for Bill Bradshaw: 'Lesson 1: These are the teams worthy of your support: Geelong, Boston Celtics, Liverpool'. by son Finn Bradshaw - 2016

20 March 2016, Melbourne, Australia

As we’ve heard today, my father was many things. Musician, athlete, mentor, raconteur. But above all he was an educator. Not just in the classroom. But throughout his daily life.

So in that spirit, today I want to share with you Lessons From my Father.

Lesson 1: These are the teams worthy of your support: Geelong, Boston Celtics, Liverpool.

In my childhood, two of those three had glorious histories of grand achievement. The other was known for, well, having a good time. Many was the time as a child I pondered whether I could change clubs, to leave behind the taint of Geelong. Thank God, or rather the Son of God, I didn’t.

But when I stood back, there was a thread running through those clubs, that explained why they attracted his passion. All stood for something beyond a blind drive to succeed at all costs.

Liverpool was known for their stylish, team-oriented play, and their most famous manager gave us the immortal line “Some people think football is a matter of life and death … it is much more important than that.”

Boston delivered extraordinary success from an unrelenting drive to play the perfect game. The team also defied the often racist undertones of their city to be racially progressiveness. Bill followed the Celtics because he saw Bill Russell — one of the top 3 basketball players of all time — play at the 1956 Olympics. When Russell was appointed coach, he was NBA’s the first black head coach.

And Geelong, well, until 2007, it was known for playing beautiful, free flowing football that never quite resulted in a flag. Being a Geelong supporter in the 80s and 90s certainly built character.

Sport for Bill was something so much more than just a result on a scoreboard. It was a way to teach young people about life. How to be part of a team. How to sacrifice. How to improve yourself.

He loved two sports over all others: soccer, and most of all basketball.

Bill often said that if you wanted to develop a sport to produce good soldiers, you would have invented American Football.

But if you wanted to develop artists and musicians, you would have created basketball, a game that relies on five people playing the game in perfect harmony; five whizzing parts blending together to become a greater whole, while leaving room for improvisation and individual choice.

One of the basketball coaches Bill respected most was Phil Jackson who described it: “Basketball is an improvisational game, similar to jazz. If someone drops a note, someone else must step into the vacuum and drive the beat that sustains the team.”

Bill found music in most things, and he loved the tempo of a beautifully choreographed offence. He loved music so much, and passed that passion down to me, even if we share little of the same taste, no matter how often I subjected him to the Beatles, and unfortunately for me, none of the talent.

Lesson 2: If in doubt, be generous (Note: this doesn’t apply to referees).

When I reached a drinking age, he gave me two sterling pieces of advice: If invited to party, when you turn up you should have to use your feet to knock (as your hands will be encumbered with drink).

And when you start a new job, do go for beers on a Friday night, and when you do, always make sure you buy the first round. It ingratiates you to your new colleagues, and means you can leave when you want.

Bill was generous with his time, his knowledge and his wealth. When he was coaching me in the early days of my basketball career, we’d pick up so many kids on the way, there would be guys sitting in the boot of our hatchback.

His time away from work, was just time he could donate to other people.

One story that stands out, was when my cousin was living in a precarious situation in back blocks around Byron Bay with her young son, her father was talking to my dad about what to do. Without a moment’s hesitation, Bill said they should go and ensure she was safe. The next day, they drove up, and spent days helping her with the difficult decision to leave and come back.

There was no grandstanding or hectoring in that act. It was just doing what needed to be done.

Lesson 3: I’m going to paraphrase David Halberstam here: A professional is someone who does their job on the days they don’t feel like doing it.

I can’t remember him ever having a day off sick, let alone chuck a sickie.

Whether for work, basketball or anything else people were relying on him for.

For Bill, work was how you overcame the advantages others might have, whether wealth, privilege, athletic prowess.

The embodiment, in his telling, of this was a team he coached in the early 70s.

He never tired of talking about the Coburg Devils. How he took them from the Coburg Tech playground to Australian champions. He especially liked that when he picked the Victorian team, he took his whole Coburg team, admitting only one player from the powerhouse Melbourne Tigers team into their squad.

They were his masterpiece, his Mona Lisa. Kids uniting in a singular focus, beating teams bigger and more talented than them.

Lesson 4: At times there is the right thing to do and the wrong thing to do. You know which is which. Choose the right one.

I probably see more grey than my dad did. There was a lot of black and white in his world.

Bill could never understand people who played politics for their own ends. He couldn’t stand coaches who played their most talented but selfish players at the expense of the hard working team oriented ones. And he really didn’t get the right hand side of the political spectrum.

There was a time that the politics of his workplace made him physically sick for many months.

He could have been a civil engineer, which would have been far more rewarding financially, but gave that up to teach because he felt had a calling. He believed we were here to make the world a better place. And you did that through your actions every moment of the day.

That made him an exacting basketball coach. Especially if you were his son in the team.

It might be also why he loved kids so much. Their world was a bit simpler. And a bit more full of joy than the world the bureaucrats were creating in schools and sporting clubs.

He was a man who — when not between the lines of a basketball court — was full of twinkling eyes and mirthful grins. A regular fixture of my childhood was the Goons on Radio National and the Marx Brothers on the TV.

But when it came to important matters — justice, education, respect for others — there was only the right thing to do, and the wrong thing. And if you wanted Bill’s respect and friendship, you better choose the right one.

Lesson 5: High expectations don’t help anything.

This attitude could result in zen like lessons. For example when I was a kid, I remember once bursting into tears because I’d asked for money for a vending machine and instead of a Solo, I got a Coke (which I claimed not to like at the time). Bill was as annoyed as he ever was with me then, because instead of focussing on the beautiful drink I did haven, I was worried about what I didn’t have. Just like the Buddist’s glass, that holds water so well even though it is already broken.

It could go to extreme lengths. Having been cursed with supporting the Cats, and suffering through 4 grand final losses, I remember being at the 2007 Grand Final, and I called him at three quarter time when we were 13 goals up and saying “we’re going to finally win one!”, and his immediate response was “There’s still a quarter to play!”

For a coach, the result is never certain until the final whistle …

Lesson 6: You don’t full court press to get a steal in the back court. You do it to make the other team play at your pace.

That’s one for the hoops nuffies in the room. But it spoke to his greater philosophy: Don’t do things for the immediate return. Do them because they give you the best chance of long term success. Trust in the process.

Whether creating Diamond Creek, or planning the beautiful mudbrick house he and my mum built, or starting a basketball team, Bill knew the small things were the most important things to focus on. Get them wrong, and it all falls apart.

Again, a quote from Phil Jackson nails Bill’s philosophy:

“Like life, basketball is messy and unpredictable. It has its way with you, no matter how hard you try to control it. The trick is to experience each moment with a clear mind and open heart. When you do that, the game–and life–will take care of itself.” How true

And finally, Lesson 7: When choosing to love, love with all you heart.

Sue Circosta, who spoke so beautifully earlier, once said she could tell of me that I was someone who had never doubted they were loved.

Bill and I were close throughout my childhood, him patiently sending down endless overs in the nets or feeding the ball back to me as worked around the key.

But it wasn’t until I met Ali, and then later when Clementine and Teddy came along that I realised his greatest gift to me: being prepared to give yourself over wholly to the loves in your life.

My mum was the world to my dad. He was always remarking how amazing she was, how tough, how smart, how determined.

He loved that she opened his mind to a whole new world of ideas, people and laughter.

And nothing could weaken that love.

Even when dementia had wrapped its tentacles around his mind that he no longer recognised me or other members of our family, his face would light up when Delia entered the room.

