of lumpia and fish and rice, Mum excitedly recounting customer orders, her husband and three kids roasting her and each other without mercy, our laughter spilling into the court.  

Mum was so proud that she could rise to any sewing-related challenge. We thought there was not enough return on investment, and too little recognition of her excellence. But Mum’s sewing gave her joy and purpose until the end.  

Mum endured a lot of racial prejudice over the course of her life. The accent that somehow grew stronger with every passing year made her a target. But she was no one’s fool. Mum thought it was hilarious when a stranger would speak to her slowly and carefully as if she were 5 years old. A true eccentric, one of the weird things Mum used to do in public, at Coles or at the bank, was pretend be (in her words) ‘fresh off the boat’. Why? I don’t know for sure, but it might have to do with the fact that in her later years, more than once, Mum would have a cashier scan all her grocery items before realising she didn’t have her bank card with her. Here, a stranger would step in, offering $30 or to pay for her shopping completely. Mum was awed by the generosity of the average Joe, to people like her.  

In 2017 I got a phone call from Mum. 

‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ 

‘The good?’ I said. 

She said ‘There is no good news, only bad. Vic Roads has cancelled my drivers license.’ 

From then on, Mum caught the bus into Frankston and home again often. But she didn’t own a Seniors MYKI and never paid for a ticket. One day I said to her, ‘I don’t understand how this works. How do you get away with not paying for public transport?’ That incredible smile widened across her face and she said: ‘The bus drivers think I am a ding-a-ling and can’t speak English.’  

Good on you Mum, stickin’ it to the man. 

We create the meaning of our lives through the stories we tell. Rosalinda’s life was no walk in the park but the way she told it, it was a triumph. And it was a triumph. We will continue to share stories that celebrate her character and keep her indomitable spirit alive, as long as there is air in our lungs. 

Mum, I know you got your licence back and are driving around in a van delivering chair pillows, fried rice and pancit. I know you’re beaming with pride about the obstacles you overcame; all your many successes; and what Dad, Phil, Dan and I could only achieve because of the person you were.  

For Margaret Wilson - 'The bells of St Stephen's, tolling for Mum', by Tony Wilson - 2025

8 May 2025, Leonda, Hawthorn, Melbourne, Australia

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I’ve wondered where I might be when the terrible day arrived. I would never have guessed 16000 kilometres away in an Airbnb in Budapest, barely awake but already trying to share a Dave Barry article about his prostate on the family group chat. It was Dad who called, dialing my phone number that has and always will end with Mum’s birthday 10.06.45, and I could tell by the tremor in his breathing that this was it. This was the day. I was cold all over before he started speaking: ‘Tony, I’m so sorry I have to tell you this but your mother, your beautiful mum who we’ve all loved so much, died today.’

Two hours later, Polly and I were in the square in front of St Stephens when the bells started ringing. We stepped into the middle of the square, and the bells just rang and rang and rang. We stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing up at this glorious cathedral, and the deafening cacophony didn’t let up. On and on it went. People began to assemble on the church steps, hundreds of people, but Polly and I didn’t move, squinting into the sun and the spires, faces flushed, tears streaming, and it all continued for nearly an hour. The bells of St Stephens, tolling for Mum.

Look it’s possible they were also tolling for the Pope, who died an hour earlier, but I’m going to say they were for Mum. And although none of us Wilsons are particularly religious, I did picture her at the gates of heaven, and I imagined a carnival atmosphere up there, just a great day to be at the pearly gates. And I thought two things. I thought firstly, there’s absolutely no way my beautiful, kind, generous mother isn’t getting into heaven. And secondly, I really hope she doesn’t let the Pope queue jump.

Of course Mum wouldn’t want me dwelling for too long at the gates of heaven in this eulogy. There’s a reason we’re at a reception centre and not a church. She was raised a North Balwyn Methodist, the eldest of five girls, and lived the tearaway social life you’d expect from North Balwyn Methodists in the 50s and early 60s. Even now, if an organist strays into this place and leans on the opening notes of ‘All People Who on Earth Do Dwell’, the three remaining Voutier girls will leap to their feet, ready for choral action. I’m not even ruling Mum out.

She was so smart, such an academic talent. In Year 7, she won a scholarship to MLC, but her father didn’t let her take it up because with four girls following, it might not be fair on everyone. Later, she graduated near the top of her class at Balwyn High, and went to Melbourne Uni to study Science and a Dip Ed. Teaching wasn’t her first choice, but her father again had strong views, this time that his daughters choose either nursing or teaching. These were the good jobs for girls, he reckoned, and that’s where the Commonwealth funded scholarships were too. Mum actually loved science, loved her science friends, although teaching not so much. A lot of the Year 12 boys at Benalla High asked her out during her teaching training year and she wasn’t a fan of that. She did courses throughout her life — computing courses in the early days of the Logo programming language, horticultural courses at Burnley, somehow fitting it all in between parenting four children. When she thought Sam’s Year 12 biology teacher was missing the mark, she purchased the first year uni text book and taught her the course herself. They got 100%. They got into medicine. Pippa did the same a few years later. Sam gave an amazing speech at Mum’s 75th birthday about women of Mum’s generation and the sacrifices they made. So much of her talent, her phenomenal talent, was lavished on us.

She was a spectacular beauty, and it’s been a running joke amongst her four children that her puny, pretty genes were no match for dad’s pale balding genetic headkickers. We don’t care though. Who wants to be a nine or a ten anyway? It’s character building down in the sixes and sevens. I for one can walk past any building site and nobody ever hassles me.

It also gave Mum things to work on. It was impossible to enter a room without her commenting on my appearance. ‘Do you want me to shave your neck, darling?’ ‘What are you taking for your face rash? Do you think it’s because you’re drinking milk? I think it might be the dairy. Look at your nails! You can’t let them get like that? Do you want me to cut them? Does Tam cut them for you?’

When I applied for Race Around the World in 1998, and made it to the finals, Mum had one of her greatest grooming masterstrokes. ‘I think you should tint your eyelashes’ she said. ‘It’ll work, I promise you, make your eyes seem bigger.’ A day or two later, I was in a salon — yes, we Wilson kids are nothing if not compliant — getting my lashes done. Six months later, me and my long irresistible lashes won Race Around the World. Was it all because of the eyelashes? Well we’ll never know, but, yes, yes Mum, it was.

Mum had her own television moment three decades earlier. In 1969, Dad was playing league footy at Hawthorn and the Sporting Globe and Channel 7 had a Miss Footy competition. The idea was that wives and girlfriends were circled in the paper, and for that glory alone you won you $5, some Dr Scholl’s orthopaedic sandals, a Volutis perm styled by Lillian and Antonio, and dinner at the Southern Cross Hotel. It was also an entry ticket to the Miss Footy Trivia Quiz on Channel 7s World of Sport. Mum’s face got circled but she was initially indifferent. The truth was she already had a pair of orthopaedic sandals and knew absolutely nothing about footy — also, the prize the previous year had been a trip to Mildura.

It all changed though when details of the 1969 prize were released. It was an all-expenses trip to Japan and Hong Kong, staying at the five star Mandarin hotels. The total value of the trip was more than Dad’s annual salary as a teacher. They’d been married two years and neither of them had ever been overseas before.

And so Mum rote learned the history of football, basically the whole lot, from Brownlow Medallists to club theme songs, club presidents, everything. Dad was her tutor and put lists all over the house. I can’t imagine how exciting this must have been for him. His young, beautiful bride whispering John Coleman’s career goalkicking stats into his ear. Mum learned it all, of course she did, and breezed into the last eight, then the last four, only to play out two tense grand final draws with Lyn Grinlington, a young teenage Hawks fan who, unlike Mum, actually liked football. Their rivalry captured the sporting world in the spring of 1969. ‘Beauty and Brains too!’ is one article we have clipped from the Herald. Another went with ‘Quiz Cuties at it Again’. In the end, Mum was simply too good. The winning question was ‘Which Richmond premiership player before the war coached a different team to a premiership after the war?’ The answer I hear you screaming is — Checker Hughes. Mum knew it, Lyn didn’t, and finally, gloriously, they were off to Japan and Hong Kong. Second prize was $50 worth of hair care products.

Between 1971 and 1979 she had the four of us, and she lavished so much love in our direction, it’s really difficult to describe. But she was demanding too. I only have to say words like Suzuki method, and Montessori technique for you to get a bit of an idea. She also convinced pre school Samantha that frozen peas were lollies. Imagine Sam’s surprise when she went to her first birthday party in prep. When Mum picked her up, the host mum said to our Mum, ‘I’m worried she’s going to be sick. She’s had nine chocolate crackles’. Ah Sam. What a moment. It’s hard to go back to frozen peas after copher.

She was also fanatical about restricting television, ‘half an hour a day, that’s it, then homework or reading.’ It was an ongoing espionage battle. Ned was our sentry, listening for the crunch of tyres on gravel when she was coming back from the shops. Sometimes, like a secret agent, she’d attempt surprise attacks, parking down the street and then sprinting in to place hand or cheek again the back of the box to feel if it was warm. If the Stasi caught us watching more than Get Smart, we’d be banned from Get Smart the following night. There were no real winners in this war. When I think about it, it’s an utter disgrace how many series she binged over the last few years. I should at least once have hid outside in the bushes and then jumped out. ‘Mum, no more Bridgeton! Go read your novel!’

Mum didn’t need any motivation to read novels. She was such a prolific reader, the east Melbourne library was a favourite place of hers. Ticking as it did two crucial Margaret Wilson boxes – the ones marked ‘books’ and ‘thrift’.

As a child, she read us everything from Seven Little Australians to The Wind in the Willows to Tolkien. As a teen, she put me onto John Wyndham, Aldous Huxley, JD Salinger, Margaret Atwood, Eli Wiesel, Toni Morrison and Clive James. As an adult she fed me Kate Atkinson, Cormac McCarthy, Kate Grenville, Ann Pratchett, Geraldine Brooks, Christopher Koch, Jennifer Egan and David Mitchell. And so many more, of course. She was never without a book or a reading recommendation. It was the same with the other kids, and the grandkids. She was Margaret Wilson, Mother of Readers. I said in a post this week, my father gave me sport, but my mother gave me words. It’s been difficult to find the right ones now. It’s unbelievable that she’s gone.

She’d even tolerate Macdonalds if it meant we’d read more books. In the eighties, she had a bribery deal going with us. If we went to Balwyn Library to choose new books, she’d allow us the fast food extravagance of a trip to the Maccas that shared the same carpark. One day, we were settling in for the rare treat of a junior burger, when out of nowhere she produced Tupperware containers. And what devilry was this?

They were filled with fresh lettuce, sliced tomatoes, cucumber, sliced cheese. ‘Mum, what are those!’ we hissed. ‘Well — ‘ she said, ‘I think my chopped salad is a fair bit healthier than their chopped salad. And I’ve got a nifty name for the burgers! We can call them Big Mags!

Big Mags. It’s mum’s Abbey Road in her discography of over-parenting.

There are some things I’ll always associate with Mum:

• Stylish clothes

• Fine art

• Bead necklaces

• A mastery of DIY dress ups

• Half finished coffees

• Cross word puzzles

• Tuna mornay

• Chops

• Inadequate sunscreening

• A VTAC insiders knowledge of which VCE subjects get standardised up and which go down;

• Reedy hymn singing

• 3MBS and ABC Classic FM

• Replacement swear words like ‘sheeba’, ‘ruddy’, and ‘blow me down’;

• Apologetic phone calls, ‘I’m sorry are you at work?’;

• Nervous gasps of ‘oh god’ from the passenger seat;

• A love of bargains;

• A desire for two for one surgery – go in for your hip replacement, get your varicose veins done at the same time! It brought untold joy when Harry had his lens columboma and herniated belly button fixed under the same anaesthetic;

• Fine interior decorating and an obsession with things looking stylish. Let’s never forget that Mum made this tasteful grey lid cover for her recycling bin, because she thought the yellow lid was spoiling the ambience of her front yard;

• Hairbrained schemes;

• Scrabble;

• Her hugs at the end of each visit;

• The sense that when I was growing up, I had the best mum – the smartest mum, the most beautiful mum. And it went for dad too. The sense we had the best parents.

None of us were ready for this.

One of the sentences I love most in the eulogy section of Speakola is from Stephen Colbert, whose mother Lorna had eleven children, lost three, lived to 92, and was a supermum on par with our own. In the week of her death he said on his show:

I know it may sound greedy to want more days with a person who lived so long, but the fact that my mother was 92 does not diminish, it only magnifies the enormity of the room whose doors have quietly shut.

The fact is our own Mum’s room could have been so much smaller. I remember I was in the Clyde when I called her in 1993 and she told me that she had bowel cancer with lymphatic involvement. The pub was noisy and it was surreal — a 50-50 chance of survival, a coin toss. I remember feeling numb and sick. We had to face up to the possibility of losing her when she was just 48. Pippa said to me the other day, ‘I couldn’t have handled losing her then. We don’t get more time now, but imagine if we’d lost her then.’ The fact she did that year of chemo, and she did it so bravely and without a ‘why me’, or a word of complaint — and the fact we were lucky — so many people get cancer and just aren’t lucky.

I’m so grateful my beautiful mum got to enjoy old age, got to meet her amazing, talented grandchildren, see then all get to double figures. I couldn’t have handled losing her then either.

I stood alone with Mum’s body on Tuesday and thanked her for everything. I thanked her for giving me life, and for giving me THIS life. She gave all of us her natural intelligence, which is part of the genetic pot luck, but she did everything else with such unbelievable energy and effort. She read to us, she put endless time into every interest or hobby, and she conquered the everyday mayhem of having four children, and Tam and I know, it’s a bloody mountain. Washing, bathing, shopping, medicating, comforting, disciplining, feeding, cleaning up, driving, counselling, in her case, a lot of optometry, just endless, thankless, mothering. Mum did it year after year, and she did it at A+ level.

Mum, I think of you at the end, alone, and it’s heartbreaking. I wish I’d been there to tell you I love you, to thank you for all that you’ve given us. I hope there wasn’t any pain, or if there was, that it was brief, I hope you weren’t too afraid, and that you felt our embrace — of Dad and us kids and your grandkids and your sisters and your friends. I really hope you felt that. We’re your boats that you set free upon the water. I know that you were proud of us. Your last words to me were on the phone at the airport were ‘have a great trip, you’ve earned it’. Well I’ll say the same back to you Mum. Have a great trip. You’ve earned it.

So long, Mum. We’ll miss you and think of you always.

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

16 March 2019, Frankston, Victoria

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

Dearest Mother I thank you for many things

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

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

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

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

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

Thankyou for teaching me that education is important for women.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joan

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

2 February 2024, Montreal, Canada

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

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

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

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

 Their lives were intertwined.

***

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

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

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

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

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

Yet, she accepted. 

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

That, and how nicely he treated his mother.

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

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

And here is where they built their lives and family.

It was not without hardship. 

