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

8 May 2025, Leonda, Hawthorn, Melbourne, Australia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• Stylish clothes

• Fine art

• Bead necklaces

• A mastery of DIY dress ups

• Half finished coffees

• Cross word puzzles

• Tuna mornay

• Chops

• Inadequate sunscreening

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

• Reedy hymn singing

• 3MBS and ABC Classic FM

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

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

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

• A love of bargains;

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

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

• Hairbrained schemes;

• Scrabble;

• Her hugs at the end of each visit;

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

None of us were ready for this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2 February 2024, Montreal, Canada

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

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

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

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

 Their lives were intertwined.

***

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

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

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

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

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

Yet, she accepted. 

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

That, and how nicely he treated his mother.

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

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

And here is where they built their lives and family.

It was not without hardship. 

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

Until 2012, when he was no longer there.

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

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

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

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

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

But she was never truly alone.

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

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

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

***

Santo with his mother Giovanna

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, her prayers are answered. 

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

They are in God’s hands now. 

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

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

For John Cordner: 'My father was a VERY good man', by Geoff Cordner - 2017

January 2017, Rowville Golf Club, Melbourne, Australia

If I was to tell you today that my father was a great man I suspect – in fact I’m certain – he would be uncomfortable with that. Apart from his natural humility, I think he would suggest greatness is a term that ought be reserved for those who’ve saved thousands of lives, or changed the course of history in some important field of human endeavour.

So today, of all days, I guess I should defer to my father's view. I hope Dad that makes up, at least to some extent, for all of those many occasions in the past when I didn’t.

But if the next best thing to being a great man is being a good man, and if the measure of a good man is his ability to positively influence the overwhelming majority of the people he comes into contact with throughout the course of his life, then I feel very confident in saying that my father was a VERY good man.

How do we do that? How do we have a positive influence on those we come into contact with? What was it that Dad did to qualify him so clearly in my mind as a very good man.

One of the most significant things was his ability to make the people around him feel that they were important; that their lives and their opinions mattered.

You’ve already heard from my sister Diedre about how Dad was able to do this with his own family. I’d just add one further recollection to what has been said to you so far on that subject. My father was a very gifted storyteller. And what a difference it makes as a child to have stories told to you that don’t come from a book, that have never been told to anyone else before, and that are therefore accompanied by the pictures we create in our own imaginations. My father's most popular stories, told to his children and grandchildren over many decades, centred around the characters of Woggie the Snoggie, Wiggy the baby Snoggie, their faithful off‑sider Flip Flap, and the unspeakably evil Gremlin Goblin. Not only were these characters vivid, and wonderfully conceived, but whenever a "Woggie the Snoggie" story was told, the listener would himself or herself be a character in it, and that story would be custom-tailored to their age and interests.

What better way for a sports-mad young boy to fall asleep than with visions of having been selected from obscurity to represent Australia at the SCG, only to hit the winning runs in the deciding Ashes Test match, or to be plucked from the crowd during the ¾ time huddle to kick the match-winning goal for the Melbourne Demons at the MCG in the Grand Final.

Nothing was improbable, let alone impossible, when Dad was telling bedtime stories.

And my father's ability to make people feel important wasn’t confined to members of his own family. So many of you here wrote and spoke to us of this very quality in the days following his death, and about how good he was at giving you his undivided attention, and taking a genuine interest in your lives.

At the peak of his powers my father knew a lot about a lot of things. And if you were prepared to listen, he was more than willing to give you an extract from that vast library of accumulated knowledge and wisdom.

That said, conversation with Dad was never a one-way street.

Unless of course you were a teenager who'd drunk considerably more than was good for him. But more about that later

Dad was always interested to hear what the other person had to say, and to find out what was important in their life.

The photo you see here emphasises this point. Dad worked for many years in an office building in Walker St, North Sydney. As my brother Ian has told you, he was the Managing Director of an international company whose Australian management team were based in those offices. The man with the moustache, whose name was Arthur, was the car parking attendant in the building where my father worked. When Arthur got married he invited my Dad, and my Mum, to attend his wedding. Was the wedding full of business people who worked in that office building? Almost certainly not. Did Arthur invite Dad out of some sense of gratitude towards his biggest tipper? Definitely not. Arthur asked Dad to share one of the most important events in his life because Dad had made a real and genuine connection with a man with whom, looking from the outside, you might think he had absolutely nothing in common.

But Dad didn’t care who you were, how much money you had, what school you went to, or what you did for a living. He didn’t care whether you were male or female, Australian or foreign-born, straight or gay, sporty, arty or neither.

He would listen to you, and treat you with the respect you deserved, regardless of any of those things.

This is a photo of the attendees at a Senior Management course conducted at The Australian Administrative Staff College just outside of Melbourne in the latter part of 1968. Most of the 55 participants were Australians, but there were some overseas delegates. Towards the end of the course Dad invited one of those international visitors to our house to meet our family, and for a day’s outing to the Healesville Sanctuary, a couple of hours drive out of Melbourne. That man’s name was Frank Nkhoma. Frank worked for the Zambian Government, and you can see him in the 2nd row from the front, 5th from the left.

I was 5½ years old at the time, and Frank looked different to anyone I’d ever seen. Indeed I suspect most of the attendees at that Management Course had never met an African man before. Even though Frank and Dad were not in the same group at the Staff College they became friends. Looking back, it is not hard to see why. Frank radiated an extraordinarily warm and generous spirit. When he smiled, and said to me in that deep charismatic voice of his “You are a very good reader Geoffrey” I felt ten feet tall. I still occasionally try to emulate that voice of Frank’s today when praising my own boys. I have never forgotten him, and I hope I never will. Dad extending the hand of friendship to Frank, and Frank extending the hand of friendship to me: I now realise these were life–defining events for that 5-year old boy.

Not too many years ago I asked my father about Frank. He confessed that they had not kept in contact after Frank returned to Zambia, although Dad had written a letter to him which went unanswered. We didn’t have Facebook or email back then of course, and I suspect the mail system in Zambia may have been less than ideal at that time. But as we talked about Frank, and I asked Dad, through an adult’s eyes, about their friendship, he confessed to me that part of the reason he was so determined to make Frank feel welcome in this country, and into his home, was an experience my father had had some years before when he attended MIT in the United States as part of the Foreign Student Summer Project he had been accepted into after receiving the Fulbright Scholarship Ian mentioned earlier.

The Official Report from that Summer Project confirms there were 67 participants from 35 different countries – countries that, remarkably, included India and Pakistan, Iran and Iraq, Israel and Egypt, South Africa and Kenya, Greece and Turkey, as well as Japan, Germany, Italy, France, the UK, and many others.

And this was in 1956, when the state of diplomatic relations between many of these nations was tenuous to say the least.

During the course of the Project the delegates, all of whom were engineers and/or scientists, were taken on visits to factories and laboratories in various parts of the US. On such visits they would travel by bus. On one such occasion the buses transporting the group stopped at a roadside diner to have lunch. However the staff at the diner refused to serve the Asian and African delegates. They didn’t ask the group to leave, they just told those in charge that they would not be serving those members of the group who were not Caucasian.

There was nothing preventing the majority of white-skinned delegates from eating, or getting something to drink. But they chose not to be fed, or watered. Instead, in what was an extraordinary show of solidarity amongst people from all corners of the globe, people of different colours, different cultures, different religions and backgrounds, the entire group rose from their seats and they left the diner together.

Just think for a second about seeing that moment as a scene in a movie – what an incredibly powerful image that would make. And what an inspiring message that group sent that day to those who had allowed prejudice to overshadow their humanity.

Now I don’t want to suggest for a second that my father was solely, or even principally responsible for orchestrating that walk-out all those years ago. But what I do know with certainty is that he wouldn’t have hesitated for a second to be a part of it. Because that’s the kind of man he was.

Which leads me to the second significant way that a good man can positively influence those around him – and that is through the example he sets.

You’ve seen lots of photos today, and you’re going to see plenty more. In many of those photos you’ll see my father holding a drink of some kind, often a glass of wine. He loved his wine – indeed he bottled wine purchased in bulk direct from the vineyard many, many times throughout the second half of his life. He also brewed his own beer, somewhat less successfully, on a number of occasions. So alcohol was always a part of our lives as a family. And yet in the 50 years that I am able to recall I don’t believe I ever saw my father adversely affected by drink.

Not once.

Which is why the conversation I am going to tell you about now resonated so strongly with me at the time.