The last dying ember of his personality, before the disease took complete control, was his love for her. How amazing they both got to experience that.

Since Bill’s death, so many people have remarked to on how often I spoke about my father, and the obvious pride and affection I had for him.

At times it has felt that everything in my life is borne directly from him. This body. My love of sport, which has been the focus of my work for many years now. The love of the Marx Brothers, Mel Brooke, Asterisk and so many other touchstones.

For some, such a strong connection to their father might be crushing. But to me it’s always been my pride, my inspiration, my True North.

I’m just so glad his legacy will live on through all the people here today. Thank you all for coming.

And thank you, Bill. Love you.

There are other tributes to Bill on Finn's site.

For Margaret McGregor: 'Mum wanted this day to be graceful like her', by sons Tim & Rohan McGregor - 2013

16 September 2013, Brighton, Melbourne, Australia

Thank you all for coming today to celebrate the life of my mother. Today is a very difficult day but we must fill it with happy memories and love for a wonderful woman, my mother, Margaret.

My Mum was graceful, eloquent, intelligent, selfless, kind, caring and quick-witted.  On 20 June 2013, Mum wrote down and sent to us, her sons, her wishes, which commenced with:

“I am not afraid for myself. I actually feel strangely calm about it all. I’m just worried about Dad.”

Worried about Dad.  Worried about everyone she loved, rather than herself.  That was Mum. 

When her sister Rosalyn was ill, Mum thought not of her own health challenges but of the need to ensure Rosalyn was surrounded with love.  When her brother Warren was ill, Mum became the family glue to bring us all together and ensure Warren too was surrounded with love.  When her mother was ill, Mum became the family guardian to take the brunt of Gran’s illness and ensure that Gran passed with dignity and love.  Recently, when I accompanied Mum to her medical appointments and certain treatments were suggested, Mum was very clear that it was not an option if there was a possibility of them reducing her capacity to care for Dad.  Such was Mum’s devotion to Dad and such was their bond.  On 17 August, Dad passed away holding Mum’s hand.  When that happened, there is no question that a light went out inside Mum.  Thanks to Bethlehem Hospital, both of these beautiful lives ended with an abundance of love and dignity. 

But our family is devastated by the recent passing of Margaret and Robert.  We take some solace in the precious moments Mum and Dad enjoyed over the past year.

• Kate and I getting married
• Their first grandson Tom arriving and the mutual adoration that quickly developed
• The last few Sunday lunches we enjoyed together at their home with the immediate and extended family
• Calista and Matt’s relationship developing into their recent marriage

Being a mother of four rambunctious boys – with us fighting on the back seat between games of “spotto on the road signs” - Mum had her work cut out and, as a highly-skilled educator, it is little wonder that she adopted a rather authoritarian, teacher-like approach to our home environment.  That had varying success as we each rebelled at various junctures but we all understood that her iron rule came from a place of love and pragmatism.  When we spent six months in 1979 travelling as a family together around England, Scotland and the European continent, Mum regularly received thanks and congratulations from other tourists about the excellent behaviour of her four boys; such tourists being blissfully unaware of the fact that we were all simply petrified of transgressing the daily maternal regulations.

Back then, the softness in Mum was evident in her enjoyment of Andrew Lloyd Webber and Rogers & Hammerstein musicals – the key songs from which she would regularly recite reasonably accurately on her treasured piano organ - and also evident in her adoption of as many feline friends as possible to offset the testosterone overload in our house. 

More recently, Mum has become such a great friend to us boys.  Mum was an avid social media participant, with record time responses with likes and comments to even our most trifling Facebook posts.  Mum was also highly proficient at quick-fire family SMS news updates, efficiently and officially announcing the details of birthday dinners, Christmas gatherings and our first Sunday of the month family dinners.  It is quite shocking that only around 5 months ago we had our final family dinner in St Kilda, which included much pizza and red wine, the gargling of 4 month-old Tom and the roundtable confirmation of our respective fine health.  Unbelievably, the very next day, Mum commenced a battery of x-rays and scans to determine the ominous cause of her side pain.  Only a week or so later, Dad began to confront his own challenges.  Just unbelievable.

After summarily dispensing with breast cancer in 2002, I guess to some extent we took for granted that Mum would be with us for many years to come, so it is heart-wrenching that our dear friend and the family glue has passed.  But I am confident that her efforts will mean the family gathered here today will continue to come together for many years to come and pass this McGregor and Fry family stickiness through to future generations.

Mum’s final wishes extended to her two new daughters, Kate and Calista, receiving some of her most treasured pieces of jewellery.  I have them here and Matt and I want to give them to you two beautiful daughters-in-law of Mum.

Finally, Mum didn’t like the idea of people being glum about her passing.  Mum wanted this day to be graceful like her and for us to be inspired by her memory.  Here is a message to us that I think she would have agreed with.

Do not stand at my grave and weep;

I am not there.  I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there.  I did not die.

Tim's older brother Rohan 'Macca' McGregor followed with a 'Song of Memory'

The Song of Memory

When someone we love

passes on beyond life

in the world that we know

and is gone,

A beautiful sense of their presence,

like music remembered by heart,

lingers on…

When someone we love

is no longer with us

but their presence sometimes we can feel,

Our memories can be

Like a song in the heart

With the power to comfort and heal

·         Mum was my best friend

·         Mum was someone I loved

·         Mum taught me how to grow as an eldest son

·         Mum was there when we needed help

·         My Mum and Dad were the best parents a son could have

·         Mum loved her four boys

·         Mum taught me what life is all about so I would cope in the real world

·         Mum showed me how to treat people with respect and how to treat people properly

Tim McGregor's eulogy for his father, Robert McGregor, is also on Speakola.

For Thomas Harry Bowles: 'Dad absolutely adored living in the bush, amongst the animals, birds and garden', by Jan, Martin and Nick Bowles - 2016

11 March 2016, Bendigo, Victoria, Australia

Thomas Harry Bowles was born in Bendigo on the 26th of September 1945. He was the first born of Louisa “Hilda” Bowles (Jasper) and the tenth born to Percival Harry Bowles.  Already there were his five half brothers Viv, Les, Herb, Ken, Gordon and four half sisters Evelyn, Jess, Dulcie and Lily and their children.  Uncle Jack and Aunty Cath followed to make up a dozen. 

Dad’s childhood was spent on the family farm “Axeton” at Sweenies Creek 15 kilometres from Bendigo.  The farm was run on the MD&K system, ie Mum, Dad and Kids with the emphasis on manual labour, hand milking cows, harvesting fruit, feeding pigs and picking tomatoes.  

Dad started school in December 1951, transitioning for the 1952 school year.  His classmates all started in October 1951.  Dad presumed that being his mother's golden boy, she was reluctant to send him for the first couple of months. Dad’s love of gardening was instilled at home, but flourished at school, because when religious education classes were taught, Dad being from one of the three protestant families was sent out to do the gardening. Some of the catholic kids thought Dad and co got the better part of the deal.  

The commencement of his schooling started a 7 year association with his 24 inch fixed wheel bicycle, riding to school with Jack and Cathy, along with a few Gleesons and a few FitzGibbons.  

Dad loved the school sports.  He could run and jump, his high jump record being 5ft 7inches which at the time was his height. When discussing high jump, Dad always finished with ‘and there was no fosbury flop or western roll because you landed in sand, so it was only scissor kick.’ He got into a bit of trouble with his first hop step and jump attempt as he landed beyond the sandpit. The Eppalock team was nearly unbeatable in the sack races.  Using a technique he successfully instructed 3 of his 4 children on at a back to Donald event in the mid 80s at the sesquicentenary.

