for Matthew Mather: 'Matt was our glue guy', by Santo Manna - 2022

30 September 2022, Montreal, Canada

The first day we met Matt. Anybody want to hear about that?

I say “we” meaning our tight little subgroup within the 86/87 McGill Engineering class – or another way to put it – the gang that failed Professor Knystautys’s Mech 1 class in Fall 1986, plus me and Ohayon who arrived a semester later, and then of course Rob Megeney who joined in Fall 87, instantly became one of us… and promptly failed Professor Knystautus’s Mech 1 Class. All kidding aside, I could not have been more fortunate to fall in with that crew.

When I say “tight”, most of you know exactly what I mean – that extraordinarily close bond our extended group of McGill Engineers share. It is an exceedingly rare and special connection, like family really, and it only strengthens over time. I never practiced as an engineer but still wear this iron ring Vince Canonico gave me, now 30+ years ago, as a constant reminder of that unbreakable bond.

And it means everything when you tell Matt’s story. Because Matt fit, like a glove, in our family.

So back to that first day we met Matt. As an aside, Rob told me a story I never knew – Matt had arrived at McGill a week early to register for classes. After meeting and hanging out with us, he registered a week late!

It’s September 1988. I’d just turned 20, Matt was about to turn 19. It’s Orientation Week in the McConnell Engineering Building, and after participating in the day’s events at Open Air Pub we go out on the town. All the usual suspects are there – Marc, Rob, Cyril, who at that time were all living together in The Loft on St Urbain (not as luxurious as it sounds), John Keller, David Ohayon, Curtis, Louis and others.

But there’s another guy, he’s a new arrival to McGill Engineering and no one knows him, but he gravitates to us early on in the day and is there tagging along all night. Marc said it was like a puppy dog following us around! He’s the only first year among us. And he grows on us.

And, many hours later and after many watery Peel Pub pitchers, in the wee hours, a bunch of us end up crashing at the Loft. And in the morning, I wake up, on a mattress in the middle of the floor, fully clothed with my PPO lab coat still on, I hear snoring, I open my eyes, and Matt’s face is like right here, inches away from mine.

After that night he was never not a part of us, a part of who we were - and not just any part, a core part.
In the hours and days after we received the terrible news, talking through the pain and helping each other process the loss – and in those moments and in the blur of emotions, as people do in these cases, we talk about the essence of the person we lost, what they brought to the table, and that’s what we did about Matt.

And in these exchanges a theme emerged, and certain words around that theme.
Words like “core”, and others like:
“Hub” - Vince said that
“Glue” – heard that word a few times, and Marilyene mentioned it in a Facebook post.
There’s a term “glue guy”, especially well-known in hockey circles.

The glue guy:
• is great in the room…
• keeps things light and loose and makes sure his teammates have a great time, cracking jokes, inventing crazy games, playing pranks…
• goes the extra mile to create a positive atmosphere.

Calm and easy-going, the glue guy defuses tension, leading everyone towards harmony and away from dissension.

On any NHL team the glue guy is super important, often more important than the flashy superstars - no matter how things are going on the ice, or what controversies are happening on and off the ice, glue guys hold the team together.
THEIR VALUE TO THE TEAM CANNOT BE OVERSTATED.
THAT WAS OUR MATT – MATT WAS OUR GLUE GUY.

You know what I’m talking about. No matter the setting, Matt would make one of his wisecracks, and follow it up with that classic Matt little giggle at his own joke, and no matter what was going on everyone would feel better, and we would love him even more.

We are so tight, that didn’t just happen automatically – it took work, and Matty was one of those guys who did the work, and as the glue guy he made us even tighter.

And of course his influence didn’t only extend to McGill Engineering settings.

He touched my family too – back in 2019 Matt and Julie were in New York City for a sci-fi book convention and I took Katie, then an adolescent. She’s a big reader and had read his books, and loved them. He gave her a bag of swag, and signed some stuff, including a CD of Cyberstorm, which Angela, Ross and I listened to on the drive up from Manhattan yesterday.

He was also a core part of his immediate and extended family to be sure, and so many other little groups, and sometimes he brought them all together and then he was a core part of the collective of groups, the super group! No more obvious example of that when we attended his and Julie’s amazing wedding in Mexico.

And through him we got to meet the great people he attracted, like Julie, and then Joey and Stacey, and so on. That’s the takeaway for me, that’s what we all have in common. Matt wasn’t only our glue guy, chances are he was yours too.

So now together we suffer this terrible loss. But just like it was after that first night, Matt will never not be a part of us.

And Julie, know that you, Charlotte and Jack will never not be a part of us.

And we are never not going to miss him terribly, but together we will move on.

I’ll close with words from a couple of geniuses like Matt, in art and science, that make me think of him.

Leonard Cohen
"There is a crack, a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in"
Leonardo DaVinci
“A beautiful body perishes, but a work of art dies not.”

RIP Matty

For Frieda Isworth: 'She certainly appreciated the simple things of life', by Helen Isworth & Susan Snooks - 2006

14 March 2006, Melbourne, Australia

Reflections on our Mum, by Helen and Susan

Mum, you often said to us that you weren’t good at much and didn’t have much of an education, having left school at a very early age. It made Helen and I sad when you talked like that. You surely didn’t realise how amazing you were in our eyes, and the achievements you accomplished in your wonderful lifetime. You could teach a thing or two to the gardeners, tilers, painters, dressmakers and the cooks of today. Our gardens have always been filled with picture perfect geraniums, petunias and hydrangeas. You found great pleasure in digging, pruning, planting and watering, almost on a daily basis. You tried to teach Helen to trim a branch using a bow saw but she couldn’t even get it started!

You always loved painting- no room was left untouched. Kitchen cupboards at Box Hill would get a regular up-dated look. As were growing up we vividly remember our beautiful mauve and lemon bedroom, a fashion statement long before its time. And, of course, for a different look you even had a go at hanging wallpaper. You also tried some tiling- the back veranda and my bathroom. No wonder you loved those trips to Bunnings.

Dressmaking of course was your speciality- wardrobes of dresses for us both. School uniforms, concert costumes, First Holy Communion, debutante, bride and brides’ maid’s dresses, your own Mother of the Bride dress and matching jacket. Only occasionally would a pattern not come together for you and it would end up in the St Vincent Paul’s donation bag. And a new room was not complete until it was furnished with new curtains and cushions.

One particularly intense memory for Helen was the beautifully made Mammy doll Mum created, down to a brass curtain earring, check skirt and woollen hair. She was proudly displayed at school on the blackboard ledge before being shipped off to some needy child in a poor country. Helen felt hers looked so much nicer than all the others, and felt so proud of you, Mum.

Knitting was another skill that never left you. We were always warm in one of Mum’s jumpers. As a seven-year-old, Ben especially loved his Bart Simpson jumper. And of course, the sweet baby jacket just completed. She was so excited about the prospect of becoming a great grandmother.

Cooking was another great pleasure she found pleasure in. Susan and her would often trade recipes, with cakes and slices her speciality. There was always a new favourite- Betty cakes, yo-yos, lattice biscuits with cream cheese filling and most recently almond shortbread biscuits. Mum always made fish and chips on a Friday night- no take-away for us! And every visitor to afternoon tea left with a parcel of Mum’s homemade goodies.

Mum could teach a thing or two to the nannies of today too. The grandchildren were always occupied when Granma was around. A special memory for me, and for her for that matter, was taking Benjamin and Daniel for walks in the proam or the pusher. Down to the shops they’d go and for a break, sit in the bus stop to count the cars travelling along the highway. And a day’s childcare usually included Mum tackling the ironing basket for us too!

So it wasn’t the extravagant life for Mum. She certainly appreciated the simple things of life- few fancy holidays or restaurant meals for her. Many a summer holiday spent at Truman’s Road, Rosebud or Flat 4, Golden Park Flats in Tootgarook. Flat 4 was a converted garage that Mum made feel like a palace.

She loved a simple outing to Forest Hill or to see the old dears at the Nursing Home even after Dad had gone. She loved meeting Molly for a coffee or a game of cards at Evergreen.

Mum, your talents were many and you asked for so little in return. Your children and grandchildren may display some of those talents but you were the master. You certainly taught us the value of doing a job yourself and doing it well. Now it is your time to rest. We all know how much you loved us. We hope you knew how much we all loved you.

Frieda Isworth died on 6 March 2006

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

September 9, 2022, Mid North Funerals, Clare, South Australia, Australia
(In above video, Kristy’s eulogy begins at 16.22)

My beautiful father, was a truly unique man.
He was one of those inspirational souls, I am sure was sent, or chose to come into our lives for profound reasons.

I am proud to say, that I had the blessing and honour of helping to support Dad through his last breaths on this Earth, along with his Love, Julie.

And what a privilege – it’s something we don’t want to think about and may be reluctant to talk about, but what I was able to pull from the experience, has informed the theme for this eulogy.

I often reflect and honour both my mother and my father, along with my ancestors while I am grateful for the gifts passed down from these people. Gifts that make us unique and sometimes extraordinary.

These people, like Dad left their footprints for us; and they also left the love running through our spirits.

Like threads, the unseen connection continues.

The body has its purpose and then it’s honourably left behind, as something, somehow tangible that we need to let go of.

Dad’s life was so finely tuned, wound tight like a guitar string, tuned to sing him along.

As Dad’s threads “unravelled” as his love, Julie explained to me when the lingering last breaths became selfishly hard for me to bear; I became profoundly aware of the honour before me.