It's a Sunday morning. I am 17 years of age, and I have awoken at about 7.30am to discover that my bed has not just been slept in, but it has been vomited in. Upon surveying the scene I ascertain there is a conspicuous absence of other likely perpetrators. Albeit gingerly, I determine to accept responsibility. I gather the remnants of my last meal in a bundle of bed linen, and head for the washing machine, confident that I will be able to dispose of the unsavoury evidence before my parents appear.

Unfortunately my mother has chosen this Sunday, of all Sundays, to rise earlier than usual to collect and read the newspaper. She asks me, as I pass her en route to the laundry, what is in my knapsack; which I now notice is dripping ever so slightly onto the kitchen floor. I confess my sins. Mum offers to clean the sheets for me. As a parent of a son in his late teens I now understand why she did that. I wonder however, as she takes my parcel from me, whether she will feel inclined keep this little secret between us.

She does not.

Later that day Dad comes a calling to my room, where I am feigning studious dedication whilst in truth simply nursing a ferocious hangover.

His first serve is moderately paced, but it has some spin on it.

“I hear you had a bit of a problem last night” he says.

I return the serve gently into mid-court.

“Yes” I reply.

Dad places his approach shot deep into my backhand corner.

“Is this the first time this has happened?” he asks.

I am unsure whether he means “Is this the first time you have vomited from drinking too much?”, or “Is this the first time you have vomited in your bed from drinking too much?”

I choose to answer the second question.

“Yes” I say truthfully.

Dad is now at the net, ready to put away the easy volley.

“Right” he says. “Well – the first time it happens that’s an experience. The second time it happens you’re a fool. And the third time – well, if it happens a third time you’ve got a problem”.

It is now clear to me that I have answered the second question, but that Dad was asking the first one. I do some quick calculations in my head. They lead me to the inescapable conclusion that I am a full-fledged alcoholic.

It is game, set and match for me it seems.

Thankfully the passage of time, and a relatively small number of subsequent indiscretions, have allowed me to re-calibrate that initial assessment. But the point is that what Dad said had such an impact upon me because he practiced what he preached. Whatever the issue, he never asked more of us in our lives than he demonstrated in his own.

And although I didn’t appreciate it at the time, what I now realise he was doing was giving me a road map to follow if I wanted to be a good man too.

Now it’s safe to say there have been many times I left that road map in the glovebox. But at the times in my life when I’ve been forced to admit that I am well and truly lost, Dad’s road map has been there for me to refer to. And I’m sure I will refer to it many more times in the years ahead.

There are a couple of other stories I’d like to briefly share that will hopefully reinforce what I have said about the kind of man my father was.

When I was 10 years old Dad put his hand up to coach my team at the Lindfield Cricket Club. We were a rag-tag bunch, without much idea, at least half of us a year too young to be playing in the Under 12 competition. But by season’s end, as much to our own amazement as anyone else’s, we found ourselves semi-finalists. Dad was a big part of that. In his team no-one was more important than anyone else. Everyone was entitled to an opportunity. Those of you who are my age or older will remember that was not the way things were back then. In those days the talented kids did all the batting and bowling, and the rest made up the numbers. But Dad was ahead of his time.

We had a wonderful season. I remember still Dad piling the entire team - yes, the whole 11 of us - into his Ford Fairlane at the end of the last game before Christmas, and taking us down to the local milk bar so he could buy us all an ice cream. If we'd have played the All Blacks that afternoon we'd have had a fair crack at winning back the Bledisloe I reckon. Dad knew full well that if you don't have a team of champions, you're gonna need to build a champion team.

But of course talking the talk is just one part of the equation isn't it?

When I was 17 my father and I played cricket together with the Mosman Vets. Our team sometimes included four players with first-class cricket experience - Dad being one of them, albeit more than 50 years of age by then – along with Allan Border’s future father-in-law. One of my fondest memories from that time is a match in which Dad bowled the final over to the Nawab of Pataudi – a former captain of India with six Test centuries to his credit – with the batting side needing a run a ball to win. As wicketkeeper I had the best seat in the house, watching the two aging champions going toe to toe, with the game coming down to the last ball, and ending in bizarre circumstances. Although on the losing side, Dad shared a beer and a laugh with his opponent afterwards. Like the Nawab, I came away with even greater respect for Dad as a cricketer, and as a man, that afternoon.

When I was about 19 I suffered my first flat tyre. Now I know many of you may find this hard to believe, but I was not always as handy as I am today. When I called Dad at about 1.45am that particular night to ask him for help, there was not a moment of hesitation. I wonder now if he realised when he took the call what a fantastic bonding experience that episode would prove to be – the two of us tripping over one another in the dark on Lane Cove Road, roughly where it now joins the M2. As we sat on the kerb, about 3am by this stage, with the spare tyre securely in place, I remember finally expressing sincere gratitude to my father ‑ for probably the first time during my teenage years, which by then were nearly over.

Dad and I had quite a few things in common. We were both the youngest of four children. In each case our oldest sibling was born in England, 10 years and 2 months before we were born in Melbourne. The siblings closest to us in age – Denis in Dad’s case, Diedre for me ‑ were roughly 5½ years older than us. At his full height Dad was 6 feet 1½ inches, virtually identical to my 187 cm. Dad’s playing weight of 14 stone, which equates to about 89 kilograms, was almost exactly the same as my own. Those happy coincidences have allowed me to wear one of Dad’s suits today, which I am very proud to do. I think it’s also fair to say we were both accident-prone, which goes some way to explaining how I managed to split a substantial hole in the seam of Dad's suit pants just minutes before entering this room today.

Dad and I both married strong, beautiful women who would prove to be our life-long partners and best friends. We both became a father for the final time at the age of 34 years and 3 months. We both appeared on TV quiz shows – twice each. We both saved our very worst golf for those occasions when we played together. We both loved cricket, so much so that we played it into our 50s. And we both had the good fortune to play that wonderful game with our sons – something that has given us immense pleasure.

Over the years, and especially the last three years, Dad and I spoke long and often about each others’ lives. I told him many times in different ways what he meant to me and, right up to the last time I saw him, his pleasure at having me visit him was wholehearted and unreserved. The knowledge that there was nothing left unsaid between us is, as you can imagine, of enormous importance to me now.

One of my father's favourite pieces of verse is a poem called If, by Rudyard Kipling. Having re‑read the poem recently, I understand why Dad rated it so highly. It is all about what it takes to be a good man.

Much as I like Kipling's version, it was not written for my father, or about him. So today, as a final tribute to you Dad, I would like to read an amended version of If; a version composed especially for you.

If you can keep your hair when all about you are losing theirs, and blaming it on stress;

If you can justify your Scrabble word when all men doubt you, and so achieve a triple letter score for your X;

If you can keep off weight without the need for dieting, and confess your age without the need for lies;

If you can just be envied without ever being hated, despite always looking good, and always talking wise;

If you can paint your dreams – and paint them like a master ‑ and still, with all your gifts, avoid the vanities of fame;

If you can meet with a Nawab, or with a Collingwood supporter, and treat those two extremes of humankind one and the same;

If you can bear to see the well-placed, kicking serve that you’ve delivered returned between the tramlines past your partner at the net;

Or watch the two-foot putt you need to end the match all square slide past the hole without a sign of petulant regret;

If you can, with either bat or ball in hand, with equal sureness, make a yorker of what seemed to all and sundry a full toss;

And if indeed, in any game, no matter what the stakes are, you can lose with grace and never make excuses for your loss;

If of the ones you love you ask no more than you bestow, and in their times of need provide a sympathetic ear;

If loyalty and integrity mean more to you than wealth, and compassion and encouragement are words that hold no fear;

If you have lived a life that’s both constructive and creative; if all this has been your oyster, and if you have glimpsed its pearl;

If when you speak your mind you know that those who hear you listen, you can be sure your time has left its impact on this world;

For more than four score years Dad you led us by example, your guidance and your love has made us stronger, every one;

And if I can be half the man you were while you were with us, then I hope you’ll be as proud a Dad as I am proud a son.

For Bernie Langtry: 'Well done, Trinner. Best on Ground', by son Gary Langtry and daughter Jenny Dean - 2013

26 August 2013, St Michael’s, Wagga Wagga, NSW, Australia

Dad, Pop, Trinna, Bernie. However you knew him we hope you enjoy the story of Bernard John Langtry.

It will come as no surprise to most here today that Dad’s story will have a strong football influence and so it is that we start with pre-season training.

Bernie’s preseason training started on 8th October 1926 when he arrived at Gurwood St hospital in Wagga as the youngest son of Phil and Mary. Before him Mary, Tom. Kath, Frank and Doughy, so the birth of Bernie made a full household.