After completing primary school, Dad assumed he would attend the technical college where all the country kids went, but unexpectedly found himself enrolled at the Bendigo High School.  He commenced in 1958 and soon established himself in many of the A sides sporting teams.  

Cricket was Dad’s great passion.  He recently told Lucy that the things that had helped him through some tough times were cricket, work and mum.  Then advising, not necessarily in that order.   Dad was a very good cricketer.   He made the Strathfieldsaye team of the century. At Golden Square he won the Bendigo Batting Average.  In Donald he made a name for himself as an all rounder at Services.  In his 40s he was talked out of retirement to play out at Rich Avon.  We suspect with the aim of recruiting his 3 talented sons!!  We all have wonderful memories of playing cricket at Rich Avon, in the backyard and at Darkee’s nets together.  This is something Dad really wanted as he didn’t have this relationship with his own father.  Anyway, I won’t bore you here with the stories and statistics of cricket, as no doubt Poey will do that at drinks later on.

After completing High School, Dad commenced his working career, firstly as a clerk in an admin office at Buffalo River near Mytleford.  In 1965 after a long weekend at Mt. Buffalo,  Dad was a passenger in a car involved in a head on collision.  His girlfriend at the time Lois Pearce, was driving and tragically died as a result of the accident.  Dad was badly injured.  His femur was broken and he had severe facial injuries including losing part of his upper jaw and teeth.  He spent months in the Benalla hospital which was no doubt a joy for the staff there. According to Uncle Jack this was a terrible time for all the family.  He finally left with his leg in a full length calliper with the prospects of a lengthy rehabilitation in front of him. A fairly daunting thought for a young man who loved leading such an active life.  His surgeons last words of advice were do not let any football trainers touch you!

It was during this recovery period that Dad started seeing Mum. Dad was good mates with Mum’s older brother Alex who was studying in NZ at the time. Dad said with a very cheeky grin and the nostril flare we are all familiar with, that asking after Alex was the perfect excuse to talk to the very beautiful blonde from Bridgewater.  When we asked him what he would like mentioned in his eulogy he indicated with a thumb over his shoulder that maybe we should mention Janet.  By his own admission Dad reflected that he has not always been the easiest husband to live with, but that when he was broken on the footpath Mum lifted him up.  To start from this point to have a 46 year marriage is a fantastic effort, so Mum thanks from Dad.

Mum and Dad were married on 27th December 1969.  This was the only weekend in summer with no cricket.  The honeymoon was cut short to get back for the following Saturday, only for the game to be cancelled due to rain.... Mum is still dirty on this.   Us four kids all turned up Tom Jnr, Martin, Nick and Lucinda.  Mum and Dad’s relationship was entertaining from a spectators point of view. Feisty, passionate, full of laughter, full of loyalty, and behind closed doors full of love.  A special mention to the story that involved Mum throwing a plate at Dad, him stating, ‘Haha you missed’, mum stating ‘if I wanted to Hit you I would have. It was worth a broken plate.’  

In 1972, Dad interviewed for the position of Shire Secretary at the Shire of Donald.  He thought it would be good practice to be interviewed by actual councillors and whether he was the best or the only applicant he ended up at the age of 26 appointed as the Shire Secretary.  This role proved challenging, the toughest being changing the local government act to allow the Shire to purchase the meatworks, and then subsequently closing them at a cost of 200 jobs. Not to give up on local jobs an idea was created to recruit an Industrial Promotion Officer.  The position was filled by Graham “Pickles” Harris.  This led to many adventures such as turning a church into a shirt factory, introducing a yabbie farm, a steel fabricator, and the most famous Kookas Country Kookies.  These jobs all bought families and dollars to the Donald economy.  

Dad attended local council meetings and had a shared respect for the councillors, particularly those who agreed with his and Darkee’s point of view.  Some of these points of views often found their way into the editorial of the Donald Birchip now Buloke Times scribed by Robin Letts.  Dad always had the broader community in mind, he loved his time in lions club and volunteering in a huge number of local sporting and community groups.   Dad relished being Shire Secretary and maintained this role until local councils were amalgamated in 1995.  Dad was bitterly disappointed when the amalgamation occurred, fearing that small country towns would lose their identity.

Dad was then persuaded by his loyal backers to run for state government as an independent candidate. Dad ran a serious campaign for three weeks . The night of his election corresponded with Martins 21st. This was a huge celebration, mum on crutches with a snapped Achilles, everyone watching the tv with the election updates and the young ones celebrating Martin’s 21st. Dad had an amazing campaign having a 22% swing against the sitting member.   

12 McCulloch Street in Donald was our home and holds special memories.  All 4 of us kids were born and educated in Donald. A lasting memory of Dad is a beer in one hand, hose in the other tending to his garden at the end of a working day.  No doubt Mum was inside, stopping fights, making sure homework was done and cooking dinner. But Dad needed a break after the long commute.  Across the road.

In the 25 years spent in Donald, Dad developed some wonderful friendships.  This has been obvious to us over the last few weeks with many special people reaching out to Dad, Mum and us through phone calls and letters and visits.  I won’t single anyone out but Thank you to everyone.  

From Donald, Mum and Dad moved back to Bendigo to the Allara Motor Lodge in White Hills. The family business was truly this, mum and dad working side by side. Not always harmonious, however, from Lucy’s point of view, this endeavour created an opportunity for the boys to come home more frequently and the family plus partners worked and played together.   After this Mum and Dad eventually moved to Kangaroo Flat, where Dad absolutely adored living in the bush, amongst the animals, birds and garden.  Even a lack of water couldn’t stop him as he grew an impressive selection of succulents.

*Moving to Bendigo enabled Mum and Dad to both re-establish relationships with old friends and to be closer to family.   Dads strongest friendship was recreated with an old school and cricket mate, Poey.   David and Dad, or Dad and Dave brewed beer together, drank together, solved the worlds problems together.  Both loved this time and no doubt they became better batsman and bowlers as the years went by.   

Dads time in Bendigo bought two new loves.  Bike riding and Bowles Family History.  He loved touring local cemeteries to research and the end result was the self published book dating the Bowles family back to 1828.  He was responsible for the 4 yearly reunion for descendants of his father Percival Harry, and loved to be able to attend the most recent one at the end of February.

Mum and Dad’s time in Bendigo was a great time for our family.  Lots of weddings, Sarah, Anna, Leah and Thommo were added to the family, and birth of grand children.   We loved to watch the cricket team of grandchildren establish a loving relationship with their “Grumpy”.  Molly, Angus and Hamish will miss talking footy about  the Freo Shockers and the Twats. Alastair and Owen will miss his book reading and his presence at sleep overs in school holidays.  Charlie, Walter, Harry and Bella will all miss cricket with grumpy and general banter that he excelled in.    Sol will miss riding his bike, walking to kinder and seeing Grumpy everyday but mainly miss the constant supply of liquorice all sorts.  We will all make sure that Ari knows who his Grumpy was and how much he loved him.

Dad had been a fantastic provider.  He took pride in being known as a tight arse but has looked after all of us exceptionally well.  We asked for nothing as kids, he enabled us to get good educations, and to experience a life he may not have had the opportunity to.  We have been so lucky to have had the time to thank him for all he has done for each of us.  He moved to Geelong to make sure before he left Mum was set up.  In meeting with the palliative care team when asked if he had any concerns, Dad was more interested in our welfare than his own.

It’s a value he carried throughout his life and we love and thank him for it.