Gerald Mart Day
Born in Gladstone on June 10, 1939
hit the ground running on his way into this life of his.

He grew up on Barinia Farm just north of Clare

He was one of six Day kids; and nick-named for every day of the week by the local swaggy.
I reckon Dad made up for day seven for the work he had ahead of him.

He was the fourth born.
After Jean, Maureen, and Roger
Then a little before Bev and Yvonne

Memories shared at various milestone events
stick with me well; although forgive me if I still get the stories wrong.

Dad hated milking cows so he was never going to be a farmer.
Grandpa put off buying a mechanical milker just to spite Dad.

Bev was his favourite sister.
Sorry you other girls.
She reminded me of some tall stories the other day.

She laughs as she tells me what a clever fella her bother was.
He stuck by his little sister’s side.

He started building houses as a young bloke.
Cubbies of all shapes and forms.

Up trees and on the ground.
I am sure they were all strong.
Maybe one did actually collapse
Pretty sure I was told.

He was obviously a pilot right from the start.
His flying machine was built early,
even before his teens.
Yeah, he learnt from his own lessons when that plan failed!
He needed to wait for that one.

But he was starting to put his ducks in a row.
That’s my theme going forward here.
Reflecting on this epic journey I am barely touching on.

The fifties were soon upon him
which was good for him I know.

His dance moves were something I did my best as a kid to imitate.
Likely, to no justice because Dad was the one those moves belonged too.

Apparently, he built a record player, somehow from scratch.
So that he, Roger and his sisters could get that twist down pat.

He knew he had more to do than be a farmer and work the land.

He soon chose to get the mechanical fitting and turning trade on the go.
He was a teen now and well onto making his own choices.

He needed some wheels, so he thought he’d give a motorbike a try.
His apprenticeship wages came in handy for that.

Bev recalls that choice caused the first and only family argument she witnessed in her youth.
Grandma and Grandpa obviously had grave concerns.

Rightfully so, as motors on wheels later caused some crisis.

But building fast things that slid sideways with grace and grunt
Were high on Dad and Roger’s agendas.

Go Karts and midgets were built on their production lines.
Projects for racing fast.
Dad’s life was also quickly picking up speed.

Inventions of a super spreader was his last farm boy hurrah.

Speed boats were the first real craftsmanship.
They needed to be, because at best they should stay afloat.
Most of us know the story when Roger’s Jenny couldn’t swim.
When one boat went under.
Lucky there was plenty of booze on board that day
with flotation in the eskies.

So, Dad is still in his teens building boats mind you!

A house was close to follow.

Yes, the house he was to house his family
before the fact he said.
It was the right thing for a man to do.

He was still barely 18!
He bought a block across from the Golden Fleece on Main North Road.
And built it brick by brick as he learnt on the go.

Going to a back story–to imaginary places Julie and I told Dad to go the other night.
To help settle him into his groove
on his track into new adventures.
Julie said she’s convinced he must have ancient ties
to building Machu Picchu
or even the pyramids perhaps.

Anyway, the family home was good and ready.
His journey with Lynnette was right ahead of him.

Like two creative souls
fusing their energy,
those two were on their way.

There’s many days ahead on the River and Porters Lagoon.
Or any water deep enough–even far northern lakes.
Lake Ayer to name a few. He’d drag a boat behind a grader
if he needed a way through.

There’s Yvonne and Trevor; and Fury to add to the mix.
With Hootin Annie and her V8 motor as loud as it could go.

There’s Bev and Gary and many more.
Bowker’s Linbar and other egg-beaters
on Earls and McKendrick’s boats.
Likely I’ll get corrected on that later.

There’s the need for more speed and grace
so there’s water skiing to master.

He could ski on anything.
I remember fence posts,
if somehow there was no ski
Or maybe he wanted to show off.
Nah, he never did that!

Malcolm Heinrich has memories of railway sleepers
as a makeshift ski
How the hell you’d steer one of those!
On a skin full of beer, or a port or two!

All the way from a river pub back to wherever.
There’d be a fire to stoke, and wood needed to burn.
So, on that sleeper would go.

Not too much further on his way, there were little eyes to look into.
Three little ones: Robyn, Me and Timothy.

We had no choice
but to take on those ancestral lines.
We were little shits
and so practical jokes were on tap.

Go figure, when Tim pissed on Uncle Jeff’s leg.
He thought it was funny.

But, till recently, I liked to remind Dad
of what, I am told he was like as a kid.
He was the one, with some likely accomplices,
who pissed over the top of the haystack
onto the head of the swaggy,
poppa Day let sleep in the shed.

Grandma told mum at their wedding:
‘Well, I hope you can do something with him
because I never could!’

The family home project still had things to embellish it.
One day he came home with his first backhoe.
He said he’d go out and practice.

Out the back he went,
and soon there was a hole
big enough for a swimming pool.
I never knew it was one of the first in Clare.

I had no idea at that stage how much my father could do.
And that he was any different to other Dads.

It’s no wonder I build things now,
and can apparently never keep it simple.
Hey Gordon!

Growing up; I could mostly observe Dad from afar;
the pride for my father built slowly like a fire.

It was hard to get his attention.
I dealt with that quite personally.

Dad was leading by example,
of what work and dedication could achieve.

Others had a hard time getting Dad to stop
so they could get his attention
Because when he did, “boozy happenings” could follow.

He had some good mates,
Although these are my memories
so please forgive me for leaving some out.
I know you have many more memories as his friend.

There’s Percy Pearce, Peter Hall, Don Morrison, the Paines, Pigot and all the Heinrichs.
John Fidge was the quieter one! Old Betty made up for that!
Pool parties at 44 main north road were very well known.

There’s one particular “Getting Gerald’s attention” situation.
We tried to get him to come up from the shed one night.

Peter Hall called from out the front of the big house,
a few times I am sure.

‘Gerald, your Tea’s ready’,
Mum never failed to provide a hot meal
Bless her generous heart.

‘Gerald, come up for your tea,
it’s getting cold.’

Still no sign…

‘Gerald, the house is on fire!’

Well, after ole Chum Braddock heard that
from the other side of the valley
far away through the trees,
the fire truck quickly turned up;
with Dad coming up from behind.

That’ll learn him, I said.

All the while, it wasn’t just backhoes, excavators and trucks Dad worked with.
He wasn’t that keen on the cold weather
So northern safaris were the answer.

A V8 should go into a new Toyota landcruiser
That’ll make her go.

‘I am going up north’, he’d say
with Rex Elis’ punters in tow.
Mum would get to go on some earlier ones.
And a few times us kids got to go too.
We learnt all about messy races
and being shuttled reluctantly to our swags
out the back of the Birdsville hospital
or somewhere, maybe safe.

Gratefully, I got my first inspiration to do what I do to this day.
Connecting to red sand country and the first nations people too.
This was something I was blessed with,
on these incredible experiences up north.

So now I’m still drawing spinifex mice
and many other illustrations too.
Telling people how they may feel this country in their bones
Just like Dad and Mum knew how to do.

Bedfords and Oka trucks,
camel strings would be the go.
Up over many sandhills
of many relentless shapes and forms.

The Simpson and the Canning Stock Route
were only just a few.

In amongst the very full aspects of Dad’s life
he continued to pull off spectacular projects.
Just because these were the plans
he dreamed upon until the end.

He pulled down many historic homes
and old wineries in this Valley.
He would pile his loot from those demolitions
in amongst the place of many trees.
Toolangatta was that place.
This is where he and mum
chose to build the next family home.

He hardly slept between the hours up on his machines.
Let alone on that incredible place He and Mum co-created.

Stone by stone, masonry master,
Helmet Zora got him on his way.
Over 7 years it took.
Many other hands came in to help.
It was Mum’s dream to make it big enough
for a bed and breakfast.
It would have been Clare’s first.

We got to move into the bottom storey.
While the top story had its bones in place.

It was a space I never ceased to behold.
Nothing was done by halves.

Many parts of Clare’s architectural bones live there.
And doors from spaces
with many more stories to tell.
Many reused materials make up that place
A place we will treasure for ever.

As a young teenager, I was in awe of my father.

In amongst those trees,
life started to move on
to an end of a chapter.

When Dad threw his swag
in his hotted up old 4x4 ute
I knew that chapter was closing.

Dad had seen a new light
shine over a sand hill up on the Simpson.
That was a major adjustment for all of us.
Lovely Lesley came into our lives
From way over the ditch.

She quickly took the him to the city
But she was not able to take
the country out of him.

I have so far failed to fit in,
the times up on the River
50 years ago, at Roonka Station near Blanchetown,
we pulled up our houseboat
It still had paddles on the back.

Nanna and Grandpa Boyd wanted a retirement plan.
So an old River Queen they acquired
along with Mum and Dad.

Soon the paddles were off
And a jet engine was installed.
They called it Boydy’s Lazy Days.

Ironic, Dad was not really ever lazy!
Not long after Grandpa’s life was cut short.
He never got to retire on his beloved houseboat.

Life on the houseboat was our timeout;
and a time for connection.
Not only as a family but
further with nature.

Speed boats and fast Monaros
wasn’t so much Dad’s thing by then.
But he did know how to stop
to appreciate the river.

Water skiing did continue though.
Juda II and many others
dragged Dad gracefully through the water.
On marathons and relays, and many other gatherings.

Dry starts off the side of the houseboat
when the Schmidt’s or Bayliss’ turned up.
The sandbar was our favourite place
Just up from Roonka we’d go.