Bernie completed his schooling at the ripe old age of 13 in Marrar & Coolamon. He then worked on various jobs including time with his father in the family Stock and Station business.

Later in his early 20’s Bernie, along with his brother Frank, purchased property around Marrar. Eventually, as things evolve, part of that purchase, “Currawong” became the building blocks for Dad’s future.

1st Quarter         We won the toss, siren sounds, the ball is bounced.

Around this time, Bernie was given the nickname Trinner.

No one seems to know how it came about, and there were many variations. Dad had his favourite version but whatever the true one is, it doesn’t matter. The important thing is that the name stuck.

During this quarter, one Trinner Langtry was eying Norreen McKelvie. Nor was oblivious to all this but Trinner “used to hang around” to ensure that he collected the mail when Nor was working at the Post Office. Their first encounter was at the Wichendon Vale hall dance. They went as single’s and came home as a potential couple in Trin’s car. This was despite the very best effort of Nor’s older brother Squeak, who followed them all the way home to ensure Nor’s safety.

The love affair continued and was sealed by marriage at Coolamon in November 1957. Incidentally the wedding was on a Wednesday morning as the parish priest at the time was far too busy on the weekend with other matters.

This marriage was to last more than 55 years and produced six wonderful children, Terry, Gary Jenny, Mark, Anne-Maree and Helen.

This established a very happy family time in the Langtry household. There were special times. There were challenging times.

There were regular visits from Kath and Mick to collect mushrooms and just be around the farm. Trin worked with Frank and Elitha on the farm and there was much involvement with Tom and Doughy and his older sister Mary who many will know as Sr Benedicta. They were all regular visitors.

2nd Quarter        Marrar 2 points ahead. Trinner’s worried. Kicking to the silos.

Trinner was now establishing himself as a more than handy footballer. Trinner played for Marrar over a period of 13 years, mostly on the wing. He believed his big achievements were being Captain Coach of the 1953 premiership team and a South West League representative player.

However, his football career was much much more than that.

Over his lifetime he was a player for 13 years, Captain Coach for two years, President for three. He was a selector at both club and league level for “who knows how long”, strapper for ten years, gatekeeper and life member of the Marrar Football Club.

Such was his service, he was recognised by the AFL as one of the elite, for having given more than 50 years continuous service to one club. His medallion was presented to him at a special function sponsored by the AFL.

His passion for football was legendary and even more so when you consider that Nor had ABSOLUTELY no interest in the game whatsoever!

However, Nor was at the premiership win of 1965. After the game Trin was EXTREMELY excited after a long drought of near premiership wins. On packing the children into the station wagon after the game, a head count revealed that Trin had 3-month-old Anne-Maree still folded up in the pram and packed into the boot. True story.

Another thing that may not be well known is that Trin took a year off football to assist Nor in her training for the Catholic Church prior to their marriage.

And after football, then there were bowls. And that is a whole new story.

His interests extended naturally to the Marrar Pub.

A number of years ago it was believed that there was a strong likelihood that the historic cricket and football trophies, which reside in the Marrar Hotel may be sold for profit. Pub patrons decided it was time to take matters into their own hands.

The trophies “somehow” were hidden on the farm. For the trouble caused Trin received a visit from the Junee Police. A brief explanation guaranteed the preservation of the trophies and Trinner’s good name.

Bring out the oranges. Its half time.

3rd Quarter         Trinner gets the loose ball from the pack and kicks it forward.

Trin was also a dedicated farmer. He was among the first to grow Canola in the area, which was a forerunner to the many yellow paddocks that we commonly see at this time of the year.

Wherever possible, Trinner was loyal in business. As an example, he maintained each year the buying of stock from the Armstrong stud. A tradition over three generations that has continued for more than 75 years.

Lamb marking was a farming job. It was shared with Trin and his brother Frank. The job would always start off easy enough but would quickly progress to discussions about sport or politics. Then move on to opinions about politics or sport then quickly deteriorate to arguments about anything in general, leading to many unmarked lambs and a complete meltdown of the system.

Long before weather apps, Trin had his own built-in radar. Every morning, regardless of where he was living, he would walk out the front door, assess the situation then walk to the back door, again assess the situation. Then come in to tap the barometer. This ritual happened every day.

Trinner was awarded a long service badge for 50 years continuous service to the Marrar Fire Brigade. Trin loved a good fire and particularly the “clean up” afterwards.

Dad’s lack of mechanical knowledge was well known. Like his good friend Tom Pattison, he was of the belief that a hammer and a shifter could fix most things and what couldn’t be fixed could be sent off to Cliff at the Marrar Garage. Cliff got a lot of work!

There have been many books written on the study of body language. They need not have bothered. All they had to do was turn up and watch Trinner as a spectator at the footy. He must have been exhausted at the end of every game where he was a spectator. He would kick, ride every bump, grimace at every tackle and he would comment about the very doubtful parentage of every umpire.

He tried…. but only with limited success at being a balanced supporter.

All of us kids knew that the timing to get money for lollies and drinks out of Trin at a footy game was crucial.  Ask during the quarter time and half-time breaks, not a chance. Ask while the ball was in play and money to get rid of the kids was guaranteed.

We can’t close the premiership quarter without mentioning some football facts according to Trinner.

·       You can’t trust paid players

·       Football is a wet weather game

·       I doubt the footy club can financially survive

·       Can’t STAND Cootamundra

·       Merger with Coolamon? Not going to happen

4th Quarter         Trins agility on the wing is showing. He’s gotta be a chance for the three votes today!

It was never going to be easy to move trin off the farm and to leave his beloved Marrar. Time goes on and a move to Wagga was inevitable. The move turned out to be a winner.

There have been many fulfilling relationships formed at Settlers village and within the Probus group since their time in Wagga. These relationships for both Trin and Nor have lead to travel, walking groups, coffee mornings and craft, but most importantly incredible support.

Retirement as well was a time for Trin to share quality time with his much-loved Grandchildren.

Time on in the last quarter was not easy.

The challenges in the last few months were eased by the wonderful care at RSL Remembrance Village. And for those very special people who were regular visitors to Dad, we thank you.

The recognition of Trin’s work, family and community involvement is shown by your presence here today.

Well done, Trinner. Best on Ground.

Gary Langtry

For James Hoy: 'I still expect to see Dad walk through the front door again', by son Aidan Hoy - 2016

16 May 2016, Pinnaroo Valley Memorial Park, Perth, Western Australia

When a loved one passes away, it’s inevitable that you may never have had the opportunity to tell them some things. This must be particularly so, between father and son.

Over the past week, many people have told me about how proud my father was of me. But what Dad doesn’t know, is how proud I was of him.

I’m proud that Dad was Chinese in Australia during a time when Australia was not necessarily so welcoming. He was born in 1946, around the same time his parents received a letter from the government requesting that they depart. But Dad’s birth meant his parents could stay, and he would laugh and boast that he was the saviour of the family’s future in Australia.

These early years are mostly a mystery to me. However, as a child, Dad remembered sitting around warehouses watching his father and other Chinese men while they smoked opium. And up until a few years ago, a Northbridge history website had pictures from the late 1940s of young Jimmy, and his sister, outside of the Chinese furniture factory where their father worked.

But I’m also proud that Dad was staunchly Australian. His first car was an FJ Holden. Someone once said he was one of only a few Chinese playing football and cricket in Perth in the 1960s.

When I accompanied him to the East Perth Football Club rooms after a grand final victory in 2002, one-by-one several gentlemen, of similar vintage to Dad, came over to shake his hand and reminisce about East Perth’s good old days.

I asked him who these blokes were. He laughed and said, “I have no idea”. I can only conclude that the Chinese fellow that frequented the Inglewood and East Perth football scene in the 1960s was probably a novelty at the time.

Dad also cared about Australia in a more sophisticated sense. His grasp of politics was impressive. He read the newspaper every day from cover to cover and watched hours of TV news and current affairs every night. His vintage tight fit t-shirt celebrating Bob Hawke’s 1983 election victory would be the envy of many hip political advisors today. And I’m not sure many brickies bought a copy of former prime minister Paul Keating’s book on Australia’s international relations in the 1990s. But Dad did.

I’m proud that Dad was resilient. For decades he was up at 5am and off to the building site, and rarely did I see him visit a doctor. I once had to pick him up from work Christmas drinks at a bar. After Dad had bought all of his colleagues a round of shots, a young apprentice bricklayer turned to me and said: “I don’t know how your Dad has been doing this every day for 30 years; I’m already over it after 12 months”.