Aprill Allen: 'In Fraser’s words, life won’t be the same without his yolks', for father Paul Enright - 2016

1 February 2016, Sydney Australia

I’ve been told that Mum and Dad met on a blind date arranged by Trish. Thanks to chemistry, and a little biology, I stand before you today to talk about my Dad.

Paul & Barbara’s marriage of 45 years was a special and unique one. Though they were opposites in many ways, it would be inadequate to describe them as being two halves of a whole. Yes, Mum and Dad complemented one another, but each encouraged and empowered the other to pursue their individual interests and friendships; and, those friendships flourished and those interests advanced, because of the time, effort, and love they gave in support to each other.

Dad embraced every project that Mum came up with. When she took up painting, he took a framing class. When she needed an easel, he built it. When she started selling clivias from the garden, he continued to cultivate, transplant, and pot them. When the Park Road Painters gathered regularly at home, Dad would provide lunch. At nights, when mum taught ticketwriting, Dad looked after me. After he settled me into bed, he would look after Mum -- having a late dinner ready for her when she got home. I grew up with the example that life within and outside the home was very much a team effort. 

Dad never did anything half-heartedly. He gave his full attention to every task and was a valued contributor in every role he stepped into at work. Starting out as a clerk at the railways, he went on to office jobs at the Government Printing Office, Schweppes, and Aquilla Steel, before joining Mum in the business at Barbaras Sign Shop. He ran the screenprinting side of the business from our garage, so that he could be there for me when I got home from school.

Eventually, Barbara’s Sign Shop grew into commercial premises and employed a small but dedicated staff. As a boss, Paul led his young team with a light touch. He gave them the space and freedom they valued, but with enough discipline needed to stretch their creative potential & problem-solving and get printing projects completed on time and as expected. His duty of care wasn’t just a workplace responsibility, it was genuine concern. Team lunches became a daily ritual of bread rolls in the park and a healthy foundation for Paul’s mentorship. Over the years, staff became extended family and long-time clients became friends. 

To his friends, Paul was fun and carefree—diving into the harbour at Watson’s Bay with no concern for the local bull-sharks; choosing to mark the place of his golf ball with a wad of notes instead of coins and then four grown men having to run around chasing bills as the wind got hold of them. Whether it was playing cards, playing golf, or going fishing, Paul was always cheerful and relaxed and made sure his friends felt welcome and relaxed too.

Dad showed his love and gratitude towards family, friends and neighbours through his acts of service. He painted rooms and deckings; he made chutneys and pizzas. If friends or neighbours were in need, he would be there to offer something helpful. Dad could often be seen in the early evenings, watering the front garden and having a friendly chat with someone else from Park Road. Those same friends and neighbours were tremendously supportive when Dad became ill.

If you didn’t see him watering the garden, you may have seen Paul walking the dogs. Dad was the beloved pack leader of all our pets—Wags, Minstrel and Ruby, and Harry & Jenna. He even fed and looked after two stray cats, Tom and Vegemite, until they left for safer houses once Minstrel came along. The dogs were always dear to Dad’s heart. As Minstrel got older and less mobile, Dad would drive him to a park for a sniff and a stroll—Minstrel in the back of the old Merc and Dad in his chauffer’s cap.

As my father, Dad showed me the virtue of a good story and a sense of humour. It didn’t matter how many times we’d heard a story, it got better with every telling, with bigger animations and more laughs. Like the time an owl flew into the living room, or the possum found nibbling the wheat pillow next to mum’s face as she slept. He was a gentle parent, and his time for me was abundant. He helped me with homework, he helped me write my first resignation letter, he showed me what quiet resolve and commitment to a task looked like. Dad never sought recognition, he was my example that doing something good for someone else had its own reward.

As Poppy, he was an enthusiastic grandfather to my sons Fraser and Lincoln. When the boys came to stay, he’d make sure there were ice creams in the freezer and poppers in the fridge. Dad was always ready with a joke, a tiger’s roar, and companionship for the playground. In Fraser’s words, life won’t be the same without his yolks.

To everyone that knew him, Paul was gentle and smiling, though he was a self-described simple man who didn’t need much to be happy. He enjoyed pottering around at home in the garden, doing maintenance, swimming at Woolwich Baths in the summer time, walking the dogs, having a punt at the TAB on a Saturday morning, a drink with his mates at the club, sailing with Howard, playing golf with Brian, watching the cricket with Alan, and the Tigers with John. Ever the optimist, the Tigers always had next year. He was content with our small family unit; and Mum and I, and Matt and the boys, are honoured & grateful to have been in it with him. 

For Bob Sizer: 'He became a legendary barracker at the bowls. Many opposition teams shuddered when he waddled through the gate', by Robert Clough - 2014

28 May 2014, Napier Park Chapel, Bendigo, Australia

Bob Sizer - what a character! Bob Sizer created a few ripples at our very conservative bowling club when he wandered into the place. We were lucky to stock heavy beer, let alone have one of our members drink copious amounts of it! And he had the temerity to challenge our resident experts on everything from bowls to world events.

Bob became so enthusiastic in these debates that others couldn’t get a word in. Finally, rules of engagement were introduced where Bob had to raise his hand, then be invited to contribute to the conversation.

But through the noise, froth and bubble that inevitably surrounded Bob some major character traits shone through:

• Honesty, both with himself and his dealings with others.

• Loyalty.

• Generosity of spirit. I have personally seen many times Bob dip into his kick to help others that might be going through a rough trot.

Bob Sizer was a lovable rogue who has been missed from around our club since he became too ill to get there... and that he will never be back saddens us all.

A couple of weeks ago I visited Bob at Stella Anderson. He was in bed and asleep. After some procrastination I woke him. He had been in a deep sleep and was startled when I spoke. He hadn’t been feeling very well and was obviously quite down emotionally. He said ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m getting weaker and can’t even get out of bed. I know it is wrong to say this but, I wish I was dead.’

Bob’s mind was still as sharp as a tack but his body was letting him down. We struggled for conversation for the first time ever. I had been considering asking Bob if he wanted me to take down some notes of his life story for his eulogy rather than leaving it to others who might miss aspects that were important to him.

It is a difficult and sensitive subject to raise but this seemed to be as good a time as any. He paused to think about my request for a moment and said, ‘I don’t know if anybody would be interested...but maybe there might be a few things.’

I was expecting that he would go through the basics of his life, such as where he was born, went to school, his work and family. It should have been no surprise that what followed was a history of his sporting life.

Bob was a sports fanatic with a memory for the details that he retained to the end. What started as a trickle became a flood as he warmed to the task. Once he was in full swing the words came quicker than my ability to record them. It was hard to believe that this was the same person that I had roused from sleep just fifteen minutes before. The following is a shortened version of what Bob told me that day because I would like to tell two of the Bob’s stories in detail.

Bob didn’t grow until his mid to late teens, so wasn’t much suited to robust sports as a lad. As a youngster he played tennis on the asphalt courts around the corner. He had told me earlier of playing mixed doubles with his sisters. He took up golf after tagging along with some other neighbourhood kids to the Brighton Golf course and volunteering to be caddies. He was a good caddy as he had a good eye for finding the balls.

There was a competition organised for the caddies to play against each other. Bob was a left hander but had to play right handed as they didn’t have any left handed clubs. In his first game he ran out of golf balls after nine holes so hurried over to the pro shop to get some old balls. He ran out of balls again on the 17th but handed in his card anyway. His score after 17 holes was 181 and he came last.

Bob improved rapidly, and to quote him, he became ‘deadly around the green.’ He was the caddy champ two years later. He came second in the Todd Stewart Cup for under 16’s to the assistant professional at the club. This guy led the Australian Open after the first round a few years later. This won Bob free membership to the club. He won a number of club events over the next few years. His handicap got down to 9 when he was 17 years old. He stopped playing soon after.