Easters and Christmas’s and birthday parties.
The river was our second home.

So anyway, on the horizon
there was another sparkly gem
that did catch Dad’s eye.
Julie was the one.
She was to be the most learned love of his life.

He got better at negotiating relationships
I say thanks to lovely Lesley.

So, Julie was Dad’s rock, and roll.
And roll up and down that river they did
In the loved houseboat they then called Days Off.

Julie was the perfect fix for Dad up to this day.

Dad felt such love for Julie.

We’ve all seen his tender side.
He’d cry for his gratitude
Dare he’d say
‘what he would do without his love for Julie’

It was a true love through and through.

They spent a wonderful 27 plus years together.

Julie was particularly good at “family”
With her Simon and his brood with Marissa in Holland–Lisa and Sven.

So Dad’s grandchildren were also hers.

There’s was my Adam first,
and then Robyn’s Coen next.
And then Tim was the later starter.

Tim’s Evan was next.
All the way from the US or the UK,
he was blessed to spend many days with his Pop and Julie.

Well Tim chose a less quieter life.
Maybe he should have bought another TV.
But he and Sarah brought Dad more apples
to fall not so far from his tree and carry the name.

There’s Harvey and Maddie, and now Ella too.

And while all that’s going on
Adam brings in the great grands
In Marley and Layla Lyn.

Just to remind Dad he’s an aged man
despite his consternation.

So, while all this breeding is going on,
Pop still has many projects on his agenda.

There’s continuing the home build in Blanchetown
he’s co-created with Julie
close enough to the river.

Sadly, Dad’s more recent years,
as most of you know, weren’t the best.

I could see there was an urgency
To retrace some steps.

We did the family run
back to York Peninsula.
Where the Days established pastoralism
And even the local government.

We did another important trip.
We had some stone arrangements to find.
Dad seen them on the Stony Desert
back in the 70s.
Long ago on some Coongie Lakes reconnaissance.

Young Russ flew him up to the Simpson
and over the Great Stony desert.
Dropped down in front of the Birdsville Pub
where we drove in to meet them.

We picked up a local man, Don.
The traditional Keeper of the stones.
We flew around and then drove around
Over the border, despite the covid cops.

And yes we found some stones.
They were laid down in formation,
likely thousands of years ago.

Before the return trip home
Russell came banging on the Birdsville pub room door.
He reckoned if they got in the plane really quick
they could ride the front of a storm
without getting wet.

So they flew home with their tail in the air
over sand storms below.
The must have broken the Cessna air speed record back to Clare
They didn’t even need to stop at the creek for fuel.

That trip carried the last little spring in Dad’s step.
The red sand country remembered him.

It got his attention.

So, Dad was indeed a good pilot back in his day.
He did love to fly.
Even aerobatics
I found out just recently.

Very soon after
his body was letting him down.
Despite losing all his physical functioning
and even his beautiful voice.
Unlike most, whom may have curled up and given in,
he just kept on going,
stoking the fire in his belly.

Dad continued on his way,
however, he could.
Extra innovations kept him at their home
with his beautiful mallee views and
with his Love by his side.

‘This is my last project’,
he told my Gordon, last Christmas
He started the gazebo.

He said it was always planned
for their Blanchetown home.

This was in amongst all sorts of other tasks
and written orders
for this and that.

Part way through building his gazebo,
While I cared for him, he wrote to me:

‘Kristy, get me up at 7 in the morning!’

This was in the middle of the night
in amongst his medication runs,
as I cycled the pain out of his arms and legs.

Sorry Julie
but you need to know,
how well you trained me
to look after Dad on my own.
For those few treasured days,
you and Sarah had the most well deserved break.

Thank you!

Although he looked like he was ready to die;
he had to be up at 7,
dressed, fed,
and craned into in his wheelchair!

That motorised wheelchair
sped him across to the shed.
And at top speed so he didn’t get bogged!
He had to be there for Mark and Leanne
when they yet again turned up so faithfully
to help build his gazebo.

He’d draw shakey little drawings
and write to communicate.
To make sure every part of his gazebo
was built exactly to his spec.

Partly along the building process
I showed Mark photos of Dad’s past building projects.
Mark looked at me with awe and terror in his eyes.
He reckons he would have run a mile
If I’d have shown him those photos before
when Dad asked for their assistance.

Red wine vat oak timber cladding
over steel posts form the structure.
A bluestone pizza oven
which some of us
had a part in learning to build somehow.

Tim McBride and Angie were the perfect match
for the houseboat’s next chapter.
That was one of the harder things Dad had to let go of.

All the while.
Dad is progressively incapacitated by the day.

In June for his last birthday,
The last project was just about completed.
Dad called in his siblings and other’s closest to him
His chapter was ending and coming to a close.

He completed the cosiest warm hug,
that Gazebo now called LeMark.
And AKA, Gerald’s pizza hut
by his beloved Bev.

But hsng onto your seats
wait these’s more!

Right up till the day,
just over a week ago
when Dad said, that’s enough.

He was now placing his spring ducklings in a row.

On that day, his final project hurdle
was making sure the wacker packer
he could hear start up outside
didn’t crack the edge of his Gazebo’s floor.
King William street footpath slate
he’d rescued from the Wingfield tip

He twitched and made a scene sitting on the loo.
Julie couldn’t get him off there quick enough
and into his chair so he could see.
His helpers had his best interest at heart
just like he did for others all his life.

Including for his community
he helped all the ways he could.

As I wind this one up now
or start to unravel.
I feel you may see
the common thread in this story.

This was Dad’s story
from my perspective.

But it’s plain to see.

Dad had all his ducks in a row,
Right till his ending hours.

Right down to making sure
Roger got on his way
to the Red Dirt Rally in WA,
Leaving this Sunday.

As Roger keeps those Model T wheels
turning in memory of Dad.
Along with Roger’s entourage of sisters,
they will remember him
in the red sand country, he loved.

So there is in fact a moral to this story.
I did get my father’s attention.
Even though he was robbed of his physical abilities.

Like someone said a few days back
What God would do that to a man.

What did endure,
was the goodness of his heart.
He never ever complained.

He had no choice but to find his Truth
In that spirit running through from his heart.

And that, I selfishly claim was my purpose.
Dad and I did get each other’s attention.

I can now say with conviction,

I love you so much Dad.

On his beloved Murray River, his ashes will scatter
At Roonka, hosted by Dad’s beautiful friends, Brian and Ali.

Good neighbour Gavin, you are expected to be there to sing your song for Dad;
Or take the piss till the end as you did
just for Dad’s shits and giggles.

Now at home here in Clare
The place where his spirit never left.

We give thanks to this amazing man.
For all that he leaves behind.
His footprints in the sand.

Go well our beautiful man.
On your next extraordinary adventure.

You will always be so loved
And close to our hearts.
As your spirit continues.
On its ancestral line.

Dad told me last year
when I asked him what his spirit animal will be
to let us know he’s close by.

‘A Kookaburra!’ he said.

So I wrote this short poem for when you’re next contemplating in nature.

It is called…

I am
the Kookaburra

I am the kookaburra
in the redgum beside the river

I am the reflection
laying softly upon the water

I am the kookaburra
laughing at the end of day

I am the sound of silence
as the cross-lighting makes
everything gold

I am the kookaburra
Remember me.

Another eulogist on the program was Alina who delivered the following poetic tribute ‘To Gerald’

On God’s own earth there was a man who knew how to live life to – the - brim

through every action and fibre of his being.

With a twinkle in his eye,

and steadfast determination,

No project too big (Actually the bigger the better)

No stone left unturned.

To see sunsets, magic in campfires, beauty in thunderstorms and

peace in the rain through his eyes was a heartfelt blessing like NO OTHER

Experiencing with him

The Flow. The Love. The Land. The Majesty.

Of Be-ing,

Of Being, truly alive and connected to All.

Thank you Gerald for all your immeasurable, treasured gifts.

Your example of how to live life deeply has

Lodged forever

in our …Hearts

Minds

and

Spirit

And SO TOUCHED,

US,

ALL.

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

For Howard Freeman: 'Dad was an irresistible force in our lives', by son Jeremy Freeman - 2022

22 May 2022, Temple Beth Israel, St Kilda, Melbourne , Australia

Many of you were at the funeral and will have heard Rabbi Morgan’s eulogy. On behalf of mum and the rest of the family, I want to thank you Rabbi for your words and your compassion.

So, I’m not going to attempt to recount the life and times of Howard Freeman, OAM, or as he would have said, Oliver Sholom. And he would have said it just like that, as though it was two first names, often abbreviated simply to Oliver.

Dad was an irresistible force in our lives. He set the direction. He led by example. When the seas were choppy, he steadied the ship and got on with the job. Apart from that one time when we went sailing for the day and he spent the homeward journey throwing up overboard.

As you know, he was a Collins Street dentist with a reputation for fine crown and bridge work. He might have been a plumber if not for Headmaster Brigadier Langley at Melbourne High School, who saw that he was good at woodwork and recommended dentistry. When we were little kids and went into town to see him, we thought he owned the T&G building, which he told us stood for the tooth and gum building. I remember enjoying going to see him at work because he was so delighted to see us and show us around, and then clean our teeth, after which we were given a sticker. He had a roll of stickers that had a smiley-faced tooth on them and the words ‘my dentist loves me’. You couldn’t give those stickers out these days.
In those days he was very hard working, but we used to eat dinner together every weeknight. We listened to the 7 o’clock news on 3LO in complete silence while we ate, and then we talked, or mostly he did. And then after dinner if there wasn’t homework then there was TV which we watched together. Four Corners, Fawlty Towers, a movie with adult themes, the children trying to feign indifference during the racy scenes.
We went on pretty good holidays, sometimes to Queensland and often to Mount Buffalo for a week in the summer, where we went on bush walks and rock-climbing adventures with other families, most notably the Cohens and the Mushins. Dad loved Mount Buffalo and the Chalet, including the 3-course meals served on Victorian Railways crockery with proper silverware, and having smoked cod for breakfast. Later, mum and dad would go on many overseas trips including walking tours in Europe and Japan.