The ultimate test of his resilience was his battle with cancer. Yet he never let it affect his outlook on life, and he calmly shrugged off any concern from others. He was determined to not let his illness get in the way of so many things he wanted to do.

Never did I hear him complain about the medical treatment he received over the years.

Yet, for all of Dad’s strength, he wouldn’t have gotten through the final chapter without the love and support of Linda. And she helped to soften his tough exterior, just a little bit, for which I am very grateful.

I still expect to see Dad walk through the front door again at any moment.

For Ben Cordner: 'I will miss your uncontainable zest for life', by Geoff Cordner - 2019

11 February 2019, Macquarie Park, Sydney, Australia

I remember vividly at Ben’s 21st birthday party just a few short months ago, as the speeches concluded, and Linda, Ben, Tim and I, were standing arm in arm facing the crowd, I felt a wave of happiness wash over me that was like something I had never ever felt before.  At that moment I truly believed our life as a family was perfect.  We literally had all that we could ever reasonably have asked for.

Then just over two weeks ago our world changed forever.

But it has changed in ways we could never have predicted.  If you read or watch the news, which we haven’t for more than a fortnight, it is tempting to think the world is going to hell in a handcart.  But our experience over this past couple of weeks has been completely the opposite; there is so much goodness in the world it is impossible not to still have hope.  The support we have received from all of you, and from the wider community around us, has made us realise we are not alone in this – we are all in it together.  And there is enormous comfort in that knowledge, and strength too.

The second very important thing we have learned is that, no matter how much we might have loved and admired Ben while he was here - and we loved him with all our hearts – we never actually gave him all the credit he deserved for the person he had become.

The stories we have been told this past fortnight by so many people about aspects of Ben’s life that we didn’t already know about have swelled our hearts even further with pride, and helped us to more fully understand that the pain we are feeling is shared by so many others.  Because Ben touched so many lives while he was here.

It seemed to me that Ben was as happy this year as I have ever seen him.  All aspects of his life seemed to be giving him so much pleasure.  His relationship with Laura, his relationships with us, with his friends, his University course, his work, his sport.  He was saving money, he was planning for the future, he was looking at the entire world around him with that captivating, infectious smile on his face, and it was smiling back at him from all sides.

I am indescribably sad that Ben has died.  But if we had to lose him, then I am so glad I can carry forward with me the knowledge that he was truly truly happy when that happened, and that his life, cruelly short as it was, really meant something to him, and to all of us.

A few memories that I will always treasure:

The way Ben’s tongue, when he was small, seemed too big for his mouth, so that every word spoken was accompanied by a healthy spray of saliva.

Ben’s laugh as a young boy: now I know I might be accused of bias, but I would argue this was the most joyful sound in the history of the world.

Standing in the kitchen at our house about six years ago in tears after something on the TV had triggered a memory of my nephew Daniel, and having Ben come and hug me long and hard until the tears finally ended, and then a bit longer again, without either of us needing to say anything.

The many wonderful hours Ben and I spent putting together the slideshow for my Dad’s Celebration of Life.

The night we spent at the Big Bash just four days before Ben died.  Tim was away on his bus trip, and Ben and I decided at the last minute to go out to Spotless Stadium to watch the Sydney Thunder play.  I remember sitting with Ben that night at the game and feeling like we were just a couple of mates on a night out; like it was the most natural and comfortable thing in the world to be hanging out with your 21-year old son, completely relaxed in each other’s company. 

Ben I am so glad you got your hair cut very short recently, because I will never ever forget the feeling of stroking it as you lay on that hospital bed during the final hours of your extraordinary life, and the love I felt for you as I did that will never leave me.

Ben I will miss you so much.

I already miss seeing you walk out through the kitchen to the bathroom in the morning, one hand on your phone, and the other hand on your junk

I miss the way you called me Papa Bear

I miss the way you filled in the missing answers for me in the cryptic crossword

I miss your razor-sharp wit, and the cut and thrust of our regular repartee

I miss the way when I used a word you hadn’t heard before – like repartee for example – you would repeat the word, and say “Who says that?”

I will miss standing at first slip while you kept wicket, and having you calm me down when some poor unfortunate misfielded, or dropped a catch

I will miss calming you down when you misfielded or dropped a catch

I will miss hearing you say “How Good’s Cricket”

I will miss the fact that we can never play Fambrose again

I will even miss that permanently messy bedroom

I will miss your uncontainable zest for life

And most of all I will miss that beautiful beautiful smile

I love you Ben, and I always will

Geoff also spoke at Ben’s Celebration of Life event, as did Ben’s mother Linda Cordner. Both speeches are on Speakola.

Geoff writes regularly about his son at his blog The Beniverse, You can check out a post like ‘Batting with Ben’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For Ben Cordner: 'I remain in awe of all his wonderful qualities', by Geoff Cordner, Celebration of Life ceremony - 2019

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

First of all could I ask you please to express your thanks to Tim O’Brien, to Nic McInerney, and to everyone here at Epping Boys High School who have made today possible.  The support the School has given us over the past two and a half weeks has been nothing short of extraordinary, and that support has been crucial in getting us through that very difficult period.

This place was such an influential part of Ben’s life that there could be, other than perhaps our home, no more appropriate place to hold this Celebration.  And as I look around at the number of people that have gathered today I feel safe in saying we made a wise choice to come here.

When you become a parent, particular as a father of boys, there is more than a little apprehension that comes with that about the responsibility of setting the right example for them.  What I didn’t anticipate, and what has become one of the great joys of my life, is that as our boys transitioned to young men it was them who would be teaching me lessons.
And on that subject, before I go on to talk about Ben, I would like to take a few moments to mention the tall, very handsome young man who spoke just before me.  From a young age Tim has set a wonderful example to his family, his peers, and the world around him about what it means to be a good person.  I have been, and I remain in awe of all his wonderful qualities – his humility, his empathy, his inner strength, that quiet confidence he carries that not once in his entire life, notwithstanding his many talents, have I ever seen descend into arrogance.  More importantly perhaps than any of those things, Tim has demonstrated to me that it is possible to go through your life without ever making an enemy.  Tim, we are so lucky to have you.

And so to Ben.

Back at Christmas time in 2015, which was the year Ben concluded his time here at Epping Boys, I wrote Linda, Tim and Ben a letter trying to explain, as best I could, how grateful I was to have the three of them in my life, and why.  I’m so grateful to Laura and Tim, who were going through Ben’s room a week or so ago, for their discovery that Ben had kept the letter I gave him back then throughout those three intervening years.  In that letter, amongst other things, I listed, for each of the three of them, the qualities I most loved about them.  For Ben, it was these.

I love your passion for the things that are important to you

If Ben decided he was going to do something, then he was all in.  There were no half measures with Ben.  Although this might sometimes have meant that he was a bit like a bull at a gate, most of the time the result of his efforts were outstanding – whether that was organising the Year 10 formal, or putting together and managing a new soccer team, or arranging a special night out with Laura, he was totally committed to the task at hand.

I love the fact that you see the power of knowledge, and that you genuinely love to learn

I truly believe that Ben was one of the smartest people I’ve ever known.  And not because he could remember stuff and regurgitate it when required.  But because once he learnt something he really knew and understood it.  And that’s such a significant distinction in my book – the difference between remembering something, and really understanding it.  Ben’s results at Macquarie University in the Advanced Science course that he was undertaking I think support what I’m saying.  His Academic Transcript indicates that of 20 completed subjects in which merit grades were awarded he recorded 15 High Distinctions and 5 Distinctions – no Passes, no Credits – leaving him with a Grade Point Average of 4.0, which is the highest GPA possible. I think this also reinforces my first point; if Ben had a passion for something, as he so obviously did for his University studies, then he would perform at a level that most of us can only aspire to.  And if I might digress for just a moment, I’d like to pay tribute to the staff at Macquarie University, and in particular the Department of Molecular Sciences, for the inspiration they provided to Ben these past three years as he sought to make his mark on the world around him, for the compassion and support they’ve shown to us this past fortnight, and for the extraordinary honour they are affording Ben, of which I believe you will be hearing more shortly.

I love your loyalty to your friends

I don’t think I need to tell you guys and girls here who Ben called “friend” – and there are a lot of you – what you meant to Ben.  I know I don’t need to tell you because you’ve shared with us the way Ben approached his friendships with you.  If you called him in the middle of the night needing a lift home he would be there; if no one else would dance with you, he would be there; if you had just broken up with your girlfriend, he would be there; if you were feeling depressed, or worse, Ben would sense that, and he would be there.  There are so many of you out there who know who and what Ben was, and it seems clear from what you have told us that you are so much the better for it.