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

Until 2012, when he was no longer there.

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

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

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

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

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

But she was never truly alone.

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

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

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

***

Santo with his mother Giovanna

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, her prayers are answered. 

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

They are in God’s hands now. 

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

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

For Ben Cordner: 'He wished he could be an astronaut', by Linda Cordner - 2019

13 February 2019, Epping Boys High School, Sydney, Australia

Where do I begin to tell you the story of my gorgeous son, Ben?  At the beginning. 

He was born two weeks early by caesarean section and was taken to the ICU because of difficulty with his breathing.  After having the operation I was taken to the ward where I was bedridden.  I didn’t see him for nearly two days, and was only given a photo of him by Geoff.  Despite the reassurances from everyone that he was fine, I became paranoid that something dreadful had happened and I was being kept out of the loop.  When he was finally brought down to be with me, I fell in love and bonded immediately, and right then I knew this kid would be something special. 

He was an extremely cheeky and outgoing toddler, always engaging people to look and talk to him.  I met so many people in the aisles of the grocery store, just because he wanted to talk to everyone.  He could go to a McDonalds playground for five minutes and make new friends.  It was always awkward when he would tell me he’d invited them back to our house to continue playing. 

Once both boys started at school the teachers would always comment on how different my two sons were.  At first I thought they were talking about their looks … until the notes started coming home!  I think most of the teachers in primary school loved Ben’s humour and intelligence, but secretly wished he was in a different class. 

Early in Year 6 we were requested to attend a meeting with Ben’s teacher.  He had had the same teacher since the beginning of Year 5.  Ben wasn’t present at the meeting, so as diplomatically as possible, Mrs Schlager told us she liked Ben but he pushed her buttons.  She told us she was a little disappointed that the note she sent home at the end of Year 5, suggesting Ben move to the extension class for his final year, was not taken up.  Geoff and I looked at each other, then back at her.  Both of us at the same time said “What note?”  Ben had read it on the way home and decided then and there we were never getting it.  None of Ben’s closest mates would be in the extension class, so there was no way in hell he was going to be. 

Just backing up a little, when Ben was 9 and Tim was 11 we had dinner at my Mum’s house.  Geoff was at cricket training so it was just the kids, my Mum and myself.  The four of us sat down and started eating at the dining table.  Ben, always such a curious little boy, asked me a question.  The question was “Mum, what’s a blow job?”  While clearing the food from my throat, I looked up at my Mum for support.  My mum placed her knife and fork on the plate, crossed her arms and said to me “This’ll be good”. Thanks Mum!  A million things were going through my head, but I realised the truth might just shock this kid enough to stop him asking such direct questions in the future.  So after a very long pause I told him exactly what it is – to the best of my recollection anyway.  Ben screwed up his face and said “Eww, who’d want a job like that?” 

Twelve months ago Ben asked if I could arrange for him to get a part-time job at my work.  I did question whether he would be an appropriate fit, but then I figured if they didn’t want him they didn’t have to hire him.  He got the job.  Ben and I worked together a lot over the last 12 months – something for which I am now extremely grateful.  We travelled to work in the city on the train, or in the car to Rozelle.  I told him in advance there were some guys his age who worked with me, and they seemed quite nice. Needless to say within a few weeks of working there, Ben was tight with all of them.  Soon after he had a hand in organising a pub crawl, and various themed dress-up nights, with the young guys and girls.  I noticed the other day his Facebook background page shows him on one of those nights out. 

This last year I have been able to watch Ben at close quarters, dealing with work colleagues and passengers of all different ages, and from many walks of life.  I am so proud to say he has exceeded all my expectations.  So much so that I feel a little guilty that I ever doubted him! 

A few days after his death, I got a message from a girl who was in primary school with Ben.  She told me she wasn’t close with Ben, but he was always lovely to be around, and was one of the ONLY kids to stand up for her against bullies.  I am so grateful to have received that message and I am so immensely proud of that little 10 year old boy. 

Our son, Tim has been amazing throughout this whole time, and we are so proud of him.  He has been a tower of strength (literally) and we love him very much.  We’re all suffering at the moment, but the bond he and his brother shared, although understated, was indisputable and unbreakable. 

Tim’s girlfriend, Audrey, has offered endless emotional support to us all.  She has such a gentle, unassuming calmness that has helped us cope with this unimaginable situation, and we thank you Audrey for that. 

Laura, we all love you.  Your relationship with our son was something to behold.  Your bond with Ben was so intense, and his capacity to love you was second to none.  I would always tell people you came as a pair, you never saw one without the other.  The love they shared in the five years of their relationship was so beautiful, and I know Laura that it will live with you forever.

Geoff, you are my rock and I know we will find our way through this.  I must admit I’m not looking forward to a future without Ben, and I know our lives have changed forever.  I love you so much, and know we can do this together, and we will continue to treasure the time we had with Ben forever. 

Ben told us not that long ago, quite seriously, that he wished he could be an astronaut.  He has always been fascinated with planets, galaxies and all that is beyond this world.  I truly believe he has got his wish.  Ben is now up above us, travelling through space, exploring the universe.  The brightest stars shine to remind us that the special people we lose are always with us.

for Midge Decter Podhoretz: 'Where did she come from?' by son John Podhoretz - 2022

11 May 2022, Riverside Memorial Chapel, New York City, USA

This eulogy appeared in Commentary on May 12th 2022 which is a magazine John Podhoretz edits.

Where did she come from?

That’s what we were asking ourselves, my sister and my father and I, after she left us and this world on the morning of May 9, 2022. Of course, we know where she came from in the strictest sense. She was born in St. Paul, Minnesota, on July 25, 1927. Her mother had also been born, amazingly enough for a Jew, in the Twin Cities in the year 1894, the youngest of ten whose parents had immigrated from Lithuania quite a while earlier. And her father? His mother bore him at 14 in Poland after marrying a much older man over her own parents’s objections. He was a widower with children of his own who turned out to be a drunk. He beat her one night when she was newly pregnant.

My great-grandmother would have none of it. She went back to her parents. They got the drunk to give their daughter a get—a Jewish divorce. And then it was off to America with the baby in tow. By the time my grandfather was a teenager, there was concern he was heading into trouble on the Lower East Side and so he was sent to live with a relative in St Paul. It was there, in 1916, at a Zionist meeting, that Harry Rosenthal met Rose Calmenson. Eleven years after that, their daughter Marjorie was born. They called her Midge.

So this is where my mother, who was known to the world as Midge Decter, came from. From a Polish Jewish grandmother with an iron will and an unbreachable sense of self that remained with her until she died at 89. From a Litvak mother whose immigrant father almost made a huge fortune in scrap metal but died before the business, Paper Calmenson, took off. From an immigrant father who migrated from Poland to New York to Minnesota and began an increasingly successful career as a small businessman once he had returned from World War I. By the time Midge had grown into a teenager, the Rosenthals had become highly respectable burghers, perhaps even more starchy in their commitment to the most conventional social rules even than the Gentiles who made up 99 percent of the population of the Twin Cities. The Rosenthals kept kosher, but in all other ways they were more Catholic than the Pope.

And yet my grandparents must have had certain radical tendencies. Being a Zionist in 1916 was far from conventional. Their passion for Zionism predated the state by three decades and was pretty much the only passion they ever really had. What’s more, my grandfather fancied himself a Reconstructionist and quite pointedly spoke brachot without God’s name in them.

Harry and Rose started the first Zionist summer camp in the Midwest, called Herzl, which remains a going concern in Wisconsin to this day and was where Bob Dylan and the Coen brothers got their Jewish educations. Harry was also on the leading edge of a new business category founded at the end of the Second World War. He became an early mass wholesaler of Army-Navy surplus goods. Remember Army-Navy stores? My grandfather sold them their wares. Made a lot of money, but less than he should have, because he was stubborn and was unable to modernize as he got old.

Interesting lives, without question. Yet neither of Midge’s parents ever actually said anything remotely interesting. They were both, either by training or by inclination, dull. And they passed that dullness on to two of their daughters, my mother’s older sisters. But the dullness didn’t take with Midge.

So I ask again: Where on earth did she come from? My parents met in 1946 on a registration line at the Jewish Theological Seminary, where my show-offy 16-year-old future father was trying to make time with a girl and misquoted T.S. Eliot—whereupon the 18-year-old with a thick Midwestern accent turned around and corrected the quotation.

How had she come to T.S. Eliot? There had been barely a book in my grandparents’ house. My dad says that when he met her Midge had already read Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, and Proust. Proust! And yet this was a woman who spent her life regretting the fact that she never graduated from college. One of the few times in her life I saw her choked with guilt was when Rachel, my oldest sister, dropped out of college. She said, quietly, and over again, “I did this, I gave her permission.” But what on earth did Midge ever need college for?

Let’s talk about that 18-year-old and college and the Jewish Theological Seminary. She had wanted to go the University of Chicago upon her graduation from St. Paul Central High School. Her parents said no. They told her the University of Minnesota was just as good as any other school—if my grandparents had a faith besides Judaism it could have been called Minnesotanism—and to forget such things.

She enrolled at the University of Minnesota. But she was not going to stay. Her older sister Connie—the pretty one, because you know there was always a pretty one—was already following the path her parents had charted for her; she was engaged to her sweet high school boyfriend, who went to work for his father-in-law and never took a free breath for the rest of his life. Her oldest sister Sheva also went to the state U but then followed her high-school boyfriend to Washington, where they both went to work in the war effort at the Department of Defense. Sheva’s husband Marver Bernstein later ended up the president of Brandeis University. One sister got out. One sister didn’t. But the one who got out got out because of a man. What was Midge going to do? She came up with a plan.

My grandparents were pious about their Judaism. So my mother used what was at hand. She told them she wanted to go to New York to study at the Jewish Theological Seminary, which at the time was an academic institution as well as a rabbinical school. She wanted to learn about our faith, and our faith traditions. And to participate in the burgeoning Zionist life in New York, as excitement built about the revolt against the British Mandate in Palestine and the hopes for a Jewish state.

What could they do, my grandparents? Minnesotanism simply had to give way to Judaism. Midge had outfoxed them. She boarded the train to New York. She met my father in her earliest days at the Seminary, but he was almost three years her junior. Instead, she paired off with Rachel and Naomi’s eventual father, whose name was Moshe Decter, who was also a student there.

I once asked her why she married him, and she said, quite succinctly and enigmatically, “because he made me feel like shit.” She stopped studying at the Seminary and started working for a new little magazine called Commentary as an assistant to its editor, Elliot Cohen. But then she had my sister Rachel and a year and five days later she had my sister Naomi, and she stayed at home in Queens raising them. At some point she could take no more, and she left her husband and took the girls and moved into Manhattan to a dump of an apartment. She went back to work at COMMENTARY, for an editor named Robert Warshow, who was then the mentor of the young writer Norman Podhoretz. Warshow wrote to my father, who was serving in the Army. He said, “I’ve hired a young woman you know named Midge Decter and if she just learns to type a little better, she’ll be a keeper.” Then Warshow died at the age of 37 and it fell to my mother to write to Norman to inform him of this loss. Norman wrote back. Midge wrote him back. A year later he returned to America, to New Jersey, to finish out his military service. He came into Manhattan on his first leave. He knocked on her door. She opened it and threw herself into his arms.

The young woman who had married a man because he had made her feel like shit—well, she was no longer that person. After several months of dating, she told my father that they were either going to get married or they were through. He said really? She said yes. He said can I walk around the block and think about it? She said yes. He walked around the block.

Imagine the sense of self she must have had then, the knowledge of herself she must have possessed, and the deep self-esteem this must have taken. She was a divorcee. She was 28 years old. She had two kids. It was 1955. This was not a power position, a place from which to make demands. To prove my point, when my father told his mother they were going to be married, she told him she was going to take my grandfather up to the roof and throw him off and then come down and take the gas pipe. My grandmother eased up, especially after meeting Rachel and Naomi. But she was terribly fearful of her own Haredi father’s disapproval, and when the wedding was rolling around, she suggested to Norman that the girls (who were 5 and 4) not be present for the nuptials. He said, “No, Ma, of course they’ll be there.”

The divorcee’s kids at her second wedding? “Who does she think she is?” my grandmother said. “Rita Hayworth?”

When Orson Welles divorced Rita Hayworth, she famously said, “Every man I knew went to bed with Gilda”—the sexpot character she played in an iconic 1946 movie—”and wakes up with me.” Ah, but waking up with my mother…that was the jackpot. My friend Joseph Epstein wrote me yesterday to say I had won the lottery in the parent sweepstakes, but the truth is, they were the winners, Norman and Midge. They were married for 66 years.

The great irony of my mother’s life is that she, a trailblazing female intellectual in a frankly misogynistic world of New York highbrow jerks whose views of women were reductionist and noxious, would end up being America’s most formidably serious anti-feminist. What she could not bear was the culture of complaint. She once said something slighting about Gloria Steinem and I asked why. She told me Gloria Steinem had once whined that she had wanted to write about politics but that they wouldn’t let her. “Who,” this woman who had written plenty about politics by this point said, “were ‘they’?” She felt the same way about Betty Friedan and the idea that Friedan and her cohort had somehow been tricked by the capitalist powers that be into moving into beautiful upper-middle-class suburbs in nice houses.

She was appalled by the misandry of the feminists—the idea that they were basically the victims of men. Her life experience had told her something different. She had allowed her first husband to make her feel like shit. But then she married a man who loved her and appreciated her and cultivated her gifts. She took jobs and she quit jobs at will, because my father was there to support her both financially and emotionally. Not that he made much money, by the way. My parents were almost comically unmaterialistic. Their dining room table was a door from the Door Store. Yes, she was fortunate in her marriage, and she knew she was fortunate, but she knew also that you had to make your own fortune, and had no patience for those who believed otherwise and who believed their complaining was the mark of a higher truth.

She felt the same way about the ‘60s and post-‘60s youth she portrayed and satirized in her uncategorizable masterpiece of a book, Liberal Parents Radical Children, from 1975. These youth were similarly full of objections and complaints and woes and wounds, and in the final analysis, what she really wanted to know was just what the hell it was they were whining about. These kids had had the inestimable good fortune of being born into the freest and most pliable society the world had ever seen­. And she thought their effort to belittle the country and belittle its gifts to us was a moral crime. And who would best know this than a member of the most beleaguered tribe in this planet’s history? Why, she could hardly believe her own luck, as a Jew with a knowledge of the horrors of Jewish history and the improbable journey her parents had made to end up together and give her life, that she had been born an American.