Dad and mum loved to entertain, and dad was a gregarious host. He and mum were part of a book group for over 40 years, and I remember book group dinner parties in Prospect Hill Road and later at Cleeve Court as being particularly raucous. Dad was a big fan of cheese fondue when that was a thing, and I think he was disappointed when it wasn’t any more.

Dad was keen on cars and fancied himself as a good driver. After his Rover 3500 fell apart on the way to Mount Buffalo one year, and after the battle with Rover over the cost of repairs, he only ever drove Mercedes Benz cars, and they seemed to get sportier over the years. He also had a knack of parking illegally without getting booked and would prefer to park illegally rather than somewhere legal a little farther away. If he could, he would leave one of us kids in the car with strict instructions not to let the parking inspector give him a ticket. You couldn’t do that these days either.

Dad was a huge fan of classical music and had a large record collection which he would whistle along to in perfect tune. He would play classical music and whistle in the car when driving, and always when our friends were in the car. He and mum would go to the MSO red series concerts and later, when they moved to the Melburnian, the Arts Centre and precinct was on their doorstep.

And as you know, dad was fascinated by history and Australian Jewish History in particular. He would often tell us about the latest aspect he was reading for or from the journal, about the life or achievements of a famous Jewish Australian, or some scandalous thing that had happened at a synagogue. And then there were the excursions that he led us on, around the city of Melbourne, holding a microphone and hauling a portable loudspeaker. Nowadays you can download a tour from the app store and explore by yourself, but it was more fun with dad and his boundless enthusiasm for teaching the history that he loved.

He was honoured to receive the Medal of the Order of Australia in 2007 for service to the Jewish community, particularly through the preservation of historical documents. And yet my memory is also of the effort he put into nominating his Historical Society colleagues and others in the Jewish community for an award, and the thrill he got when one of his nominees received one. He would sometimes hint that someone we knew might be up for a ‘gong’ in the week leading up to Australia day or the Queen’s Birthday.

I don’t recall him ever not being the President of the Australian Jewish Historical Society Victoria Inc., but I do recall him quipping that the 3 nicest words in the English language were ‘immediate past president.’ So, after 38 years that’s what he became.

Dad had a very strong Jewish identity and sense of belonging to an important community. He felt the weight of Jewish history and heritage. He fostered the same feeling in us kids, sending us to Jewish day schools and encouraging our involvement with Jewish youth movements, just as he was involved in Habonim and made many lifelong friends there.

Of course, I’m skirting around something that had a profound influence on his life and that of us all, the sudden unexpected death of Karen, an unspeakable tragedy that cast a long shadow over the life of a young family. And because he couldn’t bear to speak of it, it wasn’t discussed.

So, he threw himself into his work and filled his days with caring for others through dentistry, and with his interests and passion for music, history, art, theatre, literature, dining, travel, family, and friends.
And then years later, another setback, this time with mum developing a life-threatening illness, the treatment for which lasted years and had terrible side effects. And again, he soldiered on, trying not to think about the likely outcome, getting us to school and protecting us from his worst fears. He must have been scraping the bottom of the barrel when he made us a breakfast jaffle filled with baked beans and cottage cheese. Needless to say, there was a mutiny.

Thankfully, disaster was averted, and mum and dad were able to see their children get married and have children of their own.

It’s safe to say that dad’s greatest delights were his grandchildren. Firstly Ella, who arrived as a 61st birthday present, then Oscar, Zara and Yasmin, Alex and then Lucas. He was at first ridiculously silly with them, pulling faces, using rude words, and telling jokes. As they got slightly older, he and mum took them on excursions to the National Gallery of Victoria, walks through the Botanic Gardens, and sometimes to foreign films with subtitles they couldn’t read.

Later, he would tell them about various goings on in the community or in his historical work, with varied success. I’m pretty sure that Ella and Oscar could tell you all about the history of the Queen Victoria Market and the issue of unmarked Jewish graves at the Old Melbourne Cemetery which predated it.

In later years, dad appreciated the help of all those who cared for him just as he had done for others. He spoke highly of his doctors, and they were very fond of him. I don’t think he gave much thought to death or dying, he was too busy living.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rest in peace Dad – I love you - love Anne

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 Robert McKie: 'Sample some of the sausage rolls and scones', by son Cameron McKie - 2021

13 July 2021, Heidelberg Golf Club, Melbourne, Australia

Dad would always come to your rescue. I was a skinny kid who felt the cold. One frigid cold day’s skiing on Mt Buffalo I must’ve become hypothermic and shuffled off the side of the slope to lay down in the snow for a little sleep. It was Dad who found me (I’m sure he’d purchased my bright red Spicer spray jacket for this exact scenario). Ditching his poles he scooped me up and skied down to the car, handed me over to Mum who stripped me down then wrapped me in blankets, rubbing me furiously to thaw me out while Dad turned the ignition and cranked the heater. Crisis averted. Years later, as a 16-17 year-old, stranded on the other side of town after a party, possibly following a few too many drinks… all I had to do was find a phone box and call home. Anywhere, anytime of the night or early morning. In next to no time Dad would arrive in his dressing gown. He’d drive my friends and I home to safety with no questions asked. No repercussions.

A solution for every problem. When I rolled the HR wagon a couple of months after it was gifted to me, Dad was the first person I rang. He arrived at Blairgowrie within two hours. I fully expected him to tear strips off me, but his only concern was that Nick & I were OK and that no-one else had been hurt or worse. He immediately identified the problem: my over-confidence behind the wheel clearly didn’t match my complete lack of driving skill and duly paid the $300 for me to undertake an advanced driving course (problem – solution). He’s done the same for every grandchild on their 18th birthday ever since.

Dad was adaptable. In the words of Clint Eastwood, “He improvised, he overcame”. Sometime in the 1960’s, realizing that there were too many Rob’s at Brownbuilt for him to make his mark, he promptly changed his name to Bob and set himself apart. Another fun fact: In the late 60’s he developed what sounded like a repetitive strain injury from all the note-taking during lectures at RMIT so he switched from right to left handed 6/52 out from a major exam for which he was granted a half-hour time extension. He passed the exam and wrote with that characteristic backwards-leaning, left-handed scrawl ever since.

Ratio & percentages. Up until late last year it’s been Mum’s health that was always the issue. I’d ring Dad asking after her and he’d say, “She’s 5% better today. If I can keep the food up to her and keep her hydrated, I reckon she’ll be 90% by the end of the week”. If one of the kids was unwell and had a couple of days off school he’d ring for daily updates and always ask for a wellness percentage. Just recently after he’d had a shower from his favorite Home Care worker (Tory – he was pretty fond of Tory) he said he felt a million dollars before quickly revising that figure down to $100,000 given his palliative situation.

Dad sat me down recently to discuss his funeral. He said the difference between a memorable funeral and a so-so one wasn’t so much in the eulogy or the song choices but in the food on offer afterwards. He said you had to encourage as many people as possible to stick around and mingle – and the food was the key. There needed to be plenty of it but more importantly you had to get the ratio right. Dad said he’d been to enough funerals by now to have worked out the perfect formula: 70% sausage rolls: 20% scones with jam & cream: 10% sandwiches. I had a sense I was on Candid Camera, but I duly scribbled down those percentages all the same.

Dad couldn’t always read a room. In his term as president at Watsonia Probus, he fixated on the dwindling numbers of blokes in the club. When the male-to-female ratio hit 30:70 Dad decided he’d propose a motion that only male applicants be accepted into the club until the ratio returned to 40:60. He was convinced he had the numbers but when it came to the vote at the AGM his so-called backers kept their hands firmly in their pockets, leaving Mum swinging in the breeze beside Dad, her hand held tentatively aloft. The motion was roundly rejected. It’s a good thing he never went into politics.

Dad had no interest in football but recognised that a basic knowledge of the game was an essential social networking skill, whether it be chatting with work colleagues, down at the tennis club over a round of golf. When Richmond made the 1980 GF he made sure he secured two tickets. Standing Room, Bay 13. The Tigers won easily but we didn’t hang around for the post-game celebrations. On jumping for joy at the final siren, I’d landed ankle deep in a Collingwood supporter’s Esky. Recognizing the imminent danger, Dad scooped me up and headed for the exit.

He was at the picture framer’s a few years ago helping Mum pick out a frame for one of her lovely paintings when he spotted a commemorative print of the 2017 Premiers. Mum always took care of the Christmas and Birthday shopping, and she wasn’t keen, but occasionally Dad would see something and insist they buy it: “Dood, it’s beautifully framed, has a great picture of Dusty with all the players’ signatures. Duncan will love it”. He was right – it’s hanging in pride of place over Dunc’s mantlepiece.