I love that I can see some of me in you

Ben was the youngest son of a youngest son of a youngest son.  As a young man I think it’s fair to say he was a little self absorbed, and that trouble and disaster were his close companions.  He was cheeky, and he was more than happy to be the centre of attention – in fact at times he insisted on it.  I suspect some, indeed possibly all of these qualities may have been inherited.

Which leads me to the next item

I love that you are far more accomplished and successful in so many areas than I was at your age

Although Ben did indeed present challenges to his teachers and parents alike for many years, the fact is that the last Ben we will ever know was the sort of young man any girlfriend would be happy to bring home to Mum and Dad, any grandparent would be delighted to introduce to their friends, any sibling would be honoured to call brother, and any parent would be proud to call their son.  Ben learnt lessons so fast, much faster than I ever did, about what it takes to be a good man.  And if we feel the need to explain how he did that, we need look no further than the place in which we find ourselves today.  This School has changed the lives of many thousands of boys for more than 50 years now; but nothing I say today can come close to expressing how grateful we are for the young man you delivered back to us after we entrusted him into your care all those years ago.
Don’t get me wrong, that cheekiness, and the tear-arse nature, that were such an integral part of Ben’s personality as a young man, never left him.  But the humanity, the sense of responsibility, and the leadership that made Ben the person we will remember forever with such love and admiration were forged here, I have no doubt about that.

I love that you are willing to give honest answers to difficult questions

You would have gathered from Linda’s story earlier that Ben demanded honesty from those around him, especially us.  If he asked a direct question you better believe he expected a direct answer; as a result of which Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, to name just a few, were on borrowed time at our house.  But to his credit he didn’t ask anything of us that he wasn’t prepared to deliver himself.  Ben was a straight-shooter all his life.  There were no hidden agendas with him, no airs or pretences.  In a world where a lot of people are so image-conscious that they sometimes lose track of what is genuine, Ben was, as far as I am concerned, the real deal.  What you saw was what you got; sometimes warts and all of course, but no less lovable for that.

I love that you have been able to form such a deep and genuine relationship with Laura

I have given the School here plenty of credit for forming the man that Ben had become, and rightly so.  But there are aspects to Ben’s personality as we now know it – in particular his ability to look at the world from outside his own bubble – which may never have developed, and certainly not as quickly, or as strongly, without Laura’s influence.
These two were, to my mind, as close as a couple can get.  And Ben was so much a better person because of it.  Unconditional love is a wonderful thing.  Laura loved Ben, loves Ben, for everything that he was, and he felt exactly the same about her.  I don’t believe that he could have become the friend, brother, son that he was without you Laura – and how can we ever thank you for that. Hopefully by telling you and showing you every day from now until forever how much you mean to us, and how lucky we feel to have you in our lives.  And to Laura’s parents, Tim and Maxine, and to Nick and Rachel, and Cam, thank you for making Ben feel so much a part of your family over such a long period of time; so much so that I suspect there were times Ben would gladly have made a full time swap.

And so to the last item that I wrote about Ben those three years ago

I love that your future is so bright

What do I say about that one now?

What I say is that the way Ben met the challenges of life as an adult from 2015 up to now confirms 100% what I sensed about him back then.  That he was going to continue to set an example for all of us to follow.  As far as I’m concerned the fact that Ben’s life has been cut tragically short won’t change that one bit.  Ben packed more into his 21 years, and left more indelible memories for the rest of us, than many people who have lived much longer lives than he.  

I said at Ben’s funeral service on Monday, and I say it again to all of you today; I have never seen Ben happier with all aspects of his life collectively than he was in 2019.  So if we had to lose him, I am so glad I can carry forward the knowledge that his life was an extraordinary gift – to him, and to all of us.

I started off talking about the life lessons my two wonderful sons have given me.  If I look for the biggest lesson that Ben has left me, and there have been many, it’s to make every day count, to make our lives count, because we none of us know how much time we have left ahead of us.

Thank you everyone, from the bottom of our hearts, for joining us here today to honour Ben, and for the incredible support that so many of you have provided to us these past 18 days.  We will never forget it.

And we will never forget you Ben.  I love you with all my heart, and I always will.

Geoff also spoke at Ben’s funeral, and Ben’s mother Linda Cordner also spoke at the Celebration of Life. Both speeches are on Speakola.

Geoff writes regularly about his son at his blog The Beniverse, You can check out a post like ‘Batting with Ben’

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

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

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

Where did she come from?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she cleared her mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For Frederick Sidney Lines: 'Your father will be late to his own funeral!' by son Graham Lines - 2016

30 September 2016, Richmond, England, UK

Memory, memories.

 It is a weekend morning in the 1960s. We are expected at our cousins, the Peberdys, in Tulse Hill.

 Mum's task is, not only to prepare herself for the day, but to also ensure that we boys at least leave home looking 'presentable'.

 We three are assembled in the hall - Dad is upstairs, somewhere.

Having applied and checked her lipstick etc, Mum turns her attention to Colin and I. Shoes are inspected, hair brushed, and ties straightened.

 We pass muster, Mum checks her watch. Then she calls up the stairs "Fred, are you ready?" It appears not. He might have been answering a 'call of nature'. On the other hand it was quite possible that he was smoking a cigarette while reading a book.

 "Fred, what are you doing up there? We'll be late!"

 Mum's frustrated and concerned face turns to us; she declares angrily, "Your father will be late for his own funeral!"

 Having reached almost 95 years of age, you could say that she was right!

 Well done Dad.

 Well done Mum.

Frederick Sidney Lines 1921-2016

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 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 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 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 George H.W. Bush: 'Your decency, sincerity, and kind soul will stay with us forever', by son George W. Bush - 2018

6 December 2018, National Cathedral, Washington DC, USA

Distinguished Guests, including our Presidents and First Ladies, government officials, foreign dignitaries, and friends: Jeb, Neil, Marvin, Doro, and I, and our families, thank you all for being here.

I once heard it said of man that “The idea is to die young as late as possible.” (Laughter.)

At age 85, a favorite pastime of George H. W. Bush was firing up his boat, the Fidelity, and opening up the three-300 horsepower engines to fly – joyfully fly – across the Atlantic, with Secret Service boats straining to keep up.

At 90, George H. W. Bush parachuted out of an aircraft and landed on the grounds of St. Ann’s by the Sea in Kennebunkport, Maine – the church where his mom was married and where he’d worshipped often. Mother liked to say he chose the location just in case the chute didn’t open. (Laughter.)

In his 90’s, he took great delight when his closest pal, James A. Baker, smuggled a bottle of Grey Goose vodka into his hospital room. Apparently, it paired well with the steak Baker had delivered from Morton’s. (Laughter.)

To his very last days, Dad’s life was instructive. As he aged, he taught us how to grow old with dignity, humor, and kindness – and, when the Good Lord finally called, how to meet Him with courage and with joy in the promise of what lies ahead.
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One reason Dad knew how to die young is that he almost did it – twice. When he was a teenager, a staph infection nearly took his life. A few years later he was alone in the Pacific on a life raft, praying that his rescuers would find him before the enemy did.

God answered those prayers. It turned out He had other plans for George H.W. Bush. For Dad’s part, I think those brushes with death made him cherish the gift of life. And he vowed to live every day to the fullest.

Dad was always busy – a man in constant motion – but never too busy to share his love of life with those around him. He taught us to love the outdoors. He loved watching dogs flush a covey. He loved landing the elusive striper. And once confined to a wheelchair, he seemed happiest sitting in his favorite perch on the back porch at Walker’s Point contemplating the majesty of the Atlantic. The horizons he saw were bright and hopeful. He was a genuinely optimistic man. And that optimism guided his children and made each of us believe that anything was possible.

He continually broadened his horizons with daring decisions. He was a patriot. After high school, he put college on hold and became a Navy fighter pilot as World War II broke out. Like many of his generation, he never talked about his service until his time as a public figure forced his hand. We learned of the attack on Chichi Jima, the mission completed, the shoot-down. We learned of the death of his crewmates, whom he thought about throughout his entire life. And we learned of his rescue.

And then, another audacious decision; he moved his young family from the comforts of the East Coast to Odessa, Texas. He and mom adjusted to their arid surroundings quickly. He was a tolerant man. After all, he was kind and neighborly to the women with whom he, mom and I shared a bathroom in our small duplex – even after he learned their profession – ladies of the night. (Laughter.)