Most of her best writing has this quality, like someone telling you to believe the evidence of your own eyes and not be seduced by theory. Go read her essay, “Looting and Liberal Racism,” published in COMMENTARY in 1977 in the aftermath of the New York City blackout that year. The word “bracing” hardly captures its clarifying, revivifying, saddening effect—and just how prophetic it sounds today. It concludes in part:

The young men who went rampaging on that hot July night were neither innocents nor savages; they were people in the grip of the pathology that arises from moral chaos. They were doing something they knew to be wrong but had been given a license for, and had not been able to find the inner resources to overcome their temptation. A New York Times editorial written in response to a flood of mail from readers condemning the looters reiterates the proposition that poverty and race were the salient factors in the looting: “Denounce them, jail them, hate them. Still the question lingers. . . . They appeared only in the poorest sections of town and drew recruits only from the poorest population groups, albeit only a tiny fraction of them. The question is why these and only these? Why, bluntly, no white looters in white neighborhoods?” The real answer to this question, I am afraid, is not to be found in the economy, nor even in the hot, nervous streets of summertime New York. It is to be found in a decade’s worth of the spread of this very liberal and very racist idea: that being black is a condition for special moral allowance.

In the course of the radio coverage of July 14, two little black boys, sounding about twelve years old, were interviewed and announced that they had taken no part in the looting going on all around them. They seemed a bit sheepish. When asked by the interviewer, “Why not?” one of them said, “I was scared of the cops,” and the other one said, “Because my mama would have killed me.” A brave and lucky woman, that mama—no thanks to the culture intent on whispering sweet nada into her little boy’s ear.

This was my mother. She cut through the bullshit. I don’t know any other way to put it. She always did, and she always knew bullshit’s seductive quality as well. When she was an editor at Basic Books, a publishing house, in the 1970s, a manuscript came in. It was a fancy-pants work of high intellectual argle-bargle, and her boss at the time was inclined to reject it. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “It’s utter nonsense and it will sell a billion copies.” That book was called Godel Escher Bach: The Eternal Golden Braid. It won the Pulitzer. It is still in print 43 years later. It is utter nonsense. It has sold, if not a billion copies, then a million copies or more. In her seven years as a publisher, she edited books by a writer named George Gilder, one on the sexual revolution and the other on life in the underclass, neither of which made much of a mark. Then came Wealth and Poverty, which helped lay the philosophical groundwork for what came to be known as Reaganomics. Sales: a million copies.

This suggests she could have been one of the most successful book editors of her time, but she didn’t want to publish nonsense even if it sold, and she wanted to do good as she saw it. So she started a modest enterprise called the Committee for the Free World, a kind of clearing-house-way-station activist organization to promote anti-Communist ideals in the 1980s as the intellectual world reared in horror at the supposed vulgarity of the Reagan administration. I had come to adulthood by this point, and it was then that I began hearing from people the things I would hear for the rest of my life: Oh, I love your mother. I had a life-changing conversation with your mother. Your mother is my role model. Your mother had lunch with me and now I know what to do with my life. Your mother is so kind.

I would go back to her and I would say, “Mom, I just met this person and they said you changed their life.” And in response, she would roll her eyes, or make a dismissive wave. She was like this with praise too. You could not tell her you loved something she wrote. It made her actively uncomfortable. She didn’t like her own writing. She thought it mannered and overly ornate. What she liked was simplicity and clarity and she felt she came up short in those departments. In this way, and in no other way whatsoever, she was utterly bonkers.

But she was an absolute bear about this as someone who guided writers. And as someone who guided me. When I was just starting out as a writer, and I would tell her I thought something I was writing was boring, she would say this: “You are incapable of being boring. All you need to worry about is being clear and saying what you mean.” Now, whether or not it’s true that I am incapable of being boring is a subject for another time. The point here is that this was the greatest editorial advice I ever received, and it is advice I’ve passed along to others: Your job is not to be interesting. You are interesting. Your job is to be clear.

She was so very clear. And her clarity came from the quality that made so many people look up to her, emulate her, or feel she was their lodestar. It was an inner thing. You might call it serenity, but while she was very level of mood—except for when she raged under her breath about the little elves her children seemed to think were going to clean up the kitchen after them—she was too engaged with the world to be truly serene. She just had an iron sense of self, as her grandmother had had when she marched away from her widower drunk and chose a different life when nobody did such a thing. Midge had it as a teenager, reading Proust in a home without books. She had it as she planned her escape from St. Paul. She had it when she ended the marriage in which she felt like shit, and when she gave my father her ultimatum. She had it when she put pen to paper, even though writing was very difficult for her. She had it when she was asked what she would do if she were you.

Two terrible things happened to her in her life. The first, of course, was the loss of our beloved Rachel, her first-born, who died at 62 in 2013. That was nine years before her own passing, and while she was always the same, she was also never the same. A vagueness came upon her, a kind of retreat behind her eyes. I envied her this, in a way, because her inferiority gave her some kind of solace.

The other terrible thing was an act of amazing aggression on the part of her own mother. The year was 1989. Her mother had died in 1973 and had left a will, the contents of which were not disclosed because all the proceeds from her estate were to go to her husband Harry until his death.

My mother’s mother never forgave Midge for leaving St. Paul, then never forgave her for divorcing her first husband, then never forgave her for marrying my father, who had written Midge explicit love letters her mother had found one day rifling through her drawers. Her daughter, married to a sex maniac; such a thing never happened in Minnesota! So this was not a good relationship, but it was more distant and chilly than it was openly hostile.

My grandfather died 16 years later. My aunt Sheva was the executor of his will. Sheva called my mother one night, distraught beyond words. Rose had, it turns out, disinherited Midge at some point before her own death in 1973. Cut her out of the will. The problem wasn’t the money; there wasn’t, as it turned out, all that much of it. No, it was as though my grandmother had reached out from beyond the grave and slapped my mother across the face. And my grandfather had known about it, and had done nothing to stop it, and had even spent the years following Rose’s death extolling her virtues. “If there ever was such a thing as a saint in Jewish life,” my grandfather told my mother, “your mother was that saint.” So it was not just her mother who had delivered this punishment from olam ha-bah. It was her father’s repellent piety about Rose when he knew, he surely knew, his daughter would soon enough come to know different.

Of all the qualities she had, the one I most envied in my mother was her ability to sleep. She could lay her head on the pillow and wake up eight hours later. It was inner serenity at work. But she plunged into a crisis. She was 62, a year older than I am now. And for the first time in her life, she could not sleep. For four nights she paced, and sat, and lay unrested.

And then she cleared her mind.

“I have decided,” she said, “that my life is a treasure.”

And that was that. Really. It was. I’ve never seen the like of it. The only rueful echo of this monstrous parental abnegation came a few months later when we were at some conservative conference or something and she turned to me and said, “I don’t understand how it happened that I became this great champion of the family. I hated my family!”

But no. She did not. She loved her family—the family she made. She loved us four. And she loved and admired and was fascinated by and charmed by and interested in her grandchildren, the first of whom was born when she was 53 and the last of whom was born when she was 83. Midge Decter has left behind books and articles of uncommon grace and brilliance and an impact on American society at large in the form of those she inspired and the ideas she championed.

But what she has really left the world are those whom she has left behind. There are three of us children who survive her and a fourth, Rachel, who survives her in the form of Rachel’s three children and the eight great-grandchildren they have produced. Ten other grandchildren survive her as well—my three, and Naomi’s three, and Ruthie’s four. Another five great-grandchildren have come from their number, and likely there are many more yet to come.

Midge Rosenthal Decter Podhoretz decided her life was a treasure. And it was a treasure. Because she was a treasure. An unfathomable treasure.

Where, oh, where, oh where did she come from?

This eulogy was delivered at the funeral of Midge Podhoretz, which took place on May 11 at Riverside Memorial Chapel in New York City. She died on May 9, 2022, at the age of 94.

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 Margaret McKay: 'Thank you, Margaret, for being my mother', by Ian McKay - 2021

14 October 2021, delivered via Zoom , Australia

During the days since Mum died, as you can imagine, I have been reflecting on her life ... and what an extraordinary life it was.

Her life was bookended by the two most significant pandemics in Australia's known history. Mum was born in Cairns, Far North Queensland, in 1921 and like much of Australia and the world, Cairns had suffered significantly from the Spanish flu, and now 100 years later, Mum has ended her life with the world battling the challenge of COVID.

Changes in technology can illustrate the dramatic changes throughout Mum's life.

When Mum was born, her Birth Certificate was handwritten, and funerals were still conducted using horse-drawn hearses. When Mum married in 1960, her Marriage Certificate was typed with a manual typewriter which some of us would remember sometimes resulting in not all letters being perfectly aligned. Now in 2021, with Mum's death, documentation is all computerised, and we are today gathering virtually to celebrate her life.

I suspect that she would have had some difficulty getting her head around a zoom funeral, and I also wonder what she made of everyone entering her room wearing a mask for the last 18 months of her life!

When Mum died in the early hours of Saturday morning, I cast my mind back to Easter 1996. My parents were visiting Sherril and me in Cairns, where we then lived. Dad spoke to me about his concern that Mum was "slipping". Four months later, Dad died, and Mum continued for another 25 years.

In some ways, I have been preparing for this day for several years; however, now it has arrived, it remains a time of sadness and loss while at the same time an opportunity to celebrate a life of service to her community and to God. My cousin Karyl who is with us today summed it up so well last Saturday when she said it was a time of Relief and Grief.

It is difficult to know how to do justice to Mum's life in the relatively short time that I have to speak today. Although Ben did say I could speak as long as I wanted!... given we are on zoom, feel free to have a coffee or a pre-dinner aperitif while I am sharing a few snippets of Mum's life.

Margaret Davison was born at her parents' home in Sheridan Street, Cairns, on 03 July 1921. Her father, George Davison, had come to Australia from Manchester just before World War 1.

My grandfather George was a prominent accountant in Cairns, very active in the Masonic Lodge and his Church, and was Chairman of the Cairns Aerial Ambulance for many years.

He was proud to have had a short flight in Kingsford Smith's Southern Cross and later meeting Australia's Prime Minister, Sir Robert Menzies.

Mum's mother, Jane Owens, had to wait until after the War to emigrate also from Cheetham Hill in Manchester. In 2003 David and I found her house still being lived in in Manchester.

A brother, Harrison Fawcett Davison, joined Mum to complete the family seven years later in 1928. Harry married Shirlee, and they had three children. Their middle child, Karyl, is now a Uniting Church Minister in Canberra, and I am grateful she is participating in today's service.

Mum commenced her schooling in 1926 at Edge Hill State School though this is now the current Cairns North State School. She was accelerated a year in Grade 5, completing her primary schooling in 1932.

She attended Cairns State High School from 1933 to 1935, passing her Junior Certificate twice as she was too young to go to Teacher's College the first time.

As a young person, Mum played tennis and basketball (what we would now call netball) though I don't think sport was a major part of her life from my conversations with Mum.

In 1936 she made what would have been a significant move then for a 14-year-old by going to Brisbane to study to be a teacher at Turbot Street Teachers College (now part of Queensland University of Technology). In her second year at Teacher's College, she also completed her Senior Certificate by night school.

Clearly, Margaret was a very capable student who perhaps would have had many more opportunities as a young regional girl in a more recent era.

I can clearly remember completing an initial test for membership of MENSA when I was in my late teens. I scored well and was eligible for the final entry test.

Being a fairly confident 18- or 19-year-old, I convinced Mum (against her better judgement) to do the test as well, probably so I could show her what a clever son she had!. Despite not having studied or worked full time for many years, she achieved a result much higher than mine, which indicated she would have had a high probability of being eligible for membership of MENSA.

Mum started teaching at Eton State School near Mackay in 1937. She then was appointed as a very young Principal at Wondecla State School north of Cairns, then returning to Cairns as Principal (or probably then known as Head Mistress) of Caravonica State School.

After two years as a District Relieving Teacher, she was appointed to Cairns State High School. She taught Intermediate (Grade 8) for 12 years before marrying my father, Peter McKay, in December 1960. A marriage of mutual commitment and love that lasted until my father died in 1996.

I never thought to ask Mum or Dad how they met though I assume it was through their mutual involvement in Scouting.

As was the requirement of the day, female teachers were required to resign after they married. Mum didn't recommence teaching until 1972, when she became a casual relief teacher in Townsville Schools for the next 15 years.

I was born just over a year after they were married and was to be their only child.

I was, and am, proud that her last teaching position was three days as Acting Principal at Ravenswood State School in October 1987, where I was Principal while I was at the North Queensland Primary School Cricket Trials. I suspect the Education Department gave Mum the job because she could live in my house and therefore there were no travel expenses required!

For the next decade, Mum continued her involvement in teaching by voluntarily assisting with a class at Belgian Gardens State School one day each week so not "fully" retiring until around 80 years of age.

A little later, Charles will speak about Mum's involvement in Scouting that spanned almost 35 years, so I won't talk too much about that aspect of her life but will mention a couple of things that Charles may not have been aware.

Mum's involvement in Scouting commenced in World War 2 when her Parish Priest told her the Cub Pack needed a Cub Leader as most existing leaders had enlisted. He said that as she was a teacher, she would be perfect as a cub leader!

So, Mum became an Assistant Cub Leader then a Cub Leader at 4th Cairns, which was connected to St John's Church of England. She became the first female Assistant Leader Trainer in Queensland in 1953, received a Letter of Commendation from the Chief Scout of Australia in 1957 before being awarded the Medal of Merit in 1960. In 1964 she was appointed to the International Training Team.

Ray will speak later about Mum's incredible commitment to cricket in North Queensland. A commitment that commenced because of her devotion to supporting her son. When I started playing in 1971, Mum started becoming actively involved, which she continued for more than 25 years, including for a decade after I was no longer living in North Queensland. An amazing commitment that was recognised with two life memberships, as I'm sure Ray will mention.

In addition to Scouting and Cricket, Mum's other great involvement was in Inner Wheel. For those unaware, Inner Wheel is a service club established for Rotarians' wives in the days before women were permitted to join Rotary.

When Dad joined Rotary, Mum soon joined the Inner Wheel Club of Townsville. In 1976 she became Charter President of a new Club, the Inner Wheel Club of Port of Townsville. She later was twice District Chairman of District A76 in North Queensland in 1981-82 and 1994-95.

She was also District Secretary, District Treasurer and District International Officer on various occasions.

In 1983-84 she was Inner Wheel Australia's National Secretary. I once asked her why she didn't consider the National President's role, and she said due to the amount of travel required for the role that she and Dad couldn't afford it; how sad as she was a natural leader.

Inner Wheel recognised her contribution to the community in 2002 by her being awarded a Margarette Golding Award given for highly commendable service to the community. She was the first Queenslander to receive this award and just the fifth in Australia. Even today, 20 years later, there are less than 40 recipients in Australia of this prestigious award.

The single red rose on Mum's coffin is a tribute from Inner Wheel Australia for Mum's commitment to Inner Wheel for almost 50 years.

As if her involvement in Scouting (for almost 35 years), cricket (for more than 25 years) and Inner Wheel (with an active membership of more than 35 years) wasn't enough in her younger years Mum learnt Piano and Elocution, sang in the Cairns Choral Society and Church Choirs, was a Sunday School Teacher in Cairns and Townsville for at least 20 years and was active in amateur theatre with the Cairns Playbox Theatre.