Dad made mistakes – rarely. The night before my final HSC exam – physics, Dad wandered into my bedroom and asked how my exam prep was going. I told him I’d essentially written off physics as my 5th subject because it was my weakest and would only carry a 10% weighting anyway. Dad refused to accept that this was a wise strategy and proceeded to teach me the entire course over the next 8 hours or so. I passed the exam on next-to-no sleep. A couple of months later Dad and I were down at the Monty Tennis Club loading up his trailer with several stacks of chairs for my 18th Birthday party. Vaguely recalling some of the basic physics he’d taught me, I threw a rope over a pile of chairs when Dad told me not to worry. He assured me they wouldn’t move on the short trip home. I wasn’t convinced but said nothing. Sure enough, as soon as he turned right out of Dobson Street 64 chairs fell out onto Para Road causing traffic chaos. The pair of us never moved so fast, scrambling to throw those chairs back into the trailer.

Measure twice. Cut once Dad was hands-on. He loved to get involved. Always turned up with a boot full of his own tools, screws, extension cords, etc. He loved passing on his knowledge. It was only really in the last couple of years that he became more of an adviser, less hands-on; but he’d still tackle smaller projects at his workbench in his garage. I’d always text him photos of any home improvements I’d made. Even at 50 I still craved his affirmation. Looking through old slides this week, I realized the scale of my projects paled into insignificance next to his. When he completed his impressive rear deck at Astley Street the building inspector told him it would still be standing long after the house had been reduced to rubble. In the week before he died, I drove him out to see Rohan & Jess’s new house under construction. It made his day, to feel involved in the building of something.

Dad wasn’t really an animal person although we must’ve worn him down at some point in the mid 70’s because he agreed to a family cat, Whiskers. Whiks was supposed to be an outside cat, but Mum and I had a pretty loose interpretation of outside, particularly in winter. So, our evening routine would be: dinner on the stove, the pair of us seated on the couch with Whiskers asleep on our laps, Dr Who on the telly. At the sound of the key in the front door I’d leap up, race to the sliding doors and toss the cat out then act like nothing happened. Whiskers would still be airborne when Dad put his keys down on the Laminex bench. He was always onto us though – maybe it was the fresh claw marks in my forearms. Dad never said anything, although he would level an occasional frown of disappointment at us both. (Mum and I tended gang up on Dad). It was a good thing when Em finally came along – she tended to take his side which evened the ledger.

Still on the subject of animals. There’s a well-known sketch of a frog and a pelican. The frog’s in trouble. His head and torso are deep inside the beak of the pelican. His legs are dangling limply outside, but his hands remain tightly gripped around the pelican’s throat. It’s titled, “Never Give Up!” This was Dad’s Mum Jean’s motto - she kept a photocopy on her fridge. Dad fought his disease tooth and nail. Like the frog he knew he was up against it from the outset, but he fought valiantly. We didn’t waste an opportunity over the past 6 months to tell Dad we loved him or to give him a hug. He accepted this affection more and more freely as the disease took its toll. It wasn’t until very late in the piece that he came to accept his fate and, in true Dad fashion, only once he was satisfied that he’d given it his all.

Thank-you all for attending today. Dad/Bob would be truly humbled by this turn-out for his send-off. But I’m sure you all see it as a fitting testament to the quality of the man. So please, if you can, make sure you stick around. Sample some of the sausage rolls and scones. Have a drink and start up a conversation with someone that also knew Dad/Bob, because friends, family and ensuring people stayed connected were what sustained him his whole life.

Robert (Bob) Roy McKie
30/11/37 - 5/7/21

For Matt Carney: 'Here was a man who could take sharp edges and soften them to a curve', by Emily Rowe - 2011

30 June 2011, St Mary’s Church, North Sydney, NSW, Australia

Hi everybody. What a life! I need to say that again.

What a life!

We all wander on through our days and hours and minutes and live with this assumption that it will all keep ticking over.

That tomorrow will follow today, that we will pick up the dry cleaning on Tuesday and have a picnic on Sunday.

Last Saturday night, Matt, Cal and myself sat up and watched Kung Fu Panda together. At a very poignant moment in the movie the shaman turtle said,

“Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery and today is a gift . That is why it is called the present.”

Matt and I locked eyes over Cals head and smiled at each other.

Matt and I met almost 10 years ago. October 2001. At the time I was living in New York.

I met him at a major sculpture show in Chicago. My sister was in from LA exhibiting and I went along to support her. Only weeks before the World Trade Center had been bombed and I was numb, dazed and grief stricken as all New Yorkers were. Matt had booked his trip to the states before that terrible day, but being Matt, bravely set off to America, despite the climate of terror.

The first part of Matt I saw was his leather clad butt up a ladder. I remember eyeing him off and watching him descend.

He was introduced to me in a group of people and when our eyes met I felt like I had known him forever.
Cos Matt was like that. When he gave you his full open smile,

His direct eye contact, you felt like you were the only person in the world. He made everyone feel like that and that’s why you are all here today.

I felt so safe with Matt because although I was in America, the show was full of people from everywhere. Having come from New York people didn’t know what to say to me. They all avoided me. Except Matt.

We talked a lot over those few days and when he kissed me on the forehead goodbye as I went off to New York and he to London he said, ”This is the start of a very long conversation.”

And so it was – the rest is history. I came back to Australia in January 2002 and we were married in January 2003.

Calpurnia was born May 2004. We didn’t muck around.

We had the most fantastic life together. Full of art, and music and literature. Little girl cuddles, bushwalks, Zhenya the husky and closeup our perfect white cat with different colored eyes.

We dove off the rocks at Adventure Bay for abalone, scaled the heights of Fluted Cape.

I watched him nurture the exotic trees in the garden of his mother Natalie’s dascha on Bruny. The arrangement here on his coffin is made up of those trees. The tortured willows, the blue spruce, the grevillieas and filberts.

He loved nature. Loved its force. He would rig up his windsurfer and head out to Simpsons Bay when the roaring 40’s came through and race the cars along the Neck doing 80kms an hour.

He’d come home salty and sandy and cold with a huge grin on his face and yell “I’m alive!” as he came through the door.

And he sure was. He didn’t waste a minute.

His whole life was a celebration. His quest was for meaning.

In his sculpture he worked patiently, conjuring up such beauty for people. Everything boldly declaring,’You are not alone.

His schools of fish, the woman holding the world in the palm of her hands. The filigree leaf of exquisite perfect fibenaci detail.

His bronze woman pouring. The woman offering the cup of life. Woman in Space. Obsession. I could go on forever – better to google him and cruise his website – such a massive body of work for one so young.

He had an amazing work ethic. In the studio 6 days a week. Even when inspiration was slow in coming, he kept working.

These pieces here, the crescents are part of a series he started back in November 2001. He started with the huge pile of scrap metal under his bench and set to make something beautiful from the unwanted.

Here was a man who could take sharp edges and soften them to a curve, rusty sharp lines became the moon. What a gift.

After Cal was born, we started playing music together.

Matt on flute or guitar and I sang. I went back to the piano so I could accompany him on the flute.

And he got serious about the guitar. He fell in love with his guitar and would get up at 4am in the morning to practise before Cal and I awoke.

When we moved to Sydney we started getting some gigs and he encouraged me to start writing songs for us to play. So I did.

And writing from what I knew – they were love songs.

“Hello lovebugs of loveness” he would say to me.

Together everyday, talking art, playing music, raising our daughter we were rarely apart. And to the last , I still swooned when he kissed me.

Matt also unearthed a new passion in the last few years. Technology had advance to a place that now allowed my dyslexic husband to read through audio books. What joy he found! The wisdom of living with immediacy of action blew beyond the stratosphere as he discovered history, science, literature. Down in his workshop he would shape his waxes for casting with his ipod plugged in, soaking it all in.

He had always felt so compromised by his dyslexia and here he had found a way to feed his mind.

The amazing kind father and husband grew.

The already empathic, sensitive, intuitive soul grew.

And when he left us last Thursday, he was perfect.

I blessed him the night before he died. I anointed him with oils and kissed him all over his face.

We didn’t know he was going. He did. He had made peace with relationships he had found troubling, he had been given a chance since he was diagnosed with cancer to really think about what his life meant to him.

And he was happy. Really happy.

He said to me only a few weeks ago,

“Em, If I die, that’s okay. I’ve had an amazing life. I love my life and I have loved all of it. Even the dark times.”

Another time as we were working through the shock of his diagnosis he said to me,

“I don’t have a bucket list. I am doing exactly what I want to be doing. I love my life.”

And last Thursday morning he cupped my face in his hands , kissed me deeply and said,

“I love you more than you will ever know,”

He was a prince among men.

I know that you are all so sad he is gone, but be glad he was a part of your life.

Learn from him. Explore your desires, challenge yourself.

Make beauty. Love freely. Be who you are.

Because this is it. The present .

I have this brief time here to try and capture him . And I could go on forever. And when I sit down that moment will be passed. Don’t waste your moments.

I’m looking forward to talking with you back at Mum and Dads. Sharing our unique precious moments that we had with Matt.

This song is a song Matt and I wrote together and we recorded last year.

It’s called life on love alone and Matts guitar rocks!

I’ll end where I began.

What a life! What a life!,

Emily Rowe is a grief counsellor (The Good Grief Coach) who posted this beautiful speech on Twitter on the tenth anniversary of her husband’s death. She was a guest on the 24th episode of the Speakola podcast, a beautiful chat. She recorded the speech for us too.

For Alexander Wilson: 'A great man died Monday', by son Ken Wilson - 2002

7 July 2002, St Michael’s Catholic Chuch, Ashburton, Melbourne, Australia

A great man died on Monday. He wasn’t a world leader, a famous doctor, a war hero or a sports star. He was no business tycoon and you would never see his name in the financial pages. But he was one of the greatest men who ever lived.