He had started to grow and everything changed. Robert Andrew-Arthur (I think this was his name...my writing was not too good) played tennis at the Church Club and also played squash. His regular squash practice partner had stopped playing so he asked Bob if he wanted to practice with him. They played at the Ormond club every week for months. Bob never won a game. The people at the courts asked Bob if he wanted to play pennant. He agreed to give it a go and defeated all fifteen rivals at the trial games. His pennant squash career was under way.

Bob worked his way up to the A grade pennant competition. Revered coach Gordon Watson offered to take Bob under his wing but Bob chose to stay playing with his mates. Gordon and Bob agreed, when they met again years later, that passing by this opportunity had cost Bob the chance to become a really exceptional squash player. Bob suffered a double hernia and had to stop playing squash while he recovered. After 12 months or so without playing, a couple of friends asked Bob to come along for their regular hit at A1 Sports. They ended up playing pennant. The team was in C Grade and as Bob got fitter he started to dominate. They were premiers that year.

After the grand final win they dragged Bob out of the shower for a team photo. The fact that it appeared on the back page of the Sun the next day may have had something to do with Bob’s teammate: Herb Elliott. Bob was obviously a very good squash player and he told me many stories of big games he had played in over the years. He said that his form could be closely correlated to his weight. If he got down to 13.5 stone watch out!

I think it was after a squash game that Bob starting drinking...He said ’that there was nothing else to drink.’ He certainly made up for lost time from that point on. Apparently it is only coincidence that the Lake View Hotel has gone broke since Bob stopped going there. On the way home from squash one day Bob bumped into a mate who asked if he could help them out by playing cricket for Bentleigh Meths (Methodists?) the next day. They had a late withdrawal. This happened to be in the A grade. Bob recalled that he batted at 11 and made 35. He was fielding at mid wicket and decided to move himself towards square leg (does this sound like Bob?). The batsman obliged by hitting a catch straight to him. Instead of congratulations the captain gave him a blast for moving without being instructed.

Bob played mostly in the B grade thereafter batting at 6 and bowling medium pacers. They were premiers the following year. After his playing days Bob became a cricket umpire of some renown, officiating in 20 A grade grand finals in a row. He later began travelling to Bendigo to score for Spring Gully particularly over the finals. Bob spoke often about lawn bowls and the people and clubs he had been involved with. But on this day he said that his mate Terry Clark (I think from McKinnon) probably had him sewn up when he said ‘Bob, you may well have been a champion cricketer, squash player and golfer but you would have to be the worst bowler at this club!’

He became a legendary barracker at the bowls. A number of our teams believe that Bob’s support was the difference between them winning and losing finals. Many opposition teams shuddered when he waddled through the gate.

There are two of Bob’s stories that I would like to share with you today. I imagine that most of you have heard them before but these a real Bob stories and it’s appropriate for us to hear them again today. I’ll try to retell them as he told me.

The first is a cricket story. Bob was an accomplished slip fielder with a quick eye and safe hands. It was from this vantage point that he watched the skipper of the top team pulverize the Bentleigh Meths attack in their regular season game. He scored 96 as his team cruised past the 225 run total set by Bentleigh Meths. Bob noted that he scored most of his runs via a shot through the onside. He also noticed that this shot was played in the air for the first metre or two. A plot formed in his mind. After just scraping into the four, Bentleigh Meths fronted the top side in the semi final. Bob pleaded with his captain ‘Macca, put me at short leg, I reckon I can get this bloke.’ Macca relented. Bob teed up with the bowler to angle the first two balls wide of outside off stump, then to spear the third one in at the batsman’s pads. He took up his position at short leg, so close that he had one foot on the concrete wicket. The first two balls were wide of off stump and sailed through to the keeper as planned. Bob readied himself as the trap was set. The next ball was directed at the batsman’s pads and, sure enough, the batsmen moved into his favourite shot. He clipped it perfectly....straight into Bob’s hand. The ball had moved so quickly that the players were baffled where it had gone. Until Bob held it aloft, the ball still firmly embedded in the palm of his hand. There was some conjecture about how the ball had got there and in fact whether it was a catch. Until the square leg umpire, who had recalled Bob’s fairness in denying a catch two weeks before, indicated that it was legal. Bob had got his man.

The next story is a punting story. Bob’s punting stories could fill a book and his annual trips to Sydney for the Autumn Carnival could provide enough material for a series. There was one particular day in Sydney that Bob described as his best and worst day on the race track. It started the day before when he and five mates fronted up to a club (??Rooty Hill RSL) for lunch and a few beers. They played a few games of pool before lunch but settled into a fiercely fought euchre battle afterwards. Bob’s side were victorious 13 games to 12 when they threw in the cards. It is a wonder they could play at all, given they had had 4 shouts each (ie 24 schooners). One of his mates invited Bob back to his place for dinner but his wife refused to let Bob in. They were so drunk. Bob took the taxi back to his motel and flaked out. He woke the next morning as crook as a dog. Now I’m using Bob’s word here. It took him 2 hours, 4 shits and 3 spews to get through breakfast. As sick as he felt, he was determined to get to the track. He had set aside $1,500 for just three bets that he was really keen on. They were in races 1, 3 and 7. He got to the track for the first still feeling terrible. In between 4 Fanta’s and another couple of shits and spews he managed to place his each way bet. The horse ran a place and he got back his money plus a bit. Hanging around for race 3 was hard but with the help of some more Fanta and a couple more visits to the toilet he made it. But the horse he backed failed to live up to Bob’s expectations and did no good. He was tempted to go but his best bet of the day was in race 7. He spent a miserable couple of hours waiting for the seventh to come around. He was feeling no better. His head thumped and his guts squirmed. His bum hurt when wiped it and his chest muscles were strained from vomiting. He was sick of Fanta! Finally race 7 arrived and he couldn’t believe that his fancy was a $20 outsider. He placed his remaining $900 each way and crossed his fingers. When they rounded the corner Bob’s horse was in front...a sitting duck. “You’ve murdered him Mallyon!” he yelled as it was being slowly hauled in which each bound. Bob’s horse surged as they neared the post and stuck its head out to win. It was the biggest win of Bob’s punting life but he was too crook to celebrate. He also felt vulnerable. He had over $16,500 in his pocket. He couldn’t wait to get home so slunk out the gate to catch the early bus. He sat next to a girl in the bus who made conversation. When asked, Bob said that he’d had a good day but gave no details. The girl said that she’d also had some good fortune. She explained that she had seen some old dero put a huge wad of money on this horse in the 7th race. She thought that if it was good enough for him to back this thing, then she should have a crack as well. And it won.

She was flabbergasted and embarrassed when Bob confessed that the ‘old dero’ was him.

Helen and I, and all those at Bendigo East Bowling Club, will miss Bobby Sizer.

For Jerzy Krupinski: 'It's always been hard to reconcile the guy that evaded the Nazis for 5 years, but was barely able to change a light-bulb' by Ben Cook - 2014

22 March 2014, Melbourne Australia

I remember Dzia Dzia's retirement party when I was about 7 years old. When the then state minister for education Tom Roper gave a speech I realised the Dzia Dzia must've been pretty important. Then growing up, hearing the stories and reading his book, I came to learn what a brave man he was, considered a hero by many. 12 years ago, at the age of 82, he was proof reading my masters thesis and advising me on some pretty hard-core statistical analysis, I really became aware of what a sharp and intelligent guy he was.

But those aren't the things that define Dzia Dzia for me.