Her tireless voluntary efforts during her life were recognised by being awarded Townsville Senior of the Year in 2002 and a 2003 Premier's Award for Queensland Seniors together with the two cricket life memberships and the Inner Wheel Margarette Golding Award that I mentioned earlier.

I hope I have done justice in painting a picture of Mum's remarkable life of service. I am so proud of her contributions and her achievements.

Ian with his parents

But what of Margaret as a mother?

I was always close to Mum. She always showed me that she loved me, was proud of me and wanted what was best for me. I was blessed by her caring and her example of living a Christian life of service.

That's not to say I was always happy with her choices for me, and I certainly was never a "spoilt" only child.

It was a bit of a shock (though very fair) that I immediately was charged board when I started working as I was still living at home. The board was a not-insignificant 25% of my gross pay when I started teaching.

But it didn't stop there! If I asked Mum to buy a toothbrush, toothpaste, or something similar when she was shopping, she was always happy to do so, but the receipt for the purchase was at my place at the dining table that night for reimbursement.

At the time, I thought it was a bit silly and perhaps scroogish, but I later realised what a good life lesson she was giving me.

When a young teacher in Charters Towers with just three years of teaching experience, I was visited by my principal after school one Friday afternoon to tell me the Education Department was offering me the Principalship of a one-teacher school at Ravenswood.

I had not been an applicant for promotion nor was I thinking about a principalship. The Department generously giving me an hour to decide!

What should I do?

Of course, I rang Mum for advice!

Her advice was that the Department had a long memory and that perhaps I might want to be a principal one day, but if I'd said no once, I may be overlooked in the future.

So, I took Mum's advice and said "Yes" ... and, as they say ... the rest is history.

My mother was my rock for my childhood and young adulthood.

It has been my privilege to have done my best to care for and support her in the last years of her life though COVID has made this very difficult in the last 18 months.

Throughout Mum's life, she was very fortunate that she had few health issues with just the normal childhood ailments of Whooping Cough, Chicken Pox and Measles and in mid to later adult life, ongoing problems with sun cancer. The legacy of her parents' northern English skin and life in North Queensland. Unfortunately, Mum gifted me similar skin!

In the early 1970s, she had a slight dose of shingles, but apart from that, she was blessed by generally excellent health.

In her last year's her body started wearing out, and her decline was, I believe, as much about being immobile as anything. Sadly, Mum was largely bedridden for the last six years, which was unfortunate for someone who contributed so much.

Since late 2010 Mum has lived at Mercy Place, and while it was sad to see her steady decline, I would like to acknowledge and thank the care of the staff at Mercy Place in Warrnambool.

In her last year's Mum was saddened to lose her brother, Harry, in 2015, which coincided with becoming largely immobile. Fortunately, we were able to bring Mum to our home for lunch on Harry's birthday in 2012 when Harry and Shirley visited, and there is a lovely photo in the photo tribute of them together for the last time.

Despite Mum's limited mobility, until the last couple of years, she remained interested in cricket, rugby league and tennis on television and what I was doing in my life but even more so what her grandson David was achieving.

Mum never displayed any outward emotions, but her pride in David was enormous at many of his achievements, particularly in Scouting. He was awarded the Australian Scout Medallion and Queens Scout and has attended two World Jamborees. She was also proud of his achievement of twice being awarded Warrnambool Youth of the Year for Community and Leadership.

Mum was also proud that David is serving in the Air Force following on from Peter's service in World War 2. Unfortunately, David never knew his grandfather, but I think that Mum saw David's RAAF Service and Scouting achievements as a tangible link with Peter.

Margaret lived an extraordinary life of service to her community and family, always underpinned strongly by her faith in Jesus as her life's compass.

She lived for an incredible 36 623 days. For most of those days, she made a positive difference in her world and set a strong example for those around her.

I will end with some simple words on a card we received from Sherril and my Rotary Club this week.

The card said,

A mother and grandmother is with us always

First in her lifetime, then forever in our memories.

Mum will always be in my memories. She has given me a template for living a life of integrity and positive contribution to our community underpinned by a living faith.

I will remember Mum with love, affection, and appreciation, and I hope others touched by her life will have similar memories.

Thank you, Margaret, for being my mother.

June 2019 with grandson

For Glenda Gillies: 'She loved the liturgical colours', by son Andrew Gillies - 2018

5 July 2018, Burstows Chapel, Kearney’s Spring, Toowoomba, Queensland, Australia

“What a funny little shing” observed big brother Peter as Glenda June Gillies born a few days earlier on the 26th of June 1938 was first shown to him. First daughter of Jack Raymnd Gillingham and Gerda Yuliana Gillingham of Baskerville St in Brighton. Two more daughters followed, Kay Louise and Sue (Susanne) Joan. Because infant Kay could not manage, ‘Glenda’, mum became known as Nenny. This name stuck, with Peter, Kay, Sue and the Rienks and Cook kids calling Mum Nen, Nenny or Aunty Nen all their lives.
Mum's, mum Gerda, a nurse, contracted TB and was ill for much of the later part of her life dying at only 51. This meant Glenda had to help care for her younger sisters with her mum sick and even away. Gerda was born in Denmark and Danish heritage always played an important part in our lives. Danish Pastry, shortbread, and Christmas tree decorations always featured at Christmas. This later developed into a keen interest in genealogy.

From her mum Glenda also learned a love of handcraft including knitting and weaving. Mum in her lifetime turned her hand to many things. Crochet, spinning and dyeing (a passion she shared with Sue, Kay and her good friend Joan Ailand). Mum weaved baskets, learned macramé, made pottery, sketched, and painted. Keith remembers in particular a Gingerbread teapot mum helped Ian make in Morwell to win a prize in a baking comp, the young Keith targeting the spout for eating, much to mum and Ian’s horror.
He also recalls her ability to make something clever from almost anything. Goblet plastic ice cream cups, bottles, card board and foil were turned into the most amazing astronauts. Perfect copies of Neil Armstrong right down to the flag on the sleeve. And landing modules to go with it.

All her life she read voraciously. Her tastes in reading were broad and deep. Jane Austen, feminist authors, theology and science fiction, spilling over into Dr Who on TV with Patrick Traughten always being her favourite Doctor.

Once asked at school what she would like to be she said, “Australia’s first woman Prime Minister”. Although a member of the Labor party for a decade she never pursued a political career for she was too kind hearted and self-effacing. She and her husband Pete were always interested in matters political and passed on a keen interest in current affairs to all their children. Keith remembers her kind heart and interest in public affairs coming together with her sitting up all night with the transistor radio in Melbourne, listening to the Apollo 13 mission, which was going horribly wrong. She would not go to bed until she was certain the crew were safely back on earth.

With Pete she loved bush walking, and the bush in general. She loved animals including our family pets, of note are Kym and Canter, the escape artist dogs, and Diamond the tomcat who had four kittens.
While Jack was quite taken with Herbert W Armstrong's Worldwide Radio Church of God none of the Gillinghams (apart from Glenda’s cousin John) were church goers. Two of Glenda’s classmates and neighbours, Kathy O'Neill and Joan Ailand were very involved in the little Deagon Methodist church. They invited her along to its activities and faith awoke in her.

At Sandgate State School she excelled academically, passing “Scholarship”, and then in High School winning a teacher’s scholarship to do senior. She excelled in her studies including her final exams even though, sick with scarlet fever, she saw little green men running up and down her arm in her Zoology exam. She did a Certificate of Education and became a teacher back at Sandgate State School. She taught for only 3-4 years having to resign when married at 21 but continued to do supply teaching right into her late fifties or early 60s.

Mum never found school teaching easy but was deeply committed to the education and nurture of Children. In every congregation she taught Sunday School and ran kids’ clubs at North Ipswich and Aspley. At Aspley she not only co-ordinated the Sunday School classes she also did the Children’s segment of the service. When her own children struggled at school she encouraged and supported them. Andrew for instance moved from the “D” reading group up to the “A” group between grades 2-6.

She also always loved music. She took part in a production of HMS Pinafore and last Thursday she drew her final breath as a CD of Pinafore reached its finale. She appeared in many backyard productions with her great mate Kathy O’Neil, in the theatre built by Kathy’s Dad, and in full costume made by Kathy’s wonderfully eccentric and very stylish mum Gypsy. Over the years she sang in numerous mostly church choirs and played soprano recorder. She took an interest in church music and was a great help to the very unmusical Pete.

She met Pete William Gillies a quirky local Presbyterian minister, not locally but on an organised coach tour around Tasmania and they married at the Shorncliffe Methodist Church on the 9th of January 1960. A Minister’s wife was expected to be a second minister, the social hub of the church, but while mum was happy to teach Sunday School, she was no social hub. Pete was passionate about God, the church, pastoral care, trivia, tennis, cricket, justice and politics. He was not interested in housework, mowing, changing washers, young children, cooking, administration, tidiness or saving.

It was a loving relationship and at times a very fustigating one, especially for the young girl who had once wanted to be the first woman Prime Minister. In 1961 Ian William, the first of three boys, was born. He was followed just under two years later by Keith Raymond (1962). Pete while visiting Melbourne accepted a call to be the minister in the Victorian town of Morwell so the young family moved from Hawthorne in Brisbane. Andrew was born there (1967) and just 12 months later the family moved to Merbein, then on to North Altona in Melbourne. Mum’s mum, Gerda only lived to see the birth of Ian dying in 1961 before family left Queensland. At Hawthorne and in Victoria, sisters Sue and Kay spent extended periods of time with Mum and Dad. In 1973 the family went on a long adventure, driving from Altona all the way to Koorumba in the gulf. They met up with Jack in Brisbane and all six slept in his new swish camper trailer. The fridge only caught fire once and mum managed to put it out with a jug of water, blowing the fuses in most of the caravan park in the process. Adding to the adventure was Pete’s unique driving style which mum coped with by singing among other things one of today’s hymns “There’s a light upon the mountains”.

In 1974 the family moved back to Queensland where Pete took a call to the North Ipswich parish. Glenda, Ian, and Andrew stayed with Jack at Brighton for the first School term, as the 1974 floods had made a mess of Ipswich. Glenda although no socialite, was still a leader and had a sharp mind. From her time in Ipswich onwards Glenda took on leadership roles working closely with Lola Mavor among others and served as secretary of the National Committee of Adult Fellowship groups for the newly formed Uniting Church in Australia, helping to organise at least one national conference. She also served as a member of the Board of Parish Services. She represented the church at Presbytery and Synod meetings. Mum was perhaps happiest when we lived in North Ipswich. She made good friends and was not far from her youngest sister Sue and her Dad Jack.

She got her licence at 40 and so could take on much of the driving duty to the great relief of all three children. She was very cranky with Pete when he agreed to accept a call to Camp Hill without really telling the family until it was almost too late. Keith keen on sport and public speaking like his dad, found a job as a cadet announcer. Ian and Andrew moved with Glenda & Pete to Camp Hill.

Earlier in 1976 they were also joined by Pete’s brother Basil who had lost most of his eye sight. Glenda dealt with the extra household member with grace. Basil relieved Glenda of some of the household and nurturing duties.

Half way through their time in Camp Hill Pete developed late onset bi-polar disorder. This was incorrectly diagnosed as depression, but Glenda, in a time before Google, knew something was not right and did some research. She convinced Dad’s GP and but not his psychiatrist, so the GP referred Pete to new doctor who was able to stabilise his moods. This was the last straw for Pete’s health, and he was retired early, only 58. The family moved into Basil’s house at Zillmere.

Prior to the move Glenda had upgraded her teaching certificate to a three-year diploma. This taste of study was to lead her with her good friend Joan Ailand to take up studies in Theology. She excelled at this study and had a special flair for languages.

Her keen interest in liturgy and the liturgical year, even extend to her dressing in seasonal colours. For example, purple for Lent or yellow for Easter, making some of the clothes herself. She loved the liturgical colours and all her life had been a maker of banners and charts and other visual aids for worship and Christian Education. (Glenda was a visual person surrounded all her adult life by a bunch of word obsessed males.) In 1996 she received her Bachelor of Theology, studying some of the time with her son Andrew who had first followed in her footsteps and become a teacher and then felt called like his father into ministry.

Ian moved out of home in the 90s and eventually moved to Sydney, among other things he also studied theology. Basil died suddenly at home and only a few years later on the 21st of May in 2004 Pete’s bad health caught up with him. Mum never loved living in church houses, so the house at Zillmere was the first place which she ever felt was her own. She loved the garden choosing and nurturing nearly all the plants.
Keith married in the early 80s to Helen and Glenda enjoyed the grand dogs, especially Bunyip & Nick Knack, but it was to be 2008 before she had her first human grandchild Eli, born to Andrew and Heather who were married early in 2007. Sadly, sister Sue died at only 61 in 2009. Two more grandchildren, Parker (2010) and Ivy (2012) followed. These were her pride and joy in the last years of her life. She would inflict photos of them on any who came near her.

Early in the 2010s it is likely that Glenda began to develop Alzheimer’s disease. Andrew and his busy young family were alerted to her declining health by some of her church friends from Aspley and stepped up visits. In early 2015 she nearly collapsed while out. Kay then Andrew took her in for a period and tried her at home by herself with Andrew visiting every week. She just about coped, but Andrew went away for two weeks and on his return in October 2015 he received a call to say mum had been refusing her meals on wheels. She had become too frail to live at home, so he took her to Toowoomba and she lived with the family for 20 weeks. She loved being with the grand kids, but their normal noise and routine was too much for her, and she really needed someone with her 24 hours a day.

After Easter 2016 also diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease she moved into Tricare’s Toowoomba Aged Care Residence. With healthy food and wonderful care, she thrived, putting on weight and gaining strength, but both the Parkinson’s and dementia progressed and soon, she was no longer able to feed herself, her memory deteriorated further, and eventually she found eating itself difficult, and became bed bound. Just three weeks ago she lost the ability or perhaps the will to swallow.

She kept her quirky sense of humour and sense of fun until very near the end, but the once wonderfully sharp mind had long since gone and for well over two years she had been unable to read a book or do any of the wonderful handcraft that she loved. A week ago, today, at 2:10 pm she peacefully breathed her last with Andrew and Ian in the room with her. She made her 80th birthday with Kay, Keith, Helen, and nephew Adrian all visiting in the last week.

Not mentioned much so far was her faith. It was not their minister Dad who taught the boys to pray, read the Bible and live out their faith in love and service for others, but Glenda by word and example. One of her favourite Bible passages was the Fruit of the Spirit (Gal 5:22-25) and she sought to cultivate this fruit in all her living, patiently serving, encouraging, teaching, loving and supporting all the significant people in her life. She remembered those verses even when her dementia was advanced and one of her last acts of teaching was to teach it to her grandson Eli. Her legacy lives on not only in her boys but in the thousands of Children she taught and encouraged in the faith through well over half a century of discipling.
We love you Glenda, Nenny, mum, Grandma, like all who are in Christ you are a new creation – the old has gone, behold the new has come.