He was my father.

I guess you might say he was a person who was never interested in getting credit or receiving honours. He did things like pay his bills on time, go to church on Sunday and got involved in YCW and footy clubs and fund raising for schools. He helped his kids with their homework, drove his wife to the Vic market on his Tuesday off work. He got a great kick out of hauling his kids and their friends to & from footy games when he could.

He had high values and led by example. He treated all people he came across with equal courtesy and I can never remember him passing a person anywhere without greeting them – usually displaying that sharp wit that was his hallmark.

Dad enjoyed simple pastimes like BBQ picnics at Maroondah dam, a round of golf, mowing the lawn, camping at Lakes Entrance and the Grampians, a game a draughts and a good political argument. He spent his life working and sometimes he just didn’t seem to be around, yet he was always there. He was always there, doing what a man had to do. In retirement he was just a little bit partial towards the Richmond Football Club.

This great man died not some much with a smile on his face, as with fulfilment in his heart. He knew he was a great success as a husband, a father, a brother, a son and most of all as a friend.

There is a saying that when an old person dies a library burns down. There are many stories that go with his death, but there are many that we could relate. A brief tale of his life now follows.

He was born on 14th August, 1914 in Balmain St Richmond. He was the sixth of ten children (the 4th died at 10 months). When Dad was around the age of 8-9 he used to sell sliced oranges to the football crowds attending the games at the Punt Road ground. He was a pretty enterprising young fella and soon found he could double his money. He was meant to sell a slice for a penny but sold two for threepence!

In October 1924, the young wilson family moved from the ghetto of Richmond to the new ghetto of Oakleigh, in Queens Ave. Life was pretty tough in the years leading up to the depression and matters became worse when their father committed suicide in November 1928.

That event had a monumental effect on the young Alex. He commenced work as a full time caddy at Metropolitan Golf Club a short time after, but supplemented this by selling flowers on a street corner in South Yarra. He used to walk from Oakleigh to Burwood to collect two pales full of flowers, tram it to South Yarra and sell them. He again turned a handsome profit by selling them at a marked up price and pocketing the difference. He then trudged home to Oakleigh via Burwood to save the tram and bus fares.

This was the physical effects of his father’s death. The mental effects were much greater. He swore himself off alcohol for life and set forth to be the best the best person he could possibly be.

In September 1934, when barely 20 years old, Alex commenced work as a steward at the golf club. Two years later as circumstances would have it, he was appointed head steward, a position he held, except for the war years, until his retirement in 1979. In a 51 year association with the golf club he never took a sicky!

There was a wee slip of a girl that started work in the dining room at the golf club, whom Alex took a bit of a shine too. He started to walk her home from benediction of a Sunday night and one thing lead to another and in March 1942 they were married at Sacred Heart Church in Oakleigh. Moya & Alex celebrated 60 years of marriage this year.

They lived in Ashburton for 53 years, produced 6 children, 17 grandchildren and 4 great grandchildren. There are many stories that could be related of Alex life in the Ashburton
community where he has been active parishioner and fundraiser, from the very beginning, until only 3 years ago.

My brother Ray described Dad’s life as one of SERVICE, and I believe that sums it up – service to his childhood family, then to his own family, the golf club patrons, his church & parish and his God.

It is what he leaves behind that is important, for it is his spirit, kindness, generosity and love which he engendered into his children, and they in turn into theirs.

For us it has been the most wonderful journey, which not so much ends today as sprouts a few new shoots on the tree of life, as we are the living legacy of Alex Wilson.

So from us all, it’s goodbye husband, father and very special friend. We love you and thank you. God bless.

For Peter Heerey: 'Dad, you’ve had a good life. You’ve had a great life', by Ed Heerey - 2021

14 May 2021, St Patrick’s Cathedral, Melbourne, Australia

Speech starts at 8.00

I speak today on behalf of our family: our mother Sally, my brother Tom who joins us by web-stream from Dublin with his wife Jen and their children Emma and Conor, my brother Charlie and his wife Anna and their son Nick, and my wife Mim and our children Sass, Gus and Nevie.

I must admit this is a very difficult task. I have a short time to sum up a long and eventful life.

How do I sum up the life of a man who achieved so much in the law, who loved literature, history and Louis Armstrong, and who only last Christmas was learning new Tik Tok dance routines from his grandchildren?

Dad’s many achievements as a barrister and judge are well-known and well documented, so I won’t focus on them now.

Rather, I want to focus on his greater achievement in life. That achievement was building a rich web of attachments to a wide range of family, friends and colleagues, who I am very glad to see here today.

This achievement became very clear over the last few months, as Dad received a steady stream of visits, phone calls, emails and letters from so many different people from so many parts of his life.

And it occurred to all of us, that this was truly Dad’s greatest passion: cultivating strong connections with the people around him, and nurturing them throughout his life.

As you all know, Dad’s story begins in Hobart, where he grew up with his younger sister Sue. Sue lives in New Zealand and we are very glad to have her and my cousins James and Sarah joining us on the web-stream from Auckland and Hong Kong.

There is no doubt that Dad’s father Francis Xavier Heerey loomed large in his life. Frank Heerey was a veteran of World War One, where he served in Egypt, France and Belgium. After the war, he ran a string of successful pubs around Tasmania, and was elected to the Tasmanian Parliament as a member of the Labor Party.

Dad learned early from his father that true friendship can and should accommodate any difference in opinion. Some of Frank Heerey’s closest friends were his political opponents Leo Doyle and Bill Hodgman, whose sons Brian and Michael became Dad’s own lifelong friends. That provides a lesson for all of us: we must focus on the many things that unite us, rather than the few things that divide us.

Dad was only 25 years old when his father died in 1964. Any time is too soon to lose a father, but aged 25 is sooner than most. There is no doubt that Dad missed his father greatly, and deeply wished that Frank could have known our Mum, and us, his grandsons.

But while Dad carried that regret through his life, he also carried an absolute confidence of his father’s love and support.

Dad only told me a few weeks ago that he was by his father’s side when he died. His father told him “I am proud of you.”

Dad never had reason to doubt his father’s pride and approval.

In our lives, he also made sure that his own sons had no reason to doubt their father’s pride and approval.

Dad moved to Melbourne in 1967 and has lived here ever since. However, he always remained a Tasmanian at heart. Many of his old friends from St Virgil’s College and the University of Tasmania have told us recently how Dad was instrumental in orchestrating regular catch-ups which preserved their friendships over the decades.

And many, many times Dad provided mainlanders with enthusiastic Tasmanian holiday advice, entirely unremunerated by the Tasmanian Tourism Commission.

On moving to Melbourne, Dad gravitated to Hawthorn, where his mother Jean Eileen Brady had grown up near the Church of the Immaculate Conception. In fact, his parents Jean and Frank were married at that Church. Dad used to take us to Mass there when we were young.

He often told the tale that, back in the early 70s, the church once put up a sign which challenged locals to consider “What would you do if Jesus came to Hawthorn?”

One local character wrote the answer: “Move Peter Hudson to centre-half-forward”.

As it turned out, Jesus did not move to Hawthorn in the 1970s, but Dad’s mother Jean did, and she lived not far from us until she passed away in 1976. I remember fondly how she used to add an extra sugar cube to each glass of lemonade when she looked after my brothers and me. We were bouncing off the walls!

Dad threw himself into community life in Hawthorn. Somehow, as a busy barrister with three small children, he found the time to get elected and serve on the Hawthorn City Council, where he made more friends who are here today.

Charlie, Tom and I attended Auburn South Primary School, where our family met a fantastic bunch of local families who became life-long friends, and are also here today.

During that time, Dad was also forging deep ties with his colleagues at the Bar. Many of his contemporaries who started at the Bar with him became his solid friends for life. Very early on, a group of those young barrister friends, and their much better halves, had a Christmas dinner together. They enjoyed it so much they have kept doing it for over 50 years.

As a barrister, Dad was more of a quiet achiever than a loud attention-seeker. However, he was prepared to make a rare exception. Once he was part of a delegation of Australian barristers who travelled to Dublin to meet their counterparts at the Irish Bar.

At their black-tie dinner, it turned out that one of the Irish barristers was a famous tenor who proceeded to entertain the crowd with song after song. The Australians were completely at a loss at how to respond, until Dad jumped up, stood on a chair and recited from memory the whole of Banjo Patterson’s “The Man from Snowy River”. By all accounts, he brought the house down.

The Bar has a strong tradition of formal and informal mentoring. Dad forever appreciated the guidance and assistance provided to him by his mentor Jim Gobbo, and other leading barristers with whom he worked as junior counsel, like Jeff Sher and Tom Hughes.

As he progressed up the ranks, it became his turn to mentor junior barristers. Dad had a string of readers who started out with him and went on to illustrious careers of their own. He took immense pride as each of them took silk and four of them became judges. Again, we are delighted to have them here today.

Dad’s focus on mentoring junior lawyers continued when he was appointed to the Federal Court. Over 19 years he had a string of associates working with him. Each new associate joined an expanding club of former associates which enjoyed an annual Christmas lunch and other ongoing contact with Dad so that he could keep up with progress in their professional and family lives. Many of them now live in other states or countries, but we are delighted to see so many of them here today.