When I think of Dzia Dzia, I think of what a generous, loveable and unself-consciously quirky person he was. And to be honest, it's always been hard to reconcile the guy that evaded the Nazis for 5 years, but was barely able to change a light-bulb, let alone a tyre.

I think of Dzia Dzia the swimmer, well into his 70s banging out 800m a day in the Brighton Sea baths, and swimming deep into the colder months. But if you've got the image of Dzia Dzia slicing through the water like a seal, I'll have to shatter that illusion. His was more a hybrid of breast stroke, and, let's face it, dog paddle. But he didn't care about the aesthetics. He just loved swimming and that's the point. He kept swimming in the sea baths until getting rescued became such a regular occurrence that the life guards politely insisted he look at other options.

I don't think Dzia Dzia ever owned a pair of Reeboks, but their old slogan "Life is not a spectator sport" suited him perfectly. For him, sport is about participation, not watching.

But not all sports were created equal. I remember once he walked in when we were watching cricket, he watched for a minute, and then he said "I don't see the point of this game, sometimes they hit it, sometimes they don't, sometimes they run, sometimes they don't". And he walked out leaving us dumbfounded. After such a brutally succinct dismissal, cricket has never been the same for me.

I think of Dzia Dzia's infatuation with the Centre Road shopping center in Bentleigh, which he claimed was the best in Melbourne. Multiple fruit shops, multiple butchers, and each with their specialty. And a shopping trip would consist of a visit to whichever had the cheapest price of whatever he needed. If that meant green apples at one shop, and red apples at another, so be it. And if he had to sacrifice quality for price, that's wasn't an issue either.

Not that he saw it that way. Dzia Dzia was always adamant that expensive wines, whiskeys and perfumes were a waste of money. Why spend $100 on bottle of Channel No 5 when you can get a perfectly good replica for $15. But getting mum a bottle of Channelette perfume for Christmas was a mistake he only made once. And whether or not he really believed this, it was a good way to torment my dad and uncle Peter - I don't think you guys ever did manage to arrange the double blind whiskey test.

I think of Dzia Dzia's massive repertoire of jokes. A couple stand out, but not as much as Babcia's immortal observation: "with these jokes you can hang yourself."

And his driving?

Well, I had a bit here about his driving. But before the service I noticed that as the funeral director was wheeling the coffin through the door back behind me, he miscued and bumped the coffin into the door frame. I thought that was a lovely tribute. Especially the way he sheepishly checked to see if anyone had noticed, and then continued as if nothing had happened.

Remarkable for the fact that he kept his license deep into his 80s, as much as that he got it in the first place. Mum says you'll take 1000 reversing dings over one serious accident. But I say, just turn around and have a look.

But lastly, wherever Dzia Dzia may have moved onto now, I hope the waitresses have been forewarned not to bring out his tea before his dessert. Dessert can wait, but the tea goes cold and you've got nothing to wash down your dessert with. And if the waitresses haven't been forewarned, they'll find out pretty quickly.

So Dzia Dzia, I know you were a hero to many, but you weren't to me. You were our Dzia Dzia, I love you for that. And I say with deep affection, there will never be another like you.

For Barry Todd: 'We mourn the passing of our standard bearer, conscience and father figure', by Mark Dunstan - 2015

3 September, 2015, Ormond Uniting Church, Ormond, Melbourne, Australia

The notice of Barry’s passing, which the Club placed in the newspaper, could not be more accurate.  It said,

“Barry Todd, Toddy

The Committee, members and friends of the Elsternwick Cricket Club mourn the passing of our standard bearer, conscience and father figure.  His unwavering commitment, passion and contribution to the Club will never be matched.  Will be sadly missed by all.  A true legend of the ECC.”

I will get to some figures later, but more important is Barry’s impact during more than 60 years of cricket involvement.

Barry had a philosophy which guided his treatment of people on and off the cricket ground.  It may not be fashionable in competitive sport, but he would not speak any less respectfully to an opponent on the ground than he would socialising in the pavilion.  You could say he was successfully immunised against white line fever.

That the Club won the Spirit of Cricket award in the association this year, is a reflection of his influence.

I, with many others, looked to Barry for his Christian approach, his social concern and his wonderful sporting understanding.  He lived all that with a great commitment.  In difficult times, Barry was a source of understanding and support.

If you went with Barry to a sporting or related event, it was difficult to leave.  From the MCG to a subbie meeting he would always find a familiar face and seek a lengthy chat.  It wasn’t small talk.  He sought new information, provided valuable comments and he remembered personal facts and both would walk away enriched.  A mention of Elsternwick CC would prompt the comment, “You’d know Toddy then."

If he didn’t talk face to face, he would ring. Boy, would he ring.

It could be difficult to return a call from Barry.  His home phone could be tied up for hours while he made cricket related calls.  Pre-season preparations and recruiting probably created spikes in Telstra’s profits. 

Club records will have reams of Barry’s hand written notes and lists for all occasions.  Every MC or presenter at social functions and award nights will have received a detailed running sheet with no detail spared.  There would be a list of people to thank, omitting his name as the most important.  He was the master of recognising the efforts of others while down playing his own contribution.

Through the power of his relationships with all those players passing through the Club, he was able to establish the Wickas as a thriving past players’ group.  It will have a subdued 20th annual dinner this year.

At committee meetings, we would turn to Barry when it came to general business.  He invariable had an important point which the rest of us had overlooked.  It often showed a thoughtfulness for a player or member or an appreciation of our civic responsibilities.

The feelings of others were usually paramount in Barry’s thoughts.  That made the selection of teams a potential minefield.  If he was forced to drop a player, Barry was more likely to require consoling than the dropped player.

Barry looked forward to the Club hosting country week games.  He would spend the day chatting to the players and officials from the country teams and was always determined to present them with the best possible experience with his organisation of conditions, afternoon teas and hospitality.  At Elsternwick home games, he would take the first round of drinks into the opposition’s dressing rooms.

Over the last 35 years, since returning from Benalla, Barry has been instrumental in recruiting every captain, coach and most senior players to the club.  Three current players and office bearers at the Club were recruited through his Benalla.

connections.  Others have been cold called and seduced by his mix of genuine sincerity and enthusiasm.  Those same qualities produced close and trusting relationships with people dealing with the club, such as council staff and sponsors, who in some cases became close personal friends.

As a Club Delegate to the VSDCA for 24 years, he ensured that Elsternwick CC was a respected member of the Association and gave inordinate amounts of time to organise the Association’s 90th Anniversary celebration at Elsternwick Park, the centenary dinner and entertainment and when hosting the Championship Final in 1985/86.  He contributed passages to the centenary publication, relying on his passion for and experience of the R.M. Hatch junior competition. 

While coach and manager of the Hatch team, he was keen to give country players an opportunity and visited Gippsland, Shepparton and other towns to conduct clinics and recruit players.  It wasn’t his principle aim, but the result was three premierships in six years.  A remarkable achievement.  Some Association members thought that country recruitment shouldn’t be allowed and suggested a rules amendment.  We referred to it as the Todd amendment.

Barry’s self-effacing nature was summed up when he would do something well and suggest it was “good for him.”  If it was good enough for Barry, it was usually exceptional by any standard.

He was awarded an Australian Sports Medal in 2000 for his contribution to cricket.  Despite the significance of that award, it seems trifling as a recognition of his efforts.

After the force of his deeds, the statistics almost seem unnecessary.  For the record, he debuted in the Elsternwick CC first XI as a 13 year old and played a total of 445 games, of which 115 were in the firsts.  He won the batting average in all four grades, including the significant 1965/66 season when the firsts played in their last final for 27 seasons.  He made a century in the fourths at age 55.