Glenda June Gillies 26th June 1938 – 28th June 2018

For Zachary McLoughlin: 'We are here today because of a choice that Zach made. A bad choice', by mother Kate McLoughlin - 2016

24 March 2016, Frankston, Melbourne, Australia

For Joan Burke: ' A constantly replenishing magic pudding of love and compassion', by son William Burke - 2009

On behalf of all of mum’s large and loving family I wish you all a warm welcome and thank you for joining us today in celebrating her life.

Joan Margaret was the eldest of four girls born to Jack Kennedy and Margaret McCarthy, both of proud Irish stock, on December 6th 1927. Even though before long with the birth of a second daughter there was a not only a Jack but a Jaqueline Kennedy in the same family, there, beyond their Irish Catholicism, any comparison with American political royalty ended. The Clovelly Kennedys were very much blue collar rather than blue blood but in the manner of the time there was a simplicity to life that seems quaint now but came undoubtedly with quite a few harsh realities at the time although living in beachside Clovelly did have it’s compensations meaning lots of time at the beach, some of it spent learning to swim under the firm tutelage of the legendary Tom Clabby who we subsequently also, in a nice little cross-generational linkage, had the dubious pleasure of being screamed at as we splashed up and down the rock pool adjacent to Clovelly beach as kids.

Mum fondly recalled some holidays spent also in the country where she became a keen and accomplished rider and as a special treat the family also sometimes holidayed at beautiful Hyam’s Beach in Jervis Bay when a shack at Hyam’s Beach meant tin walls and no electricity and plumbing rather than today’s expensively manufactured ‘distressed’ look costing $5000 a week. Family life was loving but strict and like a lot of depression children she had her share of bad memories of hiding under tables when the rent man came and when dinner meant bread and dripping night after night. I have only very vague memories of her father Jack who died when I was young but mum plainly loved him very dearly and all of my siblings will have very clear memory of Margaret who we knew as Nan and who we all recall as loving but somewhat formidable, living in her ancient house in Nolan Ave with the outside toilet and copper boiler and to whom a salad meant iceberg lettuce always with tinned pineapple and beetroot.

Mum was a clever girl but her parent’s limited means did restrict her options and while initially considering a secretarial career her naturally caring nature lead her to nursing and a good Catholic girl with aspirations to nursing would naturally gravitate to St. Vincent’s, an institution that had a dominating influence on the rest of her life. Her quite and striking dark beauty must have burst among the rowdy residents at Vinnies like a dropped bottle of DA and none was more agog than one fresh faced and chubby cheeked young man fresh out of Newcastle and Joeys, one young Billy Burke. The relationship almost came to naught when Dad turned up to take Mum out on their first date fresh from Kevin Lafferty’s buck’s party. The lifelong teetotal Margaret Kennedy was not impressed. Neither was Dad when Mum kept him on tenterhooks by dating among others the jockey George Moore who turned up in a big, flash black car. Even then mum had a liking for colourful Sydney racing identities. It was just as well though that Margaret was even less impressed by George than she was by Dad.

Dad continued his specialist training in London and Mum followed and there they were married on the 14th of July 1951, honeymooning in Paris, their early newlywed bliss marred only by an argument precipitated by dad’s disgust that Mum could not recite all the decades of the Rosary. They overcame that minor hurdle and were thereafter inseparable and one of the few consolations in our losing mum is that her long and painful fifteen year separation from her beloved husband is now over.

It sounds vaguely condescending in these PC-plagued times but mum was born to be a mother which is just as well because she didn’t have time to do much else for the next few decades. They returned to Sydney with Catherine in tow, born nine months and one week after the wedding, and mum set about her own one woman baby boom creating a well worn path between Telopea St. and the Mater Maternity, regularly crossing paths as she went with the Flemings or L’Estranges or Newtons or Quoyles or McAlary’s or Batemans. I was quite surprised when I got to school to find that there were families out there with less than seven or eight children.

The intermediary in all this fecundity was the inimicable Dr. Bob McInerney, Obstetrician to the stars. One of the strongest memories of my childhood remains a lift we all got home with him from mass one Sunday when dad had been called away. We were floating along in his trademark Roller when he opened a compartment revealing a bakealite phone, this is the early 1960’s remember, and duly rang mum at home advising of our arrival time so that breakfast would be ready.

We all like to romanticise our childhoods but I honestly don’t think I have to do that. It was really a golden period in my memory. Hot summers, loud cicadas, roaming the suburb with other feral children getting up to mischief. The joy of numerous Christmases, a never ending supply of chops, chips and peas, splurging on mixed lollies at Medlicott’s. No fears and few insecurities. It took me a long while to realise that a child’s brain needs the right conditions to lay down those abiding memories. A child needs, more than anything else, to be valued and wanted and listened to and encouraged and needed and loved. That is a challenge in a family of eight but God has cleverly gifted mothers like mine with a constantly replenishing magic pudding of love and compassion and understanding. And patience. Lots and lots of patience.

I can’t imagine what it must have been like to be parent to eight children under the age of 11 with a husband increasingly busy and in demand even though she had invaluable live in help from Jenny then Ping then Monica who all over time became like part of the family. Packing us off to school must have been a relief compared to holidays particularly when holidays often meant packing us all in the station wagon and heading off to a distant location. Imagine the scene. No airconditioning, no seat belts, eight children and often a dog richocheting around the interior like bees in a bottle, constant squabbles, always someone throwing up or needing the toilet. We thought that mum and dad must have just been constantly thirsty to pull in to so many pubs along the way where they would disappear inside leaving us with a tray of raspberry lemonades. There must have been plenty of times when they struggled to overcome the urge to sneak out the back and head in the opposite direction.

We particularly loved our early childhood Christmases but I’m not sure mum felt the same. Apart from the nightmare that the present buying and equitable distributing must have been, dad, in his well-intentioned way, insisted on showing off his brood to the nuns at Lewisham, St. Vincent’s and the Mater on Christmas Eve, which meant we all had to be scrubbed and polished and dressed in our finest. We would inevitably be made a fuss of by the nuns who plied us with biscuits and fizzy cordial while we watched Fran sing ‘Miss Polly had a Dolly’ again. We would be so hyped by the time mum got us home that she practically had to nail us into bed but without fail we were never disappointed the next morning. But then mum never did disappoint us.

Inevitably the next day after mass and breakfast and later as we grew, after midnight mass and a much later and slower Christmas morning, we would head for the Fleming’s and a couple of hours of always delightful Christmas cheer. We didn’t notice, like we didn’t notice so many of the things mum did, but she would slip away early so when a rowdy and hungry family burst in an hour or so later, all was ready. She was small and wiry but she was tough. How else could she have manhandled a turkey the size of a small horse? You might think that after a long lunch was had by all that she would have earned some down time but no. Not for this woman. Scarcely had we collapsed on the floor in a post-prandial torpor than the door bell would ring and it would be on for young and old again with the extended family. If this woman had been at Gallipoli or on the Kokoda track those Turks and Japanese would not have stood a chance. If she ran out against the All Blacks one rattle of that drawer with the wooden spoons and they would be looking for a hole big enough to hide in.

It must have seemed like forever but at last we drifted out of the nest, some of us needing a bit of a shove. Mum was a last able to enjoy the luxury of a little time to herself and with dad. They loved to travel and I still remember their tales of Breakfast at Brennan’s in New Orleans, of Las Vegas, of The Outrigger in Honolulu, of visiting the Warnes in Hong Kong or their old haunts in London and one very adult trip where they were chauffered around Germany with Ray and June Pearce who introduced them to the joys of Holy Milk, or milk and whiskey, at breakfast. When any one of us were living overseas it wasn’t long before they would be over visiting, a natural tie in of two of their great loves, travel and family.

Mum and dad loved being together. It was very much Darby and Joan, at least a party version of Darby and Joan. They were night owls, their courting days often seeing them at Princes and Romanos and later they would be, in their own egalitarian way, on first name terms with Denis Wong, flamboyant owner of the Mandarin Club and Albert, the doorman at North Sydney Leagues where they would often give the pokies a bash of a Sunday night. What they really loved was the races. They both loved the mix of glamour and the Runyonesque edge of criminality that attaches itself to the racetrack along with all the colourful characters. They took it one step further however when they invested in a brood mare and experienced the joy of standing in a stable tearing up money that is racehorse ownership. Maybe not in dollar terms but in terms of sheer enjoyment they certainly got their moneys worth and there was one selfish side benefit for me. As a uni student with a bit of time on my hands I became the chauffer whenever we had a runner at a midweek meeting. We were for a time regulars at Canterbury and Wyong and Gosford and Kembla Grange and while becoming a nodding acquaintance with a string of bookies and trainers I had the joy of lots of what is now called quality time with my mother. We talked about lots of things including her life and mine and just occasionally I got to see the naughty schoolgirl side of my quiet, lady-like mother.

The latter part of her life was perhaps the most rewarding because any joy her own children had brought her was steadily eclipsed by her large tribe of beautiful and talented grandchildren. She loved them all, Kate, Caro, Charlotte, Tom Smith, Matt, Stephanie, Nick, Isobel, Charlie, Rosie, Tom Burke, Camilla, Oliver, Max, Will, Lochie, Dylan, Sam and Ruby. All that joy and sense of achievement and contentment and she could give them back. When Kate gave birth to young Darcy it just confirmed what her grandchildren had known for a long time. Joan wasn’t just a grandmother, she was a great grandmother.

She wasn’t perfect. None of us born this side of the Garden of Eden are. She had her foibles and intolerances and life sometimes seemed to get the better of her as she struggled with her demons but she taught us the most valuable lesson of all. She would not just succumb and she fought back quietly and determinedly and it shames me that I did not always do as much as I should have to help. Life had become increasingly difficult for her of late but her natural forebearance meant that she would grit her teeth and just do it. Even if she wouldn’t just lie down God knew when she had enough and mercifully spared her any further suffering and we are, despite our sorrow, grateful for that.

Those of you in or close to my generation will probably fondly recall a television show called Happy Days. I know, the poor man is unhinged by grief you are thinking, what relevance has that possibly got to today’s proceedings? Well mum loved TV - it is a genetic affliction unfortunately - and she loved Happy Days.
One of the principal characters was an uber cool leather jacketed hood with a heart of gold known as Fonzie. One day he was visited in his apartment by the squeaky clean Richie Cunningham who proclaimed loud surprise at the presence of Fonzie’s motorcycle in the lounge room of the small apartment, exclaiming that it was just a motorcycle. Fonzie’s reaction was to throw his arms wide and fix Ritchie with a withering stare and the telling reply ‘and I suppose your mother is just a mother’.

A throw away line in an American sitcom perhaps but encapsulating on of life’s truths. Our mother’s are never just mother’s. Mother means so much more than just female parent. They are for most of us our first smell, our first sight, our first soft touch and gentle voice and first loving embrace. They teach us the meaning of love because they are the embodiment of unconditional love. And they remain, if you are fortunate as my brothers and sisters and myself have been, the dominating presence in your life well in to your middle years when their loss should be easy to rationalise because by then you know about the unrelenting cycle of birth and death but it is no exaggeration to say that even as a mature adult your mother’s death leaves you with a feeling of helpless abandonment, a sense of panicked realisation like a toddler separated from his mother in a crowd.

She has gone to a reward she has earned many times over. She has lived a full life. She has been a giver and never a taker, a peacemaker, a mender, a quiet inspiration. She has been to us a mother and grandmother beyond peer and there is no greater praise than that.

Joan Margaret Burke 6/12/27-24/9/09

For Jean Pattinson: 'Her laugh could fill a room', by Brett Pattinson, Vanessa Johnson & Georgina Pattinson - 2020

7 August 2020, Innes Gardens Memorial Park, Port Macquarie, NSW, Australia

Brett (son): At the start of 2020 I would never have thought that I would be delivering a eulogy for the second time in two months especially not Mum & Dad.

A little over 2 months ago, I stood in this very place and delivered what was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do and now here I am again delivering a second eulogy that I never thought I would have to do.

You may recall that on the way to Dad’s funeral I was pulled over by the police??? As strange as that was, this morning was even stranger. On my way here we were driving and all of a sudden I heard mums voice appear…… she said “listen Brett do you think you could pop into Aldi on your way and grab me a packet of those peanut biscuit’s I like”…… pause (pull out the biscuit’s and go and place them on the coffin).
My earliest memories of mum

When I was young and growing fast, I used to have severe problems with my legs and I used to wake up in tremendous pain mum used to sit up and rub my legs during the night, she would sit for hours and rub my legs…. She always did this with gentle precision and the professionalism of a nurse.

On the flip side Mum was a tough old broad, this might have stemmed from my ability to drive her mad…. Constantly!!! I was no angel and I would always be doing something that I wasn’t supposed to. She would chase me around the house with a stick and low be tide if she caught me, she would give it to me and give it to me good…… she could really wield That stick!!!

I remember once on a particular night when we were living in Gymea bay, she was wearing a pair of these wooden Dr Scholl’s shoes (heavy bloody things they were supposedly good for your feet) and I was doing something I shouldn’t, next thing she started to chase me, by this stage I was getting pretty good at ducking and weaving…..all of a sudden she pulled off one the shoes and chucked it at me….but I was quick to react and ducked, fortunately for me the shoe missed me by a fraction and flew past my head, but unfortunately it clocked Craig fair in the scone……. He went down like a sack of potatoes…. I think she regretted that for a long time but it still makes me chuckle to this day.

I could tell you many stories like that but I won’t as we don’t have all day.

Some of the things I remember most about Mum.

Mum drove an amazing car when I was little it was a green Triumph Herald, she looked so cool in that thing with her cats eye glasses and her 50’s dresses, god I wish we still had that car.

Mum Smoked Viscount ciggies (which I may add I used to nick when I was a teenager) mum smoked for over 50 years and then one day she just decided to stop and she did….just like that, that was mum… she had a steely resolve when she put her mind to it.

She loved PK chewing gum and she really loved Eucalyptus lollies which I loved as well.

Mum had a passion for Antiques and second hand stuff, sometimes I would get thrown in her car on clean up weeks and we would drive around the neighbourhood scouring the streets for plunder….. we found some good shit over the years…… the thing I hated most about that was I would be the one that would have to get out of the car and go and get the shit!!! How embarrassing for a 10 year old boy….. but I have to say we did find some good shit!!!

Mum also loved to drag me around for what she called a “Sunday Run”. She would pile us in the car and we would drive around all the rich areas of Sydney and look at bloody houses….rich people’s houses, we would make regular visits to historic sites like Vaucluse house, Parramatta house etc and make us walk through these places, even if we had been there several times before…..for me it was excruciatingly boring, I just wanted to be with my mates playing footy etc…. I don’t think dad fancied it very much either…but we all towed the line.

I am convinced that secretly mum thought she was from Royal birth…..