Dad could relate to people from all walks of life. He was an empathetic man. He valued character over pedigree. And he was no cynic. He looked for the good in each person – and usually found it.

Dad taught us that public service is noble and necessary; that one can serve with integrity and hold true to the important values, like faith and family. He strongly believed that it was important to give back to the community and country in which one lived. He recognized that serving others enriched the giver’s soul. To us, his was the brightest of a thousand points of light.

In victory, he shared credit. When he lost, he shouldered the blame. He accepted that failure is part of living a full life, but taught us never to be defined by failure. He showed us how setbacks can strengthen.

None of his disappointments could compare with one of life’s greatest tragedies, the loss of a young child. Jeb and I were too young to remember the pain and agony he and mom felt when our three-year-old sister died. We only learned later that Dad, a man of quiet faith, prayed for her daily. He was sustained by the love of the Almighty and the real and enduring love of our mom. Dad always believed that one day he would hug his precious Robin again.

He loved to laugh, especially at himself. He could tease and needle, but never out of malice. He placed great value on a good joke. That’s why he chose Simpson to speak. (Laughter.) On email, he had a circle of friends with whom he shared or received the latest jokes. His grading system for the quality of the joke was classic George Bush. The rare 7s and 8s were considered huge winners – most of them off-color. (Laughter.)

George Bush knew how to be a true and loyal friend. He honored and nurtured his many friendships with his generous and giving soul. There exist thousands of handwritten notes encouraging, or sympathizing, or thanking his friends and acquaintances.

He had an enormous capacity to give of himself. Many a person would tell you that dad became a mentor and a father figure in their life. He listened and he consoled. He was their friend. I think of Don Rhodes, Taylor Blanton, Jim Nantz, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and perhaps the unlikeliest of all, the man who defeated him, Bill Clinton. My siblings and I refer to the guys in this group as “brothers from other mothers.” (Laughter.)

He taught us that a day was not meant to be wasted. He played golf at a legendary pace. I always wondered why he insisted on speed golf. He was a good golfer.

Well, here’s my conclusion: he played fast so that he could move on to the next event, to enjoy the rest of the day, to expend his enormous energy, to live it all. He was born with just two settings: full throttle, then sleep. (Laughter)

He taught us what it means to be a wonderful father, grandfather, and great grand-father. He was firm in his principles and supportive as we began to seek our own ways. He encouraged and comforted, but never steered. We tested his patience – I know I did (laughter) – but he always responded with the great gift of unconditional love.

Last Friday, when I was told he had minutes to live, I called him. The guy who answered the phone said, “I think he can hear you, but hasn’t say anything most of the day. I said, “Dad, I love you, and you’ve been a wonderful father.” And the last words he would ever say on earth were, “I love you, too.”

To us, he was close to perfect. But, not totally perfect. His short game was lousy. (Laughter.) He wasn’t exactly Fred Astaire on the dance floor. (Laughter.) The man couldn’t stomach vegetables, especially broccoli. (Laughter.) And by the way, he passed these genetic defects along to us. (Laughter.)

Finally, every day of his 73 years of marriage, Dad taught us all what it means to be a great husband. He married his sweetheart. He adored her. He laughed and cried with her. He was dedicated to her totally.

In his old age, dad enjoyed watching police show reruns, volume on high (laughter), all the while holding mom’s hand. After mom died, Dad was strong, but all he really wanted to do was to hold mom’s hand, again.

Of course, Dad taught me another special lesson. He showed me what it means to be a President who serves with integrity, leads with courage, and acts with love in his heart for the citizens of our country. When the history books are written, they will say that George H.W. Bush was a great President of the United States – a diplomat of unmatched skill, a Commander in Chief of formidable accomplishment, and a gentleman who executed the duties of his office with dignity and honor.

In his Inaugural Address, the 41st President of the United States said this: “We cannot hope only to leave our children a bigger car, a bigger bank account. We must hope to give them a sense of what it means to be a loyal friend, a loving parent, a citizen who leaves his home, his neighborhood and town better than he found it. What do we want the men and women who work with us to say when we are no longer there? That we were more driven to succeed than anyone around us? Or that we stopped to ask if a sick child had gotten better, and stayed a moment there to trade a word of friendship?”

Well, Dad – we’re going remember you for exactly that and so much more.

And we’re going to miss you. Your decency, sincerity, and kind soul will stay with us forever. So, through our tears, let us see the blessings of knowing and loving you – a great and noble man, and the best father a son or daughter could have.

And in our grief, let us smile knowing that Dad is hugging Robin and holding mom’s hand again.”

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 Fred Gruen: ' My father’s life is a story of bad luck and bad fortune turned to good', by son Nicholas Gruen -1997

2 November 1997, University House, Australian National University, Canberra, Australia

‘Tis the gift to be simple,
‘Tis the gift to be free
‘Tis the gift to come down where you ought to be
But when we find ourselves in the place just right
‘Twill be in the valley of love and delight

When true simplicity is gained,
To bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed
To turn, turn will be our delight
Till by turning, turning we come round right.

I hope that everyone here can appreciate the relevance of these words from the well-known Shaker song to my father’s life. Their relevance in death can only be a matter of speculation.

My father’s life is a story of bad luck and bad fortune turned to good.

In early 1946, no one would have predicted the success and the happiness that was to come. As Dad put it in his autobiographical sketch, his childhood was a rather lonely and unhappy one.

Who can say when he felt loneliest? Was it when he arrived at Dover in 1936, an adolescent refugee, or was it as he suggested to me, about a year later when he was summoned to his headmaster’s office and told that his father Willi had died of cancer?

The other great horror was the fate of his mother’s Mariana. Lily, her elder sister, commented to an oral historian in 1978 "I was rebellious against the way I was treated as a child. . . . Mariana was very charming and cheerful and the other way around. My sister was a very beautiful girl. Once her example was put up before me; I was told, ‘Look how friendly she is, look how everybody likes her,’ and so on." Mariana was taken to Theresienstadt concentration camp and survived there for several years. She was moved elsewhere in the dying days of the war. We believe - though we do not know - that she perished in Auschwitz.

If one wanted to be rhetorical one might say that Dad’s luck changed one day in 1940 on his journey between the old and new worlds. He was locked in the hold of the Dunera. It was hit by a German torpedo. But it didn’t go off.

It was in Australia that, so it seems, he came down where he ought to be. Again and again he found himself in the place just right. In his eventual choice of country, in his choice of spouse and his choice of the discipline he would pursue - his life’s work.

Internment was difficult. While, looking back, he would have none of the idea that the Dunera was a scandal - or stronger still, some kind of atrocity - he did quote from George Rapp’s despairing poem which was penned in the camp.

Have you heard my story most brave
of the thousand dead men without grave
in that wonderful town
with the moon upside down
and the wires in need of a shave?

Each man is a corpse, as he sits
decaying and doubting his wits
whilst far, far away,
where the night is the day
his world is breaking to bits. . . .

In retrospect Dad always regarded himself as lucky to be gazing at the upside down sky over Hay rather than in the front line in Europe.

Dad had the great good fortune to meet my mother. He had the looks and charm to successfully court her, and she had the guts to marry him. I think it is probably hard to overestimate what strength of character it took. A Jewish refugee was not quite what my mothers parents - particularly her father - had in mind for her.

Indeed when my parents’ engagement was announced, my mother was staying with her aunt in Melbourne and was asked to leave.

But notwithstanding Dad’s exotic and lowly social status, Granny - mum’s mother - made up her own mind. After a little time with Dad she said to my mother, "I think you’ve picked a winner dear."

And so she had. And so had Dad. To borrow one of Manning Clark’s expressions, my mother worked a great miracle inside him.

Dad cultivated an interest in higher education at Hay. And he was always grateful to Miss Margaret Holmes who helped him and many others study while in the army.

Like so many others of the same generation who are feted today, my father was part of the long post war boom in higher education. He was part of a generation which was confident about its role in rebuilding and modernising society after the devastation of the greatest war in history, which, if it had not consumed their life, had certainly consumed their youth.

Dad liked the idea of economics because he was an idealist. After the depair of the depression and the horror of the war to which it contributed, Dad believed – like many of the time – that social science could help build a better world. I think it seemed to Dad that economics was the social science which could most directly and most obviously be capable of making a contribution to peoples lives. But I think he thought that it suited his talents. It had some of the rigour of science, but it dealt directly with political and social questions about how our lives together should be organised.