He also played seven seasons for Benalla CC while teaching there.  I had the privilege of starting my senior cricket career in that team captained by Barry.

As an administrator, he has been on the Committee since 1980 and was President for 15 years from 1980/81.  An award for the most outstanding contribution during the season was recently named after Barry.  In truth, he could have won it almost every year.

During nearly all of that time, Lenore has not only supported Barry in his cricket passions, but has been a club stalwart in her own right.  They have been a model for couples in all aspects of life.  It was always a delight to have Neil, Jenny and Kathy at the club in their early years and we understand their enormous loss.  I now know how much interest Barry has taken in encouraging his sporting grandchildren with the construction of a special pitch at home and finding individualised equipment.

I am pre-empting an official announcement, but informal discussions started recently with a view to naming a cricket facility after Barry.  There can only be unanimous support for a Todd Reserve or a Todd Pavilion in the not too distant future.

Barry was a joint author of a publication about Elsternwick Park’s history.  He particularly liked the reference in 1921 to a long term secretary of the Club who helped create Elsternwick Park.  The same words can now be used to say that Elsternwick CC which he has so successfully developed, will forever be to members a lasting monument to his great and generous works on their behalf.

For Oliver: 'I want big head!' by Elizabeth Grbic - 2015

Written 17th June, 2015, the day after Oliver passed away, Berwick, Victoria

Ever since I started breathing, I’ve wanted a dog of my own.

My mum had always wanted a golden retriever and she got her wish when my dad brought home a toddler aged golden named Toby. She re-named him Denver, after her favourite singer John Denver. I loved Denver more than I could ever say and even though I always claimed him as my own, it was Oliver who well and truly captured my heart.

I was never really a motivated student and this became evident when I started high school in the year 2000. I was terrible at maths and science and very close to failing them in my very first year of high school. To inspire some motivation, my parents promised me that if I passed all of my subjects at the end of the year they would buy me a puppy. Well, I passed and to my disbelief and my siblings jealously, the day after my final day of year seven we drove to a pet store in Oakleigh to buy a dog.

I remember it vividly, there were three golden retriever puppies sitting together and the one in the middle had an abnormally large head for a puppy. I turned to my dad and said ‘I want big head’. He slept on my lap on the car ride home as my sister Jacqueline and I tried to think of a name. We drove through Hallam past a real estate agent named Oliver Hume. Jacqueline yelled out ‘Oliver!’ and it was settled. My little Oliver. He would become more affectionately known as Smolly (because Oliver, Smoliver, Smolly) not that he would ever really respond to anything other than ‘oi, you!’

Oliver’s puppy days are a bit hazy in my memory as I was only 12 at the time but one thing was very clear; we were inseparable from the beginning. Denver, Oliver and I would adventure in our backyard and spend all day long laying on the grass together while I made them daisy chain crowns. One thing I remember clearly was when Oliver first met Denver. He had the courage to eat out of Denver’s bowl and Denver let him know who was boss by biting him on the ear, piercing a hole right through it! I scooped him up and rushed him inside, cradling him on the couch with tears in my eyes. Of course, this wasn’t as big a deal as I thought because after that Denver would let Oliver annoy him just like any little brother would. I often caught Oliver sitting over Denver’s front legs with his face really close to Denver’s as if to say ‘hey, hey, whatcha doing? Wanna play? Come on, let’s play.’

The irony being that Oliver was the complete opposite of a dog, especially a golden retriever. When I told people about Oliver I would always say the same thing; he isn’t golden and he doesn’t retrieve. Because Denver was a beautiful golden colour we assumed Oliver would be too, but he turned out to have very, very white fur. My little white bear. He wasn’t interested in tennis balls or any kind of ball, if you threw anything he would just sit there and look at you like ‘what?’ and if you threw him a ball to catch you would end up in stitches over how terrible his mouth-eye coordination was. We always had wild bunnies running through our yard and I would always see them bounce past Denver and Oliver. Our yard would soon become a meeting place for bunnies because Denver and Oliver never chased them, they barely even paid attention to them. They didn’t dog like other dogs.

I was always surprised when Oliver did act like a dog. Once I found him trotting up our driveway with a blue tongue lizard hanging out of his mouth, a huge grin of pride on his face and me freaking out just a little bit. We set the lizard free thankfully unharmed. Oliver also loved baths, he would jump in before there was even water inside. He loved water so much that when it rained he would go out to the yard and just sit there under the open sky and return to the door sopping wet, wondering why we wouldn’t let him inside. As for his breed namesake, Oliver only ever retrieved once. It was in 2012 when he was 13. He retrieved a tennis ball and I remember being so surprised and happy that I took a photo to commemorate the moment. I think he never did it again just to avoid the same reaction from me.

Denver passed away in 2011 at the age of 16 and dealing with this experience only tightened my bond with Oliver. I lost one of my best friends and Oliver lost his big brother. The poor guy was noticeably sad and I just felt for him. At least I knew what was going on, Oliver must have been watching the door just waiting for Denver to come back. I would always smile when Oliver went out to the backyard and sit right next to the spot where Denver was buried, as if somehow he knew and just wanted to be close to Denver again. Losing Denver was truly devastating and suddenly my 12 year old ignorance of thinking that my furry companions would be by my side forever was shattered. I knew that I never wanted to waste a moment with Oliver ever again. Not that I’d ever felt I’d wasted previous moments, but now I would cherish them so much more.

Oliver was diagnosed with thyroid cancer which affected his breathing and resulted in a huge tumour growing in his throat. When I look back at pictures of him when he was younger it’s almost weird to see him without that big lump on his neck. By the end, it was bigger than his head but he continued on as the young at heart puppy he always was. He made me laugh so much, he was glued to my side and I to his. At the end of it all, it was his age that got the better of him, just as with Denver. Oliver was 15 years old, only a few months from turning 16. When we woke up on June 16 we knew it would be his last day. He kept collapsing and was in a lot of distress. We kept him outside to stay cool and I would sit with him until he fell asleep, go inside and eat, and then go back outside when he woke up and sit with him until he fell asleep again. I was praying that he would just fall asleep and not wake up again, the look in his eyes was killing me. He just wanted help and no one could help him. The best I could do is pet him and tell him how much I loved him.

My dad and I took Oliver to the vet and I sat with him in the waiting area, tears streaming down my face. I sat down with Oliver on the floor while the vet did his work and I looked him in eye and I told him ‘it’s going to be ok buddy, I love you so much, I love you so much,’ and with that he was gone. I couldn’t look at him after that. I wanted to remember him as I last saw him, looking into my eyes, knowing the person looking back at him loved him more than anything in the world. Oliver is now buried in our backyard a meter or so away from Denver. Yellow roses grow where Denver is and white roses grow where Oliver is. How very fitting. The first thing anybody gets to know about me is how much I love my dog Oliver. They know more about him before they know anything about me. I have very few photos of myself that don’t have Oliver in it as well. An ex-boyfriend of mine would say ‘you love that dog more than you love me, don’t you?’ to which I’d reply ‘his name is Oliver, and you’re damn right I do’. Oliver is the truest love I have and while I miss him so much each and every day, he lives on in my heart and I know I will never forget him. And although the experience of losing him has been near on unbearable, it has been worth it because nobody has ever made me feel so happy and so loved the way that Oliver has. Having him by my side from 12 to 27 years old has by far been the best experience of my life.

Other dogs and other people live in my heart but it is Oliver who will own it forever.

For Alice Leonards: 'I'm all for you' - by granddaughter Clare Wright

Cleveland, Ohio. 2007

ALICE ELIZABETH SIZER LEONARDS KRISS WYGANT LEONARDS

 We loved our grandmother.