Mum taught me how to try, how to compete, how to be tough and how to be fiercely independent.
Mum gave me the gift of good sportsmanship and how to play in a team, these were valuable gifts she gave, which have held me in good stead throughout my life and by doing so these traits have now been passed on to my kids.

The thing I will probably remember and miss the most about mum was her laugh, her laugh could fill a room, it would echo through the house late at night when we used to watch British comedies like on the buses (ill get you butler) or are you being served (are you free) all the way through to The two Ronnie’s (its good night from him and good night from me) and her favourite Dad’s army (who do you think you are kidding Mr Hitler). She had a wicked, cheeky and non pc sense of humour which we have all inherited from her…..everyone knew when mum was in the house!

A couple of week ago I spent the week with mum, just me and her….. I am so glad I got this time with her…. It was a tough week because she wasn’t well, but we made the most of it.

On one of the days we went on, “A Run”…… It was a well worn path for her…. we drove to and past every land mark in bloody Port Macquarie…. Past Steph’s house where she told me how well Steph and Charles were doing, then onto bonny hills where she showed me where Steve and Liz (Charles Parents) lived and how nice they were….. then past the golf club where she said that Craig and Sue said the food was great and what a lovely club it was…. except for the doorman who she said was a Dickhead…… BTW Dickhead was Mum’s favourite term for most people…. she called me a dickhead all the time.

Then off past the retirement village where, as the story goes, dad liked this place because they had heard that all the oldies were having sex and doing wife swapping etc…… she said she would never go there “bloody dickheads”…. but your father would, she said!

Then we went to north haven past the pool that her and Dad used to swim at….. BTW we stopped at every bloody op shop between her place and Kew!!! I am not kidding…. We also had to drive past Ma and Pa’s (Charles Grandparents) who she loved and apparently are the best thing since sliced bread.

Then she said we had to go and have fish and chips by the river…. She made me park in a particular place and we sat and watched the river, we chatted about all her grandkids and great grandkids and how great they all were…….. then all the way back to Port and back to get her a coffee from a particular place……. By this time, I was on a very short fuse…. But I am glad we did it because it made her happy.

I realised that night, when I was laying in bed, that the reason we did THAT drive in THAT order was because THAT is what she did with Dad…… Mum was heartbroken, 68 years of marriage was just too big a hurdle to get over, she missed him so much, she just didn’t know how to show it to us, I wish it could have been different, but that was Mum…. Mum may have been tough on the outside but on the inside she was soft and caring, she loved us to pieces and was proud of all of us…..

We love you mum and you will live on in our hearts forever.

Vanessa Johnson (daughter):
Mum was always full of support and encouragement to me. When I was growing up she was always there driving me from dance lessons to weekend pantomimes. She would always be backstage helping out with dressing and hair and makeup. When we moved to Katoomba there were piano lessons and golf tournaments.

I moved to Katoomba with mum and dad at the age of 12, of course being the mountains our first winter saw a huge snow fall.

School was closed early in order to get the kids home before the roads closed. We didn't live far from the school so I walked home, mum met me half way on this day and we walked home together while throwing snow balls at each other. We arrived home freezing cold and I remember she encouraged me to 'go have a nice warm shower she said'. It was a great idea, I warmed up real quick. Unfortunately mum had other ideas. While enjoying the warm shower I heard mum enter the bathroom, not knowing what she was up to I soon found out as a huge handful of snow was thrown over the top of the shower and covered me. Mum thought it was hilarious.

It was both mum and dad that encouraged my love for golf. Both mum and dad became members of Katoomba Golf Club not long after we moved to Katoomba and I guess you could say it was 'if you can't beat them you might as well join them'.

Mum and I played many games and competitions together, winning match plays and mixed foursome championships together. She was always there with me at junior competitions walking the course with me and if not allowed she would always be at the 18th green waiting to see how I had played.

Mum and I were both members of the Katoomba Golf Club Associates committee with mum holding the positions of both Captain and Vice Captain for a number of years.

I had the opportunity of being able to travel with mum and dad. Cruises when dad was entertaining, Fiji and the last trip to America with both Aunty Jan and Kristen.

Mum always liked company, the slightest hint of a sniffle or a cough and it was 'oh you better stop home from school today' and then half an hour later she was saying, 'let's go to Penrith for the day shopping'.
Three weeks ago Andy and I came up to Port Macquarie and spent the weekend with mum. We took her out for an early birthday lunch and she then directed us on a drive around what I think were a few of her favourite places where she used to go for drives with dad. I am so glad we had that weekend mum, little did we know it would be the last time that we would spend with you.

I know that you will be happy again now as you are reunited with dad, who we know you missed terribly. I want to thank you for everything mum, rest peacefully knowing that we love you and will miss you always.

Georgina Pattinson (Granddaughter)
:10 weeks to the day that my Nan, Jean Margaret Pattinson, decided to call it a day. After 68 years of marriage it seems she couldn’t bear to be without my pop. We are all shocked and saddened by our loss but I have the most wonderful memories of how fun and funny my Nan was. So I thought it only appropriate to celebrate her humour and her unforgettable laugh in my eulogy last Friday.. I’m not quiet sure why I, of all people, who normally can’t tell a joke, decided it was a good idea to attempt a fart joke at a funeral (of all places) but thankfully it got a good response. I guess we all know and loved my Nan’s great sense of Humour. Love you Nan..

My speech -
This is a little passage that I found that I know Nan was very fond of..
Lord
Grant me the serenity to
Accept the things
I cannot change
Courage to change
Those things I can
And the wisdom
To hide the bodies of
The people I may have to kill
Because they
PISS ME OFF!

Hehehe and then I can still very clearly hear nan saying ‘oh you gotta laugh George’.. and she’d beam her big pearly white denture grin, as we wiped away the tears from our eyes.

Nan had a wicked sense of humour, I can’t think of a time I didn’t have a solid belly laugh when I was with her.. and it’s this cheeky spirit that I just wanted to celebrate for a minute.

She had a wonderful way with words and a story for everyone she met. No-one was safe!
- Alex was up and down like a fiddlers elbow
- Stephs girls were like a fart in a bottle. Always eager to escape.
- And Dad couldn’t sit long enough to warm a seat
She was also a BIG bingo lover and I thought it was pretty funny that she managed to reach the epic milestone of her 88th (two fat ladies) birthday, a week before she passed.
It was when I rang her for this birthday and we were laughing because I was telling her about this fancy new STICK deodorant I had just bought - the instructions read..
take off cap and push up bottom.
I tell you, I could barely walk, but whenever I farted the room smelt lovely..
Then nan thought it was a good idea to remind me that
An Apple a day...
Keeps anyone away, if you throw it hard enough!
Thanks for all the laughs Nan, you certainly were one of a kind. And a great reminder not to take life too seriously as you never get out of it alive...

JEAN MARGARET PATTINSON
20th July 1932 – 31st July 2020

For Daniel Solomons: 'The loss of Daniel has left a hole in my heart', Memorial Scholarship Dinner, by Sandra Solomons - 2015

30 April 2015, Sydney, Australia

I would like to begin by lighting a candle in Daniel’s honour. Our family decided to have the Memorial event tonight. It was a toss between 29th or 30th April. Somehow, the 30th April was chosen. Recently, I opened a letter from the Great Synagogue informing us that Daniel’s Yahrzeit falls on 12 Iyar, which this year commences on the evening of Thursday 30th April 2015. His Hebrew Memorial day coincides with this event. You will come to learn that I don’t believe in coincidences. Rather divine intervention. We light a candle with the intent for individuals to take time to remember, honour and celebrate the life of a loved one. It is said that the spirit of the person fills the room for 24 hours. This flickering flame is symbolic of Daniel’s eternal light. As beautifully expressed by Shaw “Life is a splendid torch which I’ve got hold of for a brief moment and I want it to burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to a future generation.”

Grief, suffering and the loss of Daniel has left a hole in my heart. The grief ebbs and flows each day, each week and throughout the year. The pauses between these feelings fluctuate but his loss to suicide is difficult to come to terms with. I will never understand why and I have come to understand that I need to let go of trying to make sense of suicide. The whys, what ifs arrest the healing process. Rather, I live in hope that one day I will to come understand the blessings of a broken heart.

The healing process has been a journey and I feel grateful to friends, family and Ashurst for giving our family an opportunity to acknowledge and celebrate the short, but colourful life of Daniel.

I will give you reflections of his life on behalf of my beautiful and loving family: David, Michele, Bruce, Rebecca and Gregor. I will also extend the appreciation, love and friendship to Daniel’s extended family and friends. You were all special to him and filled his days with joy. Life is at times colourless without the presence of Daniel. Somehow we need to look for the colour despite his absence. That is the challenge of our grief. Back to Daniel’s colour ….He was the story -teller. His imagination, command of language and timing were faultless. You knew you were in for a treat, as he told his story or you were swept along with his drama. He often started his conversations with…’actually or do you know?’ His arresting, blue eyes would sparkle even more and one had to steel themselves for the vivid, colourful and often challenging debate to follow.

I know we all miss him and that sadness and emptiness is a companion at times but aren’t we all fortunate that he was part of our lives even for such a short time. The memories and stories live on.

My story or journey begins…as I was sitting in a café reminiscing about Daniel.
Daniel loved eating out at restaurants…. The ceremony of the outing filled him with anticipation of a delicious meal and companionship. Delicious was one of his favourite words, or quirkier still ‘deliciousness’. Only Daniel could get away with this transgression. I began to pen my recollections as I sat in a trendy Eastern suburbs café. I was reading ‘A Private Life’ by Michael Kirby, a book I found so engaging and meaningful. You could say, I was surrounded by Daniel as his favourite album was playing in the background. ‘Dreams’ by The Cranberries was pulsing through my veins. Daniel’s presence was palpable. I delved into the book and the words discussed in our meetings with Michael Kirby came to life and echoed the background music. Personal courage and enlightenment came to foreground. Justus Kirby you have triumphed in your journey and enlightened many, many people on a personal and professional level, especially David and I. I feel as though Daniel has been tapping me on the shoulder, guiding me on my journey and opening me eyes as I learn to understand and come to terms with my grief. As I have said before don’t believe in coincidences. Somehow David and I were lucky enough to meet and have meaningful discussions with you, Michael in your offices. It was a privilege and Daniel is looking on smiling. I could just imagine the banter, that could have of unfolded between the two of you in your office, but sadly this did not come to be. Even though, Daniel lost his life to suicide, I feel that the words Personal Courage and Enlightenment are true for him too. Daniel was loved and admired by so many. He was a fine young man, exuding tremendous personal qualities. Daniel was a wonderful son, brother, grandson, nephew, cousin, friend and mentor. He had personal courage and the spark of enlightenment. Despite his junior position as a lawyer he stood his ground and would advise and guide senior colleagues on difficult points of law. Somehow, he could see beyond the ordinary. These powerful attributes of Personal Courage and Enlightenment must live on in Daniel’s honour. Learning, education and the love of law were Daniel’s passion. He thrived at UNSW and met a new set of friends. He loved them as people but also he loved studying and debating contentious issues of law during tutorials. So once again Daniel is tapping my shoulder, rather strongly, watching over me and guiding our decision process for his Memorial Scholarship. It took some time but here we are. We feel we are on the path now. Pay it forward shine the light, pass on the legacy of living, loving and respecting the law. So the scholarship has been created and with generous donations from tonight it will hopefully have a ‘long life’. Our dream is that it will become endowed. Jordana Wong, the Development Manager from UNSW Law has been simply amazing. I am so pleased you are here tonight assisting our guests. Finally, we can fulfill the dream to have a Memorial Scholarship that Daniel would endorse.

Reflecting back to his younger and formative years Daniel was bewitched by the character of Dorothy as she followed her adventures in the Land of Oz. Daniel followed his own enchanting road in Oz land. Life was full of colour, friends and adventures. We were mesmerized by Daniel’s passion and enthusiasm and travelled along his magical pathway. At the end of the journey, the heroine and hero discover all one seeks was inside all along. So home for Daniel is within our heart now and always. The memories, the stories are embedded within and give comfort during times of sadness.

Daniel has left many legacies. Yes he was a writer, an academic, a passionate learner a learned and sensitive man. He penned only a few reminders of his talents- shorts stories, journal articles and a Chapter in Australian Corporate Finance. But for me his overwhelming legacy is that his work was not yet completed. Our family has taken the challenge to awaken his light and shine this on others. Despite overwhelming grief and sadness we wanted to remember and honour Daniel in a fitting way. So the concept of a dinner was mooted and here we are tonight remembering a fine young man. Once again Daniel’s presence is palpable. I have come to understand his love of Ashurst. I have met and been assisted by his generous colleagues. I have walked Daniel’s steps as I take the Rose Bay ferry to Circular Quay and enter Grosvenor Place. I travel up the same lifts he did to the reception level for all my meetings. You are all sitting here tonight in the Boardrooms of Ashurt, a place Daniel knew well. It is hard to take these steps, but who doesn’t do hard for someone they love and cherish. Oscar Wilde, one of Daniel’s favourite authors wrote… “Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead. So back to Daniel, tapping my shoulder, guiding me forward. I met and worked closely with the professional team at Ashurst. I know they represent the other Ashurst colleagues that knew and respected Daniel. Emanuel Poulos you are the rock who believed in Daniel and this function. You were his voice and mine. You introduced me to the team: Kate Cato, Tahnya Seifman and Remonda Sukkar. I feel so connected to you and feel blessed that I had the opportunity to work with such caring and conscientious individuals. We worked together to create this event. You have helped make this the best ‘Daniel’ event. A heartfelt Thank You!

You are the ambassadors for Ashurst. On behalf of my family and friends I thank Ashurst sincerely for being the gracious host for this evening and event. Your generosity is received with gratitude.

I would like to acknowledge the unwavering love and devotion of my family, immediate and extended. We have cried together, comforted each other, reminisced and laughed together. My friends are also my family. I could not have travelled this road without you. We share a bond that has stood the test of time. Finally, Daniel’s friends are now part of our lives. Together we can live in hope and use this challenge of loss to find our inner strength. Let his story and legacy continue.

Finally, our family wish to acknowledge the generous donations for the auction and raffle tonight. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Thank you to family, friends, colleagues for joining us here tonight to honour and remember Daniel. Your presence tonight has made this Memorial Scholarship Dinner launch truly memorable.

Mark Lipson, my dear nephew has worked tirelessly on this beautiful snap shot DVD of Daniel. How can one sum up such a unique, amazing young man!! A challenge for all of us!! Mark you are the true professional, your focus was to do the best by Daniel and you did!! You held my hand compassionately, listened to my tears and tried to hug them away.

Daniel, we miss you deeply, you are irreplaceable. We pray that your dear soul rests eternally in peace. I will conclude with a quote from Einstein as it sums up Daniel, “The pursuit of knowledge for its own sake, an almost fanatical love of justice… these are the features of the tradition which makes me thank my lucky stars that I belonged to it.”