Dad had a great spread of talents and, as Keynes observed, it is this breadth of talent, rather than genius at any one skill which is the key to good economics.

The study of economics does not seem to require any specialised gifts of an unusually high order. Is it not, intellectually regarded, a very easy subject compared with the higher branches of philosophy and pure science? Yet good, or even competent, economists are the rarest of birds. An easy subject at which very few excel! The paradox finds its explanation, perhaps, in that the master-economists must poses a rare combination of gifts. He must reach a high standard in several different directions and must combine talents not often found together. He must be a mathematician, historian, statesman, philosopher - in some degree. He must use symbols and speak in words. He must contemplate the particular in terms of the general, and touch abstract and concrete in the same flight of thought. He must study the present in the light of the past for the purposes of the future. No part of man’s nature or his institutions must lie outside his ken. He must be purposeful and disinterested in a simultaneous mood; as aloof and incorruptible as an artist, yet sometimes as near the earth as a politician. (In Moggeridge, p. 424).

There was another quality which Dad had which was essential to many of his best contributions to economics and public policy. As so many of those who dealt with him rapidly came to appreciate, he was a very nice man.

About ten years ago when I was reading a book on the lives of the composers. I came upon this passage.

[H]e must have been a very nice man to know. A person of singularly sweet, kind disposition, he made virtually no enemies. . . . He was even-tempered, industrious, generous, had a good sense of humour . . . enjoyed good health except for some eye trouble and rheumatism . . .. He [had] good common sense. He had integrity and intellectual honesty - the kind of honesty that could allow him to say, when Mozart’s name came up "My friends often flatter me about my talent, but he was far above me". He liked to dress well.

The description was of the composer Hayden. It could equally be of Dad. People liked him easily and quickly and this meant that Dad was a good leader. People respected him for his knowledge, and his intelligence, and also for his essential modesty. Dad was not pompous. Like the composer Hayden, he didn’t have tickets on himself. But peoples instinctive liking for him, and respect for his talents and good judgement meant that he could be extremely persuasive. As I understand it, it was he who first proposed the 25 per cent tariff cut and he was instrumental in persuading a range of agonisers – or in arranging for others to persuade agonisers – of the merits of his proposal. Even more impressively, Dad was able to lead an extremely heterogeneous group of people to unanimously support the inclusion of the family home in Assets testing for welfare benefits.

Dad’s good judgement and good leadership extended also to his professional colleagues. He was fond of saying that there were a lot of people who were extremely clever but had no bloody sense. (It has to be said that he was in a profession in which it is hard not to notice this phenomenon.) And his greatest contribution to economics and public policy might well be a roll call of the people in his Department who he either hired himself, or who were hired by those he hired. I need only mention some of their names. Bob Gregory, Bruce Chapman, John Quiggin, Adrian Pagan and Steve Dowrick to name just a few.

The 25 per cent tariff cut was a good illustration of Dad’s qualities. Some such as Alf Rattigan agonised about whether or not it fitted a particular institutional model of tariff reform towards which he had striven for nearly a decade. Others who might have been expected to support the move - like senior Treasury officials - opposed the idea, again because it was unusual. It was not their idea. My father was prepared to improvise because he knew that the tariff cut offered an unusually good combination of short and long term benefits, and, at the time it was proposed, comparatively few costs. He was a man of broad talents who understood the issues, and had the courage and the imagination to seize the day - as he put it later, to whisper into the ear of the prince!

Coming down in the discipline of economics Dad came down where he ought to be. And where he ought to be became - by chance of history - a more and more important place to be.

Ironically, as the inadequacies of the discipline of economics were exposed, economics became more and more influential! As politicians, bureaucrats and the populace at large became progressively more anxious about how to restore their lost prosperity, economics became the premier social science - an increasingly indispensible gateway to policy influence.

History - and happenstance - treated my father well after the war in other ways as well. In being what Phillip Adams once called our ‘Dunera Boy extraordinaire’, my father participated in an event which was the ‘Gallipoli’ of early post-war multiculturalism - a defining and mythic event in Australia’s history.

The Dunera’s inmates could never have known as they lived through their voyage and their detention in Australia, the significance which would be made of it looking back. Yet in the days after my father’s death, all of those who contacted me to help them writing his obituary asked "he was on that boat - the Dunera - wasn’t he"? A gardener who read his obituary in The Age said to me that he didn’t know I was the son of a Dunera boy.

A collection of middle European refugees (with a disproportionate representation of egg heads) sitting behind barbed wire in the middle of the Hay plain, entertaining themselves with sports, study, music making, theatre and concerts.

Of course there were plenty of similar camps and there were plenty of migrant experiences, just as there were plenty of Australian battles in World War One other than Gallipoli. But as time passed, the Dunera internees worked their way into the popular Australian imagination.

These were some of the changes in circumstances which changed Dad’s life. But there was also some alchemy at work inside him. I don’t think anyone can really say quite what it was - not even him. Perhaps particularly not him. I think the main thing he did was really quite old fashioned - indeed unfashionable by today’s standards.

I think my father achieved the happiness and success he did because he did not try to ‘work through’ or to make sense of his worst experiences. Indeed much greater minds and spirits than my father have tried to make sense of the Holocaust. But it cannot be done.

So my father did something else. He tried to forget about the worst of the past. He never tried to deny or conceal it. But he tried to focus on more productive things. Perhaps that is where he got some of his great enthusiasm for so many of the things going on in the world, from architecture, to philosophy to politics, world history and world affairs.

He was gregarious in his interests in others also. But, for someone with his early experiences, he was blessed by not being an introspective man and his bridge to others was often through common public events.

When I visited him in his last days of consciousness in John James Hospital, he was engaging several nurses who had either returned from, or were soon to depart for, far flung locations.

One nurse was soon to go to Kenya. Dad filled her in on the state of civil unrest there as it unfolded. He continued to engage another who had recently returned from the Middle East on what life was really like in Bahrain and what sort of constitution they had. Dad took considerable care to pronounce Bahrain in a way which served to indicate its exotic location outside of Australia, although I must admit it left me wondering that Bahrain was so near Vienna.

Dad combined a civility which, one might speculate, he brought with him from Austria, with an Australian unpretentiousness and straightforwardness. I think when I was young I thought that the expression ‘g’day’ was particularly my father’s. He certainly took to it with great gusto.

A episode which illustrates these things and his great sense of humour occurred one day in 1967. We were being entertained for lunch by a rather straight laced American economist in the Mid-West of America. He introduced lunch in a way which he thought appropriate but which we found intensely embarrassing.

He said that although we might not have voted for Harold Holt, he wanted us to know that he was extending the hand of American friendship and condolence to us in our national grief. My father showed the depth of his assimilation into Australian culture by defusing the situation. "Yes Ken. It is sad. But that’s the good thing about living in Australia. Its a small country. And when something like that happens, we all just move up one!"

But Dad’s sense of humour was at its greatest as an appreciator. He had an infectious and hearty laugh. So much so that, if I intended to watch "Yes Minister" or "Faulty Towers", I would make the trek out to the farm so that I could increase my enjoyment many-fold by watching the program with one eye, and Dad with the other. There were times when I honestly thought he might do himself an injury.

My father was a great charmer. His charm came from his natural extroversion, and uncomplicated buoyancy of mood, his sense of fun, enjoyment of teasing, his modesty and appreciative sense of humour.

I remember skiing holidays with Dad. In the space of a week an entire chalet full of the most unlikely people (of a range of backgrounds, temperaments and ideological dispositions sometimes sympathetic but often odious) would all succumb to his charm. They would want to sit at his table and enjoy the high of talking with him, being teased by him, flirting with him and debating him.

He was a man who inspired admiration and indeed devotion from many. Bruce Chapman lectured me for about an our one night at a party on what a marvelous man Dad was.

I remember one surreal moment about six months later when Bruce and I met quite by chance each refueling our cars in the wee hours after Saturday night - like two strangers in an Edward Hopper painting under the anonymous glare of the fluorescent lights at the Shell garage in Manuka. As Bruce got back into his car, he yelled at me over the roofs of our respective cars - and a propos of absolutely nothing - "I still envy you your father".

Dad was affectionately famous - perhaps more within his family than anywhere else - for his vagueness at certain times. When engaged in routine social interactions Dad sometimes allowed himself the luxury of thinking of things other than what he was talking about. This could generate comic effects - with occasional lapses into complete anarchy.