Grams, as she was known to us, had a twinkle in her eye and a skip in her step that always brought us great pleasure.  She had a zest for life, a quick and intelligent wit and a true appreciation of the delicious details of family life.  She loved to teach, to take the lead, to show an example – but she never moralised or judged, or at least never to her granddaughters.

I remember one trip to Florida when I was fourteen.  Grams took me out to lunch at a fancy restaurant with three of her old work buddies.  They were all elegant women, well educated and well groomed.  The conversation veered from politics to interesting menu items to changes in the public health system to the unseasonable weather.  There was a lot of raucous laughter and hugs all round when departing.  A few weeks later, when I was back in Australia, I received a letter from Grams.  Grams told me that she was concerned that my lack of table manners, as demonstrated at that lunch, were going to prohibit me from getting along in the world.  Respectable and influential people, argued Grams, would expect a fine young woman like me to exhibit exemplary table manners.  She then proceeded to outlines my etiquette misdemeanours and provide the correct method of deportment.  At the time, the words stung somewhat, because I was always sensitive to criticism, but I knew Grams honestly had my best interests at heart and her words of advice were offered out of care and mutual respect.  I knew that for Grams to take the time and effort to scrutinise and direct me, I must truly matter to my grandmother.

And there were numerous other ways in which Grams conveyed her love and appreciation: cards at birthdays, generous and thoughtful gifts (I am still reading my own daughter many of the books that Grams sent my younger sister Rachel over the years), sharing recipes, passing on family stories.  In her last years, before dementia stole the clarity and precision of her mind, Grams sent many long, ‘newsy’ letters.  She faithfully accepted my choices, adopting my husband Damien into her heart and warm family embrace.  She used to send photos of herself; on the back she wrote: ‘I’m all for you’.

The last time I saw Grams was on her final trip to Australia in 1999.  By then, I had 2-year old and 4-month old sons, in whose company Grams delighted.  Grams was 83 years old, but she crawled around on the floor on her hands and knees playing horsies with my toddler.  She was in her element when dealing with exhausted and anxious new mothers and their grizzly, demanding babies.  Grams just loved to jiggle and burp the little boys, and fuss over me.  Was I eating enough to look after my needs?  Was I eating the right foods to make good breast milk?  (Grams was very proud of the fact that she nursed her own babies at a time when the drug companies were pushing formula as the milk of choice; more than that, Grams’ breast milk was taken and analysed to use as a model for a new formula that came to sweep the market.  She was the only nursing mother on the ward.)   I deeply regret that Grams could not have spent more time in Australia with her great-grandchildren, as I know they would have mutually benefited from each other’s company and attention.  My redhead son, in particular, has inherited Grams’ cheekiness as well as her locks.

Grams provided an important anchor point for me.  When I was feeling lost and alone as an 18 year-old travelling abroad, Grams consoled me with the words, “Always be true to yourself”.  She didn’t mean that it was okay to be self-centred or individualistic; indeed Grams showed through her deeds that she was committed to public service.  What she meant was to trust in your heart and have faith in your judgment, staying true to your principles and beliefs.

No doubt Grams made many mistakes in her long and eventful life.  Her own judgment and choices were not always sound or sensible.  But I have no doubt that the true north of her moral compass was love.  And she loved us truly.

For Norma Marjorie Perkins (nee Smith): 'My mother was some kind of genius if you think about it', by daughter Suzanne Donisthorpe - 2015

25 July 2015, Le Pine, Glen Waverley, Melbourne, Australia

My mother was some kind of genius if you think about it. She worked out how to have a ten star death way back. It's been a lifetime in the planning, but I reckon she pulled it off.

If she wrote it down I think it would go something like this.

First, make yourself loveable. This is the most important part. Be generous, kind, open hearted, compassionate and caring. Love your friends and neighbours and tolerate all the crazy things the world and your family does, but give them the occasional smack if they get too far out of line. Let all your children think that they are the favourite. Keep up with the times. Take an interest in the world and grow wiser as you grow older so you give the next generations something to aspire to. Do good things, don’t just talk about it.

Have a sense of humour even a streak of naughtiness. Insist on whiskey and beer, but wait until your husband the wine connoisseur is gone. Secretly vote Labor but also wait until husband dies. Smoke cigarettes and enjoy them. Everyone is going to die of something.

Next you will need a lot of willing hands to get the nurse to patient ratio needed. So do nursing. That way you will have plenty of friends up for the job when the time comes. Keep in close contact with them. Sure fired bonding exercises include playing cards, scrabble and bemoaning the modern state of nursing. Make it a family tradition. Be inspirational enough to encourage members of the younger generation to take up the profession, so when the time comes there's someone to do the heavy lifting. Make sure they too are devotees of the old school of nursing.

Next- how to die. On your own terms obviously. Do this with grace and quiet determination and begin well in advance so that everyone is clear that a) you will not go into a nursing home and b) you will decide when it's time to go. Make this clear to the medicos so they're arses are covered and you get your own way. Back this up with signed documents while you still have your marbles. Make sure the family are on side.

Next where to die. At home obviously - but how great would it be to have a room that fills with sunshine in the morning and looks out at the garden. It will also need to accommodate a proper hospital bed with all the bells and whistles and a door for the dog. So have a son who will become an architect to design such a room. Feed him a endless supply of Cornflake Cookies and bond with him over a football team. Make it one that can never be accused of letting success go to their heads.

Then get him to marry a woman who is a natural born communicator, a peace keeper, a five star cleaner and could make lists for Australia. Make her not unlike yourself in many ways, but keep the love of football for yourself.

Next food. A ten star farewell requires a top notch caterer who knows exactly what you like and has all your best recipes. She will make delicious soups, endless cheesy biscuits, divine chicken sandwiches and five star meals for the care squad. Give her the ability to feed and entertain the visitors who will be coming to say goodbye in their droves with barista coffee, a variety of tea and delicious snacks. Make her also good with small scruffy dogs, account keeping, filing and games. Bond with her in Gembrook, over scrabble, movies and gardening. Smoke inside with her.

Then to ensure proper immortality, encourage offspring to have children who will grow up to be a joy to their grandmother, can speak for her at her funeral and will carry her to her final destination. Make them as kind, loving and generous as you are and impressive and entertaining enough to brag about to your fellow grandmas.

Next write a list of all your dear friends and neighbours. Give it to the List Queen so that she ensures they come to say goodbye. Remind them of all the happy times you had together. Keep photo albums of all those happy times and remind everyone that being young does not last forever and that every moment is precious.

Next the weather. Make it so cold and rainy for the final week you are staying in bed that people envy you. Proper Pyjama weather. Make it early spring so the flowers are fresh and beautiful. Then when it's all over and you have gone, bring out the sun to help lift the spirits of those who will be grieving. Encourage everyone to think that you have extraordinary power.

Make this goodbye time not too long. It's hard work to die, and even though you relish hard work, a week is about enough. Long enough though, to reunite your family and have them sort out petty differences as they all pitch in for your ten star death.

Long enough too, for them to realise just how special you are and be grateful to have had such a wonderful mother.

Give them the weekend off. Die on Friday night, just after dinner, but not too late so they all get a good night’s sleep.

Finally- slip away peacefully, surrounded by those you love.

So if that's what Norma did when she was alive, imagine what she will do now.

I think we can expect some real change on the global warming front, an outbreak of peace, an end to world hunger, new found humanity towards refugees and if I was Tony Abbot I'd be very, very worried.

Vale Norma, my beautiful mother- see you in the next life.