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 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 Marie Bernadette Ryan : 'Wherever Mum is, it’s a warm day, every day'. by Serena Ryan - 2018

20 June 2018, Our Lady of Lourdes Church, Rockingham WA, Australia

Before I begin on behalf of our family I’d like to extend heartfelt thanks to the Ladies of Bethanie - it was always so obvious to me how much you cared about Mum and right until the end, you were unwaveringly kind and compassionate. We are so grateful to have had you there for Mum and Dad and wanted to acknowledge how much your kindness meant to us all.  Thank you.

To Father VJ, thank you for offering Mum support over the years and for giving her the last rights - it was beautiful to listen to you and pray with you as your words shepherded her through her final moments.

Thank you to Emily for your courage. You are our hero. Thank you.

Thank you also to Eileen and Gerrard McMorrough who provided me with light when I was in total darkness. I will never forget this.

To all who have attended today to celebrate Mum’s life with us, thank you. So many familiar faces here today - she would’ve been so chuffed.

So, to the wonderful Marie, Ibu, Sunshine

My Mum.

For as long as I can remember, I felt like Mum loved me deeply and unconditionally. It’s been truly humbling to have been loved so much for my entire life - it was her greatest gift to me because she taught me so much just by loving me.

When I was a kid I always remember the school holidays - Mum was always so happy to have us home and I remember never being bored - whether it was big days at the beach or in the pool or wandering through an art gallery when I got a bit older, she was always so thrilled to spend time with me - I’ll never forget that. She was my first real friend and until the end of time she will always be my best friend.

She’s irreplaceable.

As I grew older our relationship naturally morphed with us and I understood more about her as a human and how she’d made her way in the world. It was my honour to get to know her.

I never laughed more than when I was with my mum. She was always cheeky, irreverent & naughty - when I heard her tell a nurse to feck off in her final days, I’m proud to say she was also completely unrepentant.

She was a glorious human being.

We had some great adventures together - so many fun times like when we would go to Bali and she would be at the plane door ready to get off before the plane had even finished taxiing in for landing - or how when you gave her a gift you’d know if she liked it or not if she asked for the receipt. In later years I just gave her the receipt just in case because in her words ‘I like it now but I might not tomorrow’.

She was incorrigible.

Other great moments came when we were just sitting on the couch nattering away or, on the phone making each other laugh when one of us was a bit down. Little moments that will mean so much forever.

There were pivotal moments in my life where she gave me amazing advice and wise counsel. At times she had made choices in her life that others didn’t agree with so she taught me to be sure of myself and the choices I made - that I didn’t have to justify myself to anyone.

She understood my need to move to Melbourne and often comforted me on my guilt about leaving because she felt that way about coming to Australia and leaving her family. She understood this and whenever I wailed about it, she always comforted me and said ‘my darling, you are exactly where you’re meant to be’. And in the very tough times, this still rings in my ears.

There will never be another woman like her.

So now that she’s gone and I’m away from home, the nights seem a bit longer so I find myself awake wondering what Mum is doing right now.

What does her world look like? I find it really comforting to think about this so let me tell you how I think she’s going.

On arrival Mum would’ve been welcomed by her Mum and Dad, her Granny and sister Vivienne all of whom she missed deeply her whole life.  Great Aunty Nan with the booming voice and heaving bosom will also be there - she was lovely and terrifying in equal measure.

As she arrives Mum’s smile will be lighting up the room. She always had an incredible smile so it’s seems right that she shares that with who she’s with now. Her nickname was Sunshine so now, she will be sunshine itself I think.

Mum will have perfect vision - she will see luscious trees, plants, the clear blue ocean and lots and lots of flowers. Frangipanis, succulents and palm trees. The scents and sights of which will delight her.

Her hearing will be perfect as the birds herald her arrival.

She’ll hear all her favourite music - Neil Diamond, the Fureys, Andrea Botcelli, Andre Rier who she had a massive crush on, and there’ll be some Indonesian gamelan in the background, the sound of which she loved waking up to in Bali.

Mum will be feeling no pain.

She’ll feel the breeze on her face and the kisses of her family around her. I suspect she will be dancing because that was something she always loved doing so I expect a decent amount of booty shaking.

She will walk unaided and freely.

But now to the all important question

What will Mum be wearing?

Without doubt, she will be wearing a hat. Something big and glorious. And she’ll be loving herself sick in it but at the same time, she will be worried if her hair looks ok.

She’ll be wearing a sarong, tied up at the front but the jury is out on whether she’ll be wearing any underwear - she was quite fond of having the wind in her willows on a warm day so that’s anyone’s guess right now - and good luck to her on that score.

And I know that would make her laugh her head off that I mentioned this.

She will quickly find popularity - she’ll hang with the bohemian crowd to talk about art and all things creative whilst looking down on us all - maybe moving plants or making pictures on the wall wonky or helping me finally grow a frangipani in Melbourne - she’ll be throwing us clues and gifts from now on I believe. We just have to be on the lookout.

Wherever Mum is, it’s a warm day, every day.

She is never cold and her heart beats fiercely.

And she is happy.

So what’s he legacy?

For me, it’s her big heart, her always seeing the bright side of life and the good in people. How she would always say hello to people she didn’t know just to brighten their day, and hers. I find myself doing this and loving it as I get older.  I will think of her when I sip tea from a beautiful China cup and saucer and every time I rifle through my massive scarf collection and, when I look in the mirror I can see her. What a gift that is.

Her love of art flows through me - I see beauty everywhere I go and she taught me that - to find beauty in the little things.

She’s passed on her love of cooking and entertaining so the house is always full of people which I love.

She was a true traveller - she boarded a ship as a very young woman with my dad and two little ones and moved to the other side of the world. I’ve always found that truly brave and to have had adventures as many and as long as she did, she’s inspired me to travel the world as much as I can. Meet people, try new foods, new music and new cultures - what an amazing legacy.

My job now is to honour that legacy.

But the big question is: will she make good on her threat to haunt me?

God, I hope so.

So mum, I guess this is where I get off and you move on down the road.

Towards the sunshine.

Thank you Mum

For loving me

For raising me

For protecting me

For believing in me

And, for being my friend

Thank you for everything.

You are my best friend and I will love you forever.

This is not goodbye, it’s just an intermission until we meet again.

I love you Mum.

Mind yerself now

for Kathleen Darley: 'Mum joins Dad in heaven today and I am sure there weren’t any stops on the way', by son Gerald Darley - 2016

November 2016, Adelaide, South Australia

Welcome to the celebration of Mum's life. And what an inspiration she was to us all and so very special.

Mum reaching the wonderful age of 98 years, and what a marvelous achievement this has been. One of my old football mates from Melbourne Ted Sheehan said, “well she beat Don Bradman he only made it to 92”.

Mum joins Dad in heaven today and I am sure there weren’t any stops on the way and Dad would be looking forward this Saturday morning to mum cooking the breakfast he loved so much in The Crystal Brook days........ Lambs Fry & Bacon.

John & I said to not worry about sending any leftovers down.

All of our families are here in support of the celebration. John & Gill produced two beautiful girls in Danielle & Simone, and Sandra & I produced two beautiful boys in Brad & David. Craig & Simone produced two beautiful great grandchildren for mum & dad in Spencer and Adelaide Gillian. Mum loved her family dearly and we saw her as being a permanent shining light in our lives.

Our loyal family friend for over 50 years, Len Loechel is also considered one of the family, Dad and Mum always looked upon Len as being the third son. And Jeff Powell has been a long time family friend as well.

Dad was one of 8 in his family at Narridy (3 boys and 5 girls ), and Mum was one of 8 in her family down on the Cattle Track at Crystal Brook ( 3 boys and 5 girls ) . Her brothers Tom , Phil and Jay, and sisters  Agnes, Mary, Eileen ( A Good Samaritan nun), Winnie and mum. Mum was so proud to have her sister Eileen a Good Samaritan Nun and there was a very special bond between them .                                                                                                                                                           Mum also had two nieces who became Convent of Mercy Nuns, Catherine Weatherald (dec’d) and her sister Josephine Weatherald. Mum was equally proud of them also.

Kathleen Veronica O’Loughlin was born in Jamestown on 14 February 1918 (St Valentine’s Day) and after finishing school at the Catholic Convent at Crystal Brook aged 14yrs, she worked at her Aunty Nora Freeman’s hotel in Wilmington for 3 years..... Then back to Crystal Brook working as a house maid at the  Brook Hotel, and then a clerk the local Post office with Mr Ahern.

Mum loved her Irish heritage, her grandparents originally came from County Cork in Ireland, and her parents were Thomas (Snr) and Agnes (Snr). Unfortunately, her mother was only 50yrs old when she passed away suddenly after a short illness, so the family had to grow up quickly as many had to in those days. Mum’s father Thomas Snr, was a farmer and a drover.

Mum was well known for her Irish dancing on St Patrick's Day at Crystal Brook, including her famous Irish Jig, The Highland Fling and The Sailors Hornpipe. Mum also won a major Waltzing competition at the annual Crystal Brook Ball when she was 19 years of age. And she also played the Violin in a joint performance with Kev Kelly.

Dad sent money home when he was in the 2nd world war in the Middle East, to his brother Uncle Rex Darley, and asked that he, Auntie Marj and Auntie Mavis buy an engagement ring for Kathleen. Mum and Dad were married at St Mark’s Pt Pirie on 13th March 1943, and so the story began.

In my very early years of growing up in Crystal Brook, there are a couple of situations with mum that I can recall. Firstly as a little boy I use to suck my thumb, and I would be sitting on  mum’s lap and she would be singing to me The Irish Lullaby “ TOORA LOORA LOORA” , and  that changed to ‘Dance with the Dolly’ for the grandchildren,.AND I can also remember Mum would have John and myself on her bike, one on the front and one on the back, peddling us both up to School or Mass ,  and we would both be yelling out to her to go faster.

Also one morning in those early years, Mum sent John down to “Matthews Bakery” when he was about 12yrs old to buy a loaf of freshly baked bread ,sandwich loaf, unsliced as it was in those days. On the way back home John started picking and nibbling at the open-end centre of the warm bread and by the time he got home, you could see large hole right through the middle of the bread...... Poor Mum had to make dad’s lunch sandwiches that night from of the outside crusts of the bread. Not happy Kath and not happy Roy.

Mum had such wonderful great faith, and never once did she impose her religious beliefs on anyone. She did not have to, everyone knew she was special. She had a number of holy pictures around her at The Nursing Home and her favourite Saint was Mary Mackillop.  

Mum was able to take things in her stride and lived by the philosophy, you can’t change the past and never carry regrets and the way you live today creates the path for the future. She was rock solid on that and lived by that right throughout her life. Mum also had a gift in that she was  mentally ‘strong as’,  and never thrown off guard. Her energy and language was full of love, respect and always dignified.

When John & I were about 12 and 13 we had taken a liking to Condensed Milk and we knew mum had a book no.161 at Eudunda Farmers to make small purchases. Up we go to the Counter  “Two tins of Condensed Milk thanks Mr Lambert”, well Mr Lambert knew we were up and coming young footballers in the Junior Colts and he did not have the heart to knock us back.

We would get half way home , in front of the wheat stacks , a rusty old nail and a hole in both ends, and down goes the Condensed Milk, we would feel sick in the tummy for the rest of the day. We did that two or three times during the month, and Mr Lambert went along with us, as he was looking at the future opportunities of the Crystal Brook Football club.

Then Mum gets her monthly account from Eudunda Farmers -that was the end of the condensed milk - but John, Len and I played in up to three “A grade” premierships with Crystal Brook 1962, 1963 and 1964 . So all I can say is that Mr Lambert’s efforts did not go unrewarded.

Kathy did enjoy glass of  beer on a hot summer’s night at the Brook or when Uncle Tom O’Loughlin came over for a Sunday night’s baked Dinner. She would say that the beer had to be really cold and it would........ “ tickle all the way down”.

Mum was always there for Dad and the family, through the highs and lows of daily life. Always self assuring, calm and gentle, I think you have to be when you live with a Darley, in a male dominated household such as ours was. But when she waved that finger, we quickly stood to attention, even Dad, and she meant business.

Mum was comfortable with a simple life and did not want the best of everything, but the way she lived she made the best of everything. And Gratitude as such can easily be referred to as a shortcut to happiness.

Kathleen was radiant and had an aura about her, and when she walked into a crowded room with that beautiful smile, it was infectious, full of warmth and everyone noticed her. Always positive in her conversations with family and friends, and always re assuring in her language , we all loved her and wanted to be in her presence. Mum always found the good side in people, no matter who they were, and always made those she met feel special about themselves, a rare quality indeed .

Mum worked casually at Kev and Marnie Jones “Shell Roadhouse” in the Cafe at the Brook for a few years with Pat O’Dea, Nell Sedgeman & Vera Keech. Mum and Dad always held a high regard for Kev and Marnie Jones.

Mum especially loved working at social functions to support the local RSL , The Football Club, Catholic School and especially the children’s Orphanage at Crystal Brook. One of those functions supporting the Orphanage being The Annual Strawberry fete which was a special  event, with Pat Fenech controlling the Strawberries and Icecream, and who could forget Dorrie Higgins mouth watering cream puffs or the famous Kath Darley scones and didn’t we love them.

She was joined with some of her long time friends working year after year at the annual fete and I am sure she would love to have some of them recognised: Mrs Curtin, Mrs Dee, Madge Slattery, Maunie Carmody, Joan O’Callaghan, Bub O’Shaughnessy, Mollie Kerin , Auntie Mary O’Connell, poor old Madge Cox, Meg and Pauline Curtin, ‘Little’ Marj Head and ‘Tall’ Marj Head as mum would say, and she never forgot the two Mrs Hickey’s, who were great workers for the school.

There were some other very special workers that mum had great admiration for, the local Catholic nuns who ran the school, the convent and cared for a number of children at The Orphanage at any one time. Sister Sabina, Sister Bede, Sister Patrick and Sister Ethelreda to name a few.

These nuns were high achievers often under trying conditions. Nothing for themselves, just 100% GIVE of themselves, long hours... 7 days a week, 365 days a year.......... So if this is an opportunity for a public acclamation of all the Catholic Nuns at Crystal Brook, including mum’s sister, Sister Pauline ,in recognition of the hard work for the many years at The School, The Convent and The Orphanage, then it is so richly deserved. Mum would love to hear that.

Mum had a special place in her heart for Warrigul , Pauline and Neal, down on The Cattle Track with Uncle Dan and Aunty Mary.

Mum’s song was Danny Boy, she loved it and sang it.......   If John & I weren’t kicking the football on the dusty road, we were playing cricket up our driveway with Gary, Boxer (dec’d ) and Bruie, and over the years mum loved to hear the song which was sung and composed by Greg Champion titled, “I made a hundred in the backyard at mums”. It was very special to her and she would often hum the tune.