A new chapter opened up for Dad after he retired from the Federal Court at the mandatory age of 70. He returned to the Bar to work as a mediator and arbitrator, and spent 11 years with a group of younger barristers in Dawson Chambers, and later Castan Chambers, named after his old mate Ron Castan. Throughout that time, Dad was the convenor of a regular Friday morning coffee catch-up, and took great interest in how his younger colleagues were getting on.

Those friends at Castan Chambers kindly hosted a farewell function for him in February this year. As it turned out, it was the last public event he attended. All that week, he was quite unwell and it was touch and go whether he would make it at all. In the end, he tapped into some hidden reservoir of energy so that he would not miss the opportunity to spend some quality time with a range of friends from so many different chapters of his life.

His old friend Alex Chernov gave a great speech about their decades together as colleagues and friends at the Bar. Then it was Dad’s turn, and he delivered the last speech of his life. I can’t do justice to it now, but we have a video of the speech skillfully recorded by my brother Charlie on his iPhone – if any of you are interested to see it, please send me an email and I will send you a link.

By that time, Dad had been fighting various types of cancer for several years. He did not want to draw attention to it. On the contrary, he was determined to carry on business as usual, enjoying his regular contacts with old and new friends and colleagues. Somehow, numerous bouts of chemotherapy made no dent at all on his thick head of hair, and he was able to keep doing most of the things he loved right up to late last year.

There is no avoiding the fact that the last four months were difficult for Dad, and for all of us, as his health steadily deteriorated.

But Dad was repaid in spades for all the efforts he made throughout his life, nurturing his wide range of friendships. Day after day, he received visits from friends old and new, travelling from near and far to come and spend time with him. He also received countless calls and emails from those who were unable to travel to Melbourne.

And, thankfully, despite all the challenges of the pandemic and various hotel quarantine debacles, our brother Tom was able to visit from Ireland and spend some significant quality time with Dad and all of us in February and March.

And I would like to pay a special tribute to my mother’s younger sister Jane. We call her Cool Aunt Jane. Back in the day, Jane was a registered nurse. For the best part of three months this year, she put her life in Brisbane on hold and came down here to live with Mum and Dad. She provided priceless care, company and a cheeky sense of humour. Jane: we can never thank you enough.

Only a few weeks ago, I had a brief discussion with Dad which took a sudden profound turn. Indeed, I was running late for a meeting when he decided to raise the biggest question of all: is there a life after this one?

I said to Dad, well, that’s why we make the best of this life. And I held Dad’s hand and said to him: if someone offered me a contract, and that contract guaranteed that I would live 82 years, that I would have children and grandchildren who love me and love each other, and that I would spend the last four months of my life receiving a constant stream of visitors wishing me well – I would sign that contract.

He nodded. And he said: “I’ve had a good life.”

Dad, you’ve had a good life. You’ve had a great life, and you touched the lives of so many others.

On behalf of our family, I thank all of you for the parts that each of you have played in making Dad’s life the life that it was.

A long life, well lived.

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you.

Lisa Murray, 1973

For 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 Errol Ellis: 'Errol was his own man, and he had his own expansive, big style', by Marc Tremayne - 2018

15 February 2018, Abbotsford Convent, Melbourne, Australia

Hi everyone. Yes I’m Marc Tremayne, believe it or not. Probably most of you would rather not!

What wonderful recollections and memories Andrea and Jen. Only loving sisters could imbue a delivery with such intimacy and warmth. Beau adored you both so much. Thank you both for sharing moments together with him.

Simon, Miff, Harry, Akira, Kip and extended family, our warmest expressions go out to you all.

Beau was enigmatic, a contradiction in so many ways. I mean exactly how long is a piece of string? For a start where do you start? Evanescent and yet ever present. Full of whimsy and yet never flimsy in his approach to addressing things. Or perhaps undressing things! His wit was it!

Beau could be stubborn too and if he became entrenched with an idea, to extricate him from that viewpoint was like ripping a rusty nail from a bit of lumber – and that is very very difficult…..and the corollary to that was his warmth and capacity which were just remarkable.

We had many good times together. We studied at Swinburne very poorly and very very briefly – Appalling Students! We were chucked out. And we just continued partying – Errol was a great party animal. He loved gatherings, he loved people. He was very gregarious. He syncopated, and he resonated, and everybody loved him because Errol loved himself…..(laughter)…..

He did love himself, he was a great host…I think that with Beau, if ever you were at a party and Beau’s, and Anne’s, if the wine glass was at less than 85% capacity he’d be personally offended. Your wine glass was continually topped up and he always made sure you had the most delicious time. Experiencing his particular sense of personal abundance, because Errol was abundant. He’s irreplaceable.

He wasn’t a conveyor belt dude. I had a friend who was working in TV dinners – he was putting the carrot in compartment five. Well Errol wasn’t like that. Errol was his own man, and he had his own expansive, big style. His photo on the little brochure here, that’s Robert De Niro I reckon walking along the beach. He was debonair and charming, alluring and captivating. Whenever he was talking to you, you were the only person he was talking to, he wasn’t talking to the entire village, or talking to himself. He was talking to you personally, and you just melted into his sincerity and his authenticity and his uncomplicated love.

We had some (good) weird times together Beau…. (much laughter)….I just remembered something that popped up. After probably the ‘Thumping Tum’ or ‘Sebastians’, we were cruising down South rd in the wee hours one wintry morning, and we were in that Morris thing with a dicky seat in the back. Anyway we were rocketing down there, full steam ahead at about 50ks an hour, on tissue thin wheels, on undernourished tyres, the wheels were wobbling and the only ventilation was through bullet holes in the thing. I’m not sure how many rocks had hit it, they went straight through the tin, it was so thin. Right in front of us, a milk cart presented itself - a massive Clydesdale, a dray, tons of milk, right in front of us. We had milliseconds to think. We just closed our eyes and miraculously we translated through this ignominious situation…and ended up on the other side. Errol was navigating. And I never looked back in the rear vision mirror and wondered what happened to the bloody milkman or the cart or the consignment of milk. That’s Beau…what happened there I don’t know. I’ve got no idea.

Another time, Anne was telling me. She was saying “You know, one day Marc, Errol went out to buy a hamburger with a mate when he was hungry, and came back with a bloody Mercedes!” That’s quintessentially Errol. How about that. The dextrous efforts he went through to extricate himself from that dilemma……with the speed of a proverbial thousand gazelles. He was most relieved because he had a big obligation on the car, this Mercedes, all for a hamburger coupon. Can you believe that?

I don’t want to really stay much longer. I could talk and talk for quite a while. The memories keep trickling and trickling like the proverbial spring flower.

Errol was almost messianic. I mean that in the most sincere sense. He had an aura about him. A diaphanous quality, which seemed to draw you in. You’d always be enlarged by your exposure to this wonderfully unique, engaging and charming genius, for that’s what I think he was and I’m going to miss him so much. And I’m honoured to have the opportunity of talking about him, not in a cavalier, but a very respectful way.

I want to mention one other thing too, and this is a big one with Errol. He was one of the first conscientious objectors – geez he had guts! He went through so much trauma, so much drama, so much cruelty and unkindness and he stuck to his guns – he wouldn’t budge. That was Beau. He did that and he was eventually discharged from the army. I think there was a bloke named Peter Redlich, and he represented him and he got him discharged from the bloody army! As Groucho Marx said “There’s military justice and there’s justice, there’s military music and there’s music”.

Simon was going to take Errol to the wonderful Roger Waters show. You know Simon, he would have loved it. He probably DID love it. He would have been there, that’s for certain.

Something about Groucho Marx, and Errol loved Groucho Marx. He said in his letter of resignation to the golf club that “I couldn’t imagine being a member of any club that would accept me!” That was a bit like Beau.

I think often Errol under expressed himself, and he was always giving those around him an abundance and a feast, a cornucopia of opportunity and possibility. He was historical, he was charming, he was eccentric, he was faithful, he was naughty, he was intelligent, he was a one-off. You won’t find another Errol. God bless you Errol!

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

28 June 2020, Montreal, Quebec, Canada

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

There is a photo that I love.

It is July 1968.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So many memories.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rest in peace, my godfather.

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

July 2005, Aspley, Queensland, Australia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For Bill Pattinson: 'He loved us all, and we loved him back', by Brett Pattinson - 2020

May 2020, Port Macquarie, Australia

Good afternoon everyone.

On the way here today i was pulled over by the police, i wound down my window and the officer said “blow into this bag” i said “what for” he said “because me chips are too hot”.....

When i was asked to do the eulogy, I thought why me? Craig or Dad are usually the ones that do the speeches in the family ... .so i agreed under some degree of fear and loathing....

So, that being said, I asked some friends about how to go about writing a eulogy.... And it seemed to me that everyone is a bloody expert and has an opinion!!! One of my mates said ... you have start with a joke..... So here we go …

I knew I was the brightest in the family because dad always called me sun!!!!!

Ok, so i see that didn’t quite hit the mark. Then my brother Craig sent me a “how to write a eulogy” document.... Here it is (hold up document and then throw it over shoulder) .......

Another friend told me i need to get everyone’s attention and in the moment (a woo woo hippy friend of course) so......

Did anyone ever notice that dad used to pick his nose??? He was a master nose picker. He could be in a room full of people and he could pick his nose and no one ever seemed to notice. And it was even better that he had his stubby index finger (from a magic accident) he could pick his nose and it looked like half his finger was up his nose. i was in awe of this when I was a kid, I have practiced this art but without the half index finger it doesn’t have the same effect.

Sorry, I have digressed from the job at hand anyway.