One of the gravest of these occasions was in 1967 in Raleigh North Carolina when family friends Fred and June Schönbach were visiting us for lunch, having traveled down from Washington. The night before, Dad had fought one of his many fights with David and I about when we would get undressed and go to bed. This must have drifted into his consciousness during a lull in the conversation when, in the presence of Mum, David, myself and Fred Schönbach, Dad listlessly turned to June Schönbach and said "Let’s get undressed".

I presume that, like us, June imagined that she had misheard him. Indeed, not an eyelid was batted. But subsequent family post-mortem revealed that we had all heard the same thing. And the moment passed - fairly or otherwise - into family mythology.

Since then Dad has suggested to at least one other unsuspecting person that they get undressed - apparently seeking to induce them to open a gate in front of the car. Dad has also on at least one occasion left workmen wondering quite what they were being taken for when he said something about them getting into their pajamas.

I mention Dad’s occasional vagueness, not just because it formed part of a family mythology which was too much fun for his two sons not to inflict on an occasionally protesting but generally accepting father.

I mention it also because of the contrast it made with situations where his interest was aroused particularly as a professional and an academic. When he was in a seminar, he was not on automatic pilot. He was intensely engaged probing for weaknesses and searching for insights. In debate and discussion in a professional context, Dad was the model of the scholar he aspired to be. At the same time aggressive, scrupulous and gracious.

About a week before Dad lost consciousness, I managed to get him a program enabling him to play bridge against a computer. I had keeping my eye open for this for literally years. I brought it to him in the hospital. He was weak from the cancer, from malnutrition and analgesics. He was also unfamiliar with my portable computer. Accordingly I sat next to him on the bed and operated the game for him.

Dad’s demeanor took on an intensity not seen for some time. He became quite agitated and indignant if I made foolish moves which he would have avoided. "Take that trick back" he ordered me.

But I was yet to learn how to take tricks back on the new program. So he scoffed "Well if you play a trick like that you can’t call it my hand".

Like Dad, I hadn’t played bridge for at least one decade - possibly two. So when I saw a hand with at least three cards in each suit and 17 points in high cards, I suggested an opening bid of one no trump. Dad despaired. "Darling, you can’t bid one no-trump with no club-cover."

He was equally sharp, and funny as well when mum remarked about one of his impossible relatives - no longer with us - "She’s her own worst enemy". Dad responded "Not while I’m around".

It would be quite wrong, and self indulgent to paint Dad as ‘haunted’ by his past. But of course it was always there. I remember sometime, probably about a decade ago when I visited Dad in his corner office just before his retirement. Asked how he was he said something like "Oh . . . a bit depressed". Not a remarkable comment but it upset me quite a lot.

When I reflected on it, I realised that, in all the time I had known my father, I could not remember him saying he was depressed or sad. His focus on the positive was not false or forced. And no doubt he felt the demands of parental obligation. One does not want to project sadness towards one’s children. It was also because he was part of a whole generation which lacked the obsessive introspection of later generations.

But I think there is more to it than that.

I think Dad largely trained himself out of the luxury of being depressed and of being sad. There is a literature growing up in Australia - and I imagine elsewhere - of children of Holocaust survivors. Mark Raphael Baker and Romona Koval have each published books on this subject and the story is the same.

None of the holocaust survivors have ‘come to terms’ with what happened. They have found ways of living on after the experience, but they do so mostly by trying to forget, by focusing on other things. In today’s psycho-babble, Holocaust survivors have been unable to grieve adequately for their past losses. But their grief cannot really be confronted, because if acknowledged it would have no limit. It would be bottomless.

Dad was not a Holocaust survivor in the literal sense, but he was touched by the infinite malevolence of the Holocaust in the most direct way.

Certainly in my family, my mother has shed many more tears over the holocaust than my father. Her sympathy for him was perhaps a luxury he felt unable to allow himself. I don’t know how often it broke through into Dad’s consciousness: I suspect, with the possible exception of the last year or so, not all that often.

But sometimes it did. I remember just once when I was about eight or nine, watching a documentary on World War II with David, Mum and Dad in the rumpus room in Harkaway. I doubt if I said anything, but my recollection is that I was mesmerised by the audacity of Hitler and the Germans in just the same way I was attracted to the swashbuckling of Hannibal and Alexander when I learned of them. But as the credits of the program rolled up the screen, my vague musings were torn asunder by my father’s uncontrollable sobbing.

And then three nights after Dad’s huge abdominal operation, I was with him until well into the morning hours. He was hooked up to a vast array of life support systems and was clearly fretting in his drug induced slumber. When he awoke, I asked him what his nightmares were about and he shook his head lightly and said "Ghastly, ghastly". For some reason I wanted to know and I pressed him. He said "Shindler’s List".

But most of the time his focus on the positive and the outward did not fail him.

Mark Raphael Baker writes about his parents (both Holocaust survivors) quoting a Yiddish lullaby his parents sing to their numerous grandchildren as they ruminate upon what their lives might have been had the holocaust not intervened to diminish them:

Sleep now child, my pretty one,
Close your dark eyes.
A little boy who has all his teeth
Still needs his mother to sing him to sleep? . . .

A little boy who will become a great scholar
And a successful businessman as well.
A little boy who’ll grow to be a bridegroom
Has soaked his bed as if he’s in a pool.

So hush-a-bye my clever little bridegroom
Meanwhile you lie wet in your cradle
Your mother will shed many a tear
Before you grow up to be a man.

And their son sings to them:

Sleep my dear parents but do not dream.
Tomorrow your children will shed your tears
Tuck in your memories in bed and say good night.

It is so sad that Dad has gone: That we’ll never be able to speak to him again. That we’ll never be able to tell him things we know he’ll find funny and be rewarded with his laughter. I’ll never be able to enjoy an episode of "Faulty Towers" or "Yes Minister" in quite the way I did when I made the trek out to Hall.

Dad leaves a gaping and incomprehensible hole in the lives of those who loved him. Like any person who has made the journey of life successfully, there is, nor will there ever be anyone quite like him. He was singularly himself. To invoke a cliche, we will not look upon his like again. And so we are filled with grief.

One last story which sums up a lot. After Dad had gone through two harrowing months of chemotherapy, he gave up Taxol and Carboplatin and was due to start on Methotrexate in a few weeks time. Mum had briefly been in bad health herself and so her friends Margie and Juddy were staying with us on the farm. I had come up from Melbourne. The house being over full, I was sleeping in the study. Dad was enjoying a stint of good health which had stretched for a month or so, and so he was showing some of his natural buoyancy.

The atmosphere had some of the crowded, festive atmosphere of an extended family turn at a holiday beach house as we crowded around the kitchen table. And it reminded me of the skiing holidays. At lunch time Hillary Webster arrived, ebullient as usual, like a benign whirlwind. She greeted each one of us heartily and gave us all hugs before turning to Dad who was sitting looking rather frail in his chair. She gave him a very special hug, and said with great emphasis. "And how are you, you lovely man." For the next twenty minutes or so, everyone, including Dad joined in the hilarity of various people, including him, modelling the truly ridiculous wig he had reluctantly agreed to purchase as a result of losing his hair.

So let me close this service by saying thanks Dad. Thanks for everything. Thanks for your fun, your laughter, your affection. Thanks for believing in what you did and living the way you did. Thanks for keeping despair at bay, and living with the cancer that came stalking you for as long as you could bear it.

And thank you to those who have come today.

To end this service I thought the best music to celebrate his life was music which he himself loved, and which captures his ebullient civility. The Blue Danube.

Farewell to a lovely man.

Postcript: A great deal of effort was expended to ensure that the song ‘Tis the gift to be simple’ could be played over the University House public address system - so much effort in fact, that no backup means of playing the recording was brought to the service. The rendition was the title track of Yvonne Kenny’s ‘Simple Gifts’ which I had given Dad as a birthday present a few years before. Dad loved it so much that it almost displaced Strauss waltzes on his car cassette on his many trips between the office and the farm in his car.

As might have been predicted, there was a technical problem and the track could not be played. Having quoted some hundreds of dollars to do the service, the sound engineer, got word to me of the complete failure of the system some three minutes before his services were required! To my extreme chagrin, the best I could do was read the text of the song to the audience. The next morning an uncanny re-run of the scene I sketched at the end of my speech was played out before my eyes. Mum, Margie and Juddy were all there along with others around a crowded kitchen table. And then Hilary Webster arrived. Quite agitated, she exclaimed "Were you listening to ABC FM". None of us had. But that morning they had played Yvonne Kenny’s rendition of ‘Tis the gift to be simple’. NG

portrait by Erwin Fabian, 1941. Speech at unveiling of this portrait by