 There was also another well known Australian song that mum found inspirational. It reminded her of her brothers Tom ,Phil and Jay running out onto the football field, it reminded her of John, Len, Craig and myself, and her nephews (Peter, Gus and Jeff) running onto the ground. That song was called “UP THERE CAZALY”. It was the full package for mum and she re-lived the wonderful memories of those years each time she heard the song.

Mum was able to cope with every situation, good and bad, always with a most peaceful approach and displaying empathy when needed and she had the ability to put people at ease in an instant.  All of these qualities appeared to come effortlessly to her, just a wonderful  gift she had. Mum would feel quite embarrassed  about me saying these words about her but quite humbled also. 

 I was reading a quote recently which said “That People will forget what you said and People will forget what you did. But People never forget how you made them feel”.                                                                

Mum supported John and I right to the end, never faltering with her love for all the family , her grandchildren and great grandchildren and she loved them dearly, and it is great to have our own doctor in the family ...“we keep costs under control.”

Quintessentially speaking, our family saw mum as a perfect example of someone who demonstrated, clearly demonstrated that true happiness is all about giving and comes from within.

Dad was a little lost when they arrived at the Nursing Home at Grange in Nov 2009 and they were in separate beds in the one room , and after the first few nights, Dad said to mum in his aging voice “I think you had better come over here and get into bed with me tonight Kath”, 

Mum told dad to go back to sleep.

Mum loved the ‘AngliCare’ Nursing Home at Grange and all the staff. The dedicated and exceptional care that she received from the staff at the Nursing Home was out of this world. It gave the family peace of mind, knowing she was in great hands. It was just the best.

Special thanks also to our long time family friend Theresa Hamer from Canberra who mum and dad thought the world of. And Jim Rice and Angus Tully also from Canberra, have been a long time family friends as well.

Special thanks to Father Rate and also Kay Clements a local parishioner who every Tuesday morning, week after week, took Holy Communion to mum at the Nursing Home. Greatly appreciated Kay.

The staff at “Blackwell’s Funerals” have been meticulous in handling all the details for today. Well done.

John, Sandra, Danielle ,Simone , Craig, Brad and David have produced some special magic in delivering for today. It has been one outstanding team performance. John visited mum at  the Nursing home 3 times a week , every week for 7 years without fail. He was the Anchor for mum and the Anchor for the family. Outstanding.

We think that Kathleen Veronica Darley (nee O’Loughlin) was a work of art, and has her place in history at the highest level. She loved being an O’Loughlin and loved being a Darley just as much.

On behalf of the family thank you all for standing alongside us today. A special mention to all those who have travelled long distances to be here also.

Mum passing away peacefully at the Nursing Home at the wonderful age of 98 is not tragic, it’s natural.

Mum and Dad built a family home which was full of Love, Pride,  Energy, Responsibility and Respect.

And so finally, when you are all back at home tonight having a drink with your family, think of Mum and I am sure that it will  “Tickle all the way down”.      

For Lorna Colbert: 'We were the light of her life, and she let us know it ‘til the end', by son Steven Colbert

19 June 2013, New York, USA

Hi everybody. Thanks for being here tonight, everyone in here and out there watching. I’ve been away from the Report for a week because one week ago from today, my mother Lorna Tuck Colbert died. And I want to thank everybody who offered their thoughts and prayers.

Now if you watch this show, and you like this show, it’s because everybody who works here and I’m lucky to be one of them. But when you watch the show, if you also like me, that’s because of my mom. So before we start the show again, I’d like to tell you a little bit about her.

She was born just a little ways from here in Larchmont, NY on Chatsworth Ave. in 1920, the same week women first got the right to vote. She spent her summers in the Adirondacks with her older sister Colleen and her younger brother Ed, who called her Snodgrass. She met my father James at age 12 at Cotillion and she liked him, but she didn’t want him to know how much, so she would make her friends ride their bikes all the way across town to pass by his house, but then she’d never look to see if he was in the front yard, which of course drove her friends crazy. And evidently she drove my father crazy because they married and had 11 children.

She made a very loving home for us. No fight between siblings could end without hugs and kisses, although hugs never needed a reason in her house. Singing and dancing was encouraged except at the dinner table. She’d trained to be an actress when she was younger and she would teach us to do stage falls by pretending to faint on the kitchen floor.
She was fun.

She knew more than her share of tragedy, losing her brother and her husband and three of her sons. But her love for her family and her faith in God somehow gave her the strength not only to go on but to love life without bitterness and instill in all of us a gratitude for every day we have together.

And I know it may sound greedy to want more days with a person who lived so long, but the fact that my mother was 92 does not diminish, it only magnifies the enormity of the room whose doors have quietly shut.

In her last days, my mother occasionally became confused, and to try to ground her we tried to ask her simple questions, like what’s your favorite color, what’s your favorite song. She couldn’t answer these. But when asked what her favorite prayer was, she immediately recited the Child’s Prayer, in German, which she used to say to my eldest brothers and sisters at bedtime when they we living in Munich in the late 1940s. Her favorite memory of prayer was a young mother tucking in her children.

We were the light of her life, and she let us know it ‘til the end. And that’s it. Thank you for listening.

Now we can get to the truly important work of television broadcasting, which is what she would want me to do. When I was leaving her last week, I leaned over and I said, “Mom, I’m going back to New York to do the show ,” and she said “I can’t wait to see it. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

So, with that in mind… this is the Colbert Report.

For Sally Crisp: 'A life bloody well lived', by son Angus - 2016

8 October 2016, The Boulevarde, Kew, Melbourne, Australia

On 2nd July 1939 Sally Gillian Leighton was born in Tientsin, China to expat Brits Edgar and Madeliene Leighton.  All of our lives, in some way shape or form, were impacted by this event.  It was world changing.  A shock of black hair apparently.  Standing straight up all over her head, soon to be replaced with those fair curls we all knew so well.  Young Sally certainly had an interesting start to her life. Indeed her entire life. A planned holiday to Australia at age 2 1/2 when World War 2 was in its infancy. Japanese tensions were high though and resulted in Mum, her mother, father and brother Tim being blocked from leaving Hong Kong Harbor via ship, when Pearl Harbour was bombed by the Japanese.  Interned in a Prisoner of War camp for three years, repatriated after the war and sent back to England, once again moved to China in 1947 to reclaim the family home, prior to finally making the planned journey to settle in Australia and Barwon Heads in 1950.  Moved, again, to Portland and to Avonmore to establish a Carnation Farm.   Schooled by nuns in a convent, trained as a nurse at the Alfred with a group known as Group X, further travelled via a bomb of a VW Beetle across the continent and on ships around and through Europe, working as a dishwasher for board, falling in love with skiing and chasing snow, a passion that remained her entire life until her knees said no more, and even then getting two replacements (we have the technology to re-build her); settling in Melbourne, meeting Dad and marrying in 1972.  Moving back to Portland to share in the running of Avonmore Carnations, giving birth to myself and Fiona, constant trips to Bridgewater Bay, Discovery Bay and the wild coast of the South West of Victoria, often to assist her brother Tim find driftwood at Discovery Bay.  Moving back to Melbourne and Terry St, re-training as a nurse, private nursing to the rich and famous in Toorak while sending her two children to private schools. Still more trips camping, to Falls Creek, Mount Buller, Mount Hotham, Thredbo and Perisher then taking the family to the US in the summer of 89 / 90 to again chase snow. Learning signed English , then later Auslan and Auslan interpreting. Working at two renown Melbourne private schools as their much loved school nurse.  Finally retiring, only to pretty much take up full time travel.  Anyone would think Mum actually liked travel!!  Playing an active role with her two grandchildren ….. and granddog, Bolt. Travelling to Canada (this was supposedly to see me, but I still think it was still primarily for the snow), further travel to Russia, Africa, Western Australia, South America.  Hiking just last year to Machu Pitchu and, as I have only recently found out, with future plans (and deposit paid), for Greece. All this while somehow maintaining a boundless amount of energy, and an enthusiasm for life that had no limit.

As her son, I literally have a lifetime of memories with my mother. Many of you in this room do too.  Memories that certainly predate my lifetime, but that I have been reminded of or told of recently, through messages, stories and photos.

Stories of mum in her childhood years, battling constantly with her younger brother Tim.  He pulling her pigtails, Mum finally having had enough, and hanging him by the jacket he was wearing on a coat hook in the hallway of the family home.  Leaving him dangling there and unable to do a thing until their mother found him there, a good hour later.

Not so discreet tales of Mum during her nurse training years and with Group X.  As one member who shall remain nameless has said …. “Oh we were very naughty girls. We got up to so much mischief.” ….. I would be disappointed if it had been any other way.

Two of Sally's oldest friends, Sue and Lace, are unable to be here today and have sent some of their thoughts:

“Oh our beautiful friend Sally with an amazing zest for life. How we will miss you.  The laugh, the welcome and all the fun times.

From 1957 - innocent girls starting nursing, supporting each other through thick and thin.

In later years with distances separating us for so long and with families to love and care for - it never diminished our friendships.

Such wonderful memories of Portland at the 21st, other times picking carnations or fishing with Edgar and Madeleine.

Hilarious times in London with Lace and Peter, trying on hats in Marks and Sparks laughing all the way from Kensington to Oxford St and finishing in a pub to cure the aching jaws

Our first year nursing holiday at Mt Buller - we think the start to Sally's romance with skiing which she loved, and trying to knit mittens.  Not a very successful exercise, in fact, disastrous.  Dancing on tables in Victoria Parade.  New Year in Mansfield and caring for her after breast cancer - so very brave.  The happy and fun times are what we will remember - they will put smiles on our faces and hide the tears behind our eyes.

Sally, farewell to a true and wonderful friend.  Always in our hearts”

Memories and photos shared of a trip through Central Australia by Mum and Gisella Barrett.  Getting bogged in bottomless sand, climbing Ayres Rock when you were still allowed to, getting lost in the gorges of the Olgas and many more.  Mum being mum, she didn’t quite get around to keeping a diary of this trip.  Too much to do!!  But Gisella did, and I look forward to hearing more of this trip when the time allows.

Gisella also recently shared a memory with me that she has let me share:

“On my first date with Christopher, only a few weeks after my arrival in Australia, I met Sally. She had invited friends to see slides of the Snowy Mountains. This was the beginning of our friendship and it never ended. We shared many highs and also lows.  Sally became more than a friend – I regard her as my Australian sister and shall miss her terribly.”

Another friend, Liz Fletcher who also could not be with us here today recalled: Kayaking with Sally at Fairfield.

“Most would have retired after a dunking, but not your mum. I was lucky enough to ski with her at Hotham – I wished I had her grace and style on the slopes. And as for those privileged whale sharks off WA …. I’m sure they would have been smiling as the adventurous Mermaid Sally swam past. Then there was the time we danced with the African drummers at the Werribee zoo ….. what memories.”

Mum introduced me to skiing at Buller at the age of eight. Dressing me head to toe in a red one piece suit, equipping me with skis that were far too long, then patiently trying to get me to snowplough, when all I could care about was going straight and fast. Mum eventually saw the merit in ski school. And her passion became mine. Yearly trips to Falls Creek with the Grays being just the start.

Christmases.  Mum absolutely loved Christmas. Annual street Christmas parties at Terry St. Almost every year the whole street invited to mums for some Christmas cheer. The traditional watching of Christmas Vacation. The laughing at the same scenes. Every year. For a small family, we certainly had an enormous Christmas lunch.  All the trimmings of a full ham, a turkey, roast vegetables, the works.  Plum pudding and her hard brandy sauce.  A sauce that more than once sent the uninitiated off the deep end with the level of alcohol contained in the recipe.

Mum absolutely adored her grandkids. Just loved them. When I was young I had named my grandmother Gung as Gran didn’t quite come out correctly. Mum, being mum, in a similar vein also wanted a particular name.  She wanted to be called Gigi!  This didn’t quite work with Annabelle though, as Annabelle declared that Mum, would be called Momo.   So Momo it became. And she loved it.

I have so many memories that come to mind when I think of Mum. 

Selflessly looking after dad when he was so very ill 4 years ago. Something she deserved a medal for. 

Sadly having to give a similar speech to this one for Dad and seeing her looking at me while I gave it.  She looked so proud.

Holidays at Portland.   History repeating.  Just loving seeing her grandchildren enjoying not only what she enjoyed, but what Fiona and I enjoyed also. Primarily waterskiing and the Bridgewater Lakes. 

School fete volunteering, school markets, 15 Lbs Café.  She was an adopted Fairfield local. 

Her brave Cancer fight. Her stunning, in my opinion, short hair, pink balloons and the BCNA. 

The Cats.  Those mighty Cats.  Theatre productions.  Cats, Phantom of the Opera, Les Miserables and most recently, while Mum wasn’t there, I was able to take her place, taking her grandkids to see Matilda.  She would have loved it.

Entertaining at Terry St.   Monster dinners and providing second dinners for most of my close friends at least once a week.

The closeness to her daughter, Fiona.   As recently as their holiday together in Cairns.   They were often simply inseparable.  I know how much Fiona loved her Mum and how much she is going to miss her.

What a life lived.  As a great friend of Mum's recently said …. "Unfortunately, we all have to die at some point. But it's how we lived that matters".

And live mum did.  I do not hesitate in saying she bloody well lived.

Mums “other daughter”, Kate, recounted to me that she didn't think she had ever met a more positive person than Mum.   On me informing many of you here of Mum's untimely passing, a constant theme emerged.   Mum's energy, her smile that simply lit up wherever she may be ..... and her laugh.  You would know when mum arrived in a room, a house or in fact anywhere at all, by her infectious laugh.  It was unmissable ….. But we miss it now.

She has left a huge hole in so many people's lives.  The phone calls, and rambling voice messages, the long lunches, theatre and MTC productions, ballet, opera, walks on windswept beaches.  None of these will ever be the same.

It was always Mum's wish for her farewell to be a celebration rather than a sad affair.   Good food, good friends and good music.   A party in fact.   In Mum's words, “None of this sadness rubbish!”.  This is going to be hard for all of us here today …. It already is ….. and of course we are going to be at least a little sad at such a huge loss, but Mum …. Momo, would want us to remember the fun times, cherish the memories of times shared and celebrate the life of a woman that was .... Bloody well lived.

You were one in a million, Mum.  And absolutely irreplaceable.   Wherever you may be right now mum, be it a windswept beach, a mountain covered in a fresh dusting of snow, catching some sun, or somewhere else far more exotic that would no doubt suit you perfectly…. And cater for your dancing style …… Thank you for being a sister, a friend, a mother, a mother in law and a grandmother whose spirit, energy, enthusiasm and memories will live on for a long, long time.   Thank you mum.   We miss you terribly already, but we hope you are breathing easily and are smiling ….. and laughing as only you could. We love you mum, and we’ll miss you forever.

Sally Gillian Crisp (Leighton) 2 July 1939 - 12 September 2016

Related Content: Angus's eulogy for his father, Ian. Also lovely and also on Speakola.

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