The definition of eulogy is a speech or piece of writing that praises someone or something highly, especially a tribute to someone who has just died. Dad would have liked this idea, he never shyed away from a bit of attention …

William Earnest Pattinson –born 14th November 1931 in Sydney to Frank Edward Pattinson and Edith Ivy Taylor (Nan & Pop Patto)and brother to Frank, Marian, Evelyn & Elaine the youngest....thank you to Frank, Marion, Evelyn and Elaine we are all very grateful they could come all this way today under the current restrictions we are faced with, and thank you to Peter, Brad and Dean for making that happen.

Dad was known as Bill , Billy, Pop, Poppy or simply Patto to most people.
Dad grew up in ....Bellfield and Sutherland south of Sydney, and lived in Oxford St Sutherland in the family home. He attended Belomre Primary School and then Hurstville High where he left at the age of 14 or 15 (I couldn’t get a straight answer on that one). He either left or got kicked out ....we aren’t sure....

Dad had a habit of wagging school, in fact, as Aunty Elaine told me, he was so bad that each day in the morning he had to report to the headmasters office and get a stamp on his hand so his mother and father could confirm he’d been at school.....

Unfortunately,they found out much later that he had actually stolen the stamp from the headmasters office and was stamping himself and nicking off to god knows where.

Apparently he ended up suspended for 3 months....i don’t think that bothered him.

Let’s talk about dad’s early days ... So the story goes dad and Frank were both rascals and mischief wasn’t far from them at any one time..... When uncle Frank left school his first job was as an apprentice electrician. Anyway tax time came around and uncle Frank got a call from the ATO and they said uncle Frank hadn’t paid enough tax.... Frank was a bit perplexed because he was sure he had......

As it turns out Dad had also either left school or wasn’t attending anymore and he had gone and got a job as a bus conductior, but he was under aged so he lied about his age and had given them Franks name and date of birth and never paid any tax........

Can you put two and two together????? Yep that’s right Dad had failed his first test in accounting!!!!! And now i bloody well know why dad was so hung up about the tax department.

Another little bit of trivia –uncle Frank was married to Aunty Dulcie –but apparently a little birdy told me that dad dated Dulcie before Frank. However, uncle Frank took a fancy to her and wooed her away and they were married and lived happily ever after ....so all of us have to thank you uncle Frank …. otherwise we might not be here today and this story could have been very different.

After leaving school he got a job at a dry cleaners where he worked until he met mum, Jean Margaret Montgue and they fell in love....

So the story goes (this is Mums version) they met at a dance in Oatly where Dad pursued mum and then stalked her to Oatly train station where he chased her up and down the aisles of the train until she agreed to go out with him..... Dad was a handsome rooster, and persistant!

It’s probably where the curse began...... (insert quick summary of the curse)

I guess the deal was sealed and “the curse” had worked and Dad and Mum were married in February 1952, two years after they were married, on February 17th 1954 my brother Craig was born....i assume that in the following years Dad was on the road a lot because it wasn’t until the 8th of March (International Womens Day) that the looker of the family... me!! …was born.

I think things turned pair shaped at that point...... For some reason they saw me as a bit of a handful (go figure) because Dad went straight back on the road......this time for a very long time, until on the 27th March 1971, Ness was born.

Things changed again around that time and dad slowed down on the touring etc... I think he actually really liked ness....she was his little princess.

Over the years we lived in quite a few places, from when Craig was born until we all left home, I think we moved 9 times. Cootamundra –olive st Heathcote –Coopernook ave Gymea Bay –Parthenia St Dolans bay –Plover St Grays Point –Carrington Ave Katoomba – Cliff drive Katoomba and then finally retiring Tojobling St port Macquarie ..... Hopefully i didn’t miss any ????

Dad was always on the go, from my earliest memory of dad he was always busy, he worked
Hard...really hard...often 2 or 3 jobs at once and every one of them he was proud of. From his days as a sales rep with various companies to national sales manager of Treet Packers then onto a senior management role at Dairy Farmers.

Dad also had many side hustles going on....the one I remember the most was the trophy engraving business he would come home from his day job and go downstairs at our house at Dolans Bay and work till all hours engraving trophies......he did this so that we all had everything we ever needed.

We never wanted for anything but his true passion was always entertainment.... Dad loved people and people loved Dad. He loved to entertain, or show off if you like. He was incredibly skilled at what he did and had many strings to his bow.

His main passion was magic..... From what I can gather dad learnt his magic skills from Mum’s dad (my grandfather) Chica’s brother and I seem to remember dad telling me he first learnt the Chinese rings...you know those big rings .....his signature tricks were amazing and any of you that were lucky enough to see him in action will agree he was pretty bloody talented.

He used to do what they call paper cutting, which for those of you that don’t know what that is, he would spend hours the night before a show preparing these intricate designs that were pre-cut with a very sharp razor.... It really was something special to see. You know how I mentioned his amazing talent for nose picking....and you may have noticed how his index finger on his left hand was only half an index finger....well he did that whilst doing the paper cutting, I can only imagine the audiences reaction that night.

Dad could sing, dad could tell a joke, he compared but most of all he was a magician ......he really loved it and I loved watching it..... For a young boy it was amazing... And I still get a thrill from seeing any good magic. Growing up dad would tell me how all the great magicians did their tricks, all the tricks except the ones he did...he wouldn’t tell me those ones!! I know my cousin Dean badgered him about learn the tricks because dean thought it would help him pull the birds. He travelled the country doing shows and he performed with some very famous people from all round the world. Did I say how good he was? He was great.

I think dad thought he could teach Craig and I how to do magic and especially how to be clowns. And in my case it worked!!!Dad loved dad jokes .... how do you know when a clown has farted?? Something smells funny !!Which brings me to one of his proudest rolls..... Ronald McDonald!!

Dad embraced being Ronald like nothing else and as you can see McDonalds is still a part of our family.... He was super proud right on through his life. I was talking to Craig the other day about this and neither of us can work out why this role was so important to dad..... Was it the money? Was it the notoriety???Or was it simply that he loved to entertain kids? He never really told me and I wished he had...I do remember being very clear with dad that I didn’t want any of my friends to know that he was a clown, which he sort of agreed to, until, one day he turned up at my high school to pick me up in the Ronald McDonald van... Blasting the horn....insert noises.... From that day forward I was known by the whole of Caringbah High as Ronnie!!!!!I could go on telling you all stories and some bloody funny ones all night but we simply can’t.

A couple of quick stories that are precious to me:

Dad and I had a pact...actually not a pact more of a code and it was just a few words... ‘don’t tell your mother” this especially applied whenever I was with dad ....after footy training, on the way home from bagpipe practice, after swimming , after golf..... We would always stop at the pub for a few quick ones.... When I was small I would sit in the car and he would bring out a schooner of pink lady and a packet of smiths chips and I would savour those in the car while listening to 2SM on the radio...... This, I think , was where my love for music came from..... I can still taste those things .... these days he probably would have been arrested for abandonment. I guess they were different times. Anyway after a few schooners dad would jump in the car, chuck down a few pieces of PK chewing gum and say “don’t tell your mother” this went on right through my life with dad.

I remember when I temporarily got expelled for pushing the lockers over and nearly killing the vice principal....dad got me off the hook and on the way home....guess what he said???? Yes that’s right “don’t tell your mother “

Dad had one really annoying habit that drove me crazy.... He was a little OCD ... Well actually a lot OCD .... He handed that down to both myself and Craig.... thank god Craig is much worse ...... Sorry bro, anyway, he used to write post it notes and put them everywhere..... E.g.: don’t forget to turn the power off, don’t drive too fast there are lots of coppers on the road, wash the car, turn the iron off, close the fridge and the list goes on ..... So, if you have a look on the coffin ......... I’ts payback time !!!!!

Dad loved many things in life.... He loved beer, he loved football, he loved fish and chips and baked dinners.... He loved sardines on toast, and he loved cups of tea, he loved salt and sugar ......he loved salt and sugar.... Dads plate always resembled the snow fall on Mt Kosciuszko .......

He loved magic, he loved dad jokes... He taught me some cracking jokes, once he secretly came to one of my shows and afterwards he gave me a dressing down because there was a heckler in the audience and I told the guy to fuck off....dad didn’t think that was professional and proceeded to give me comebacks for hecklers 101 ...... E.g. “why don’t you put an egg in your shoe and beat it” “i remember when I had my first drink too” “why don’t you go and stand next to the wall it’s plastered too” and my favourite “don’t worry mate that haircut will come back in to fashion one day”......I learnt everything I know from dad.... I learnt how to be nice to people, I learnt how to be kind to people. I learnt how to tell a joke and I learnt how to take a joke.

A few things dad hated. He hated the tax man, he hated coppers, he hated Manly Sea Eagles (don’t we all??) But you know what, he didn’t hate too much. He preferred to be a good, decent, and honest bloke. That is how I will remember dad. He was loved by most people. I have rarely ever heard anyone say a bad word about dad. And isn’t that how we would all liked to be remembered???

I think dad believed his crowning achievement was us! All of us in the room: his brother and sisters, his wife, his kids, grandkids and great grandkids....he loved us all and we loved him back.

Dad’s fabric is sewn into all of us and we will carry that forward until our time comes to hand it on in our memories. I loved this quote that someone sent me: “active memories in the lives and minds of others reflects the true greatness of a worthy soul”

Dad wasn’t just a good man ,he was a great man, a gentle-man......our hearts will ache without him and we will miss him dreadfully....
Rest in peace Dad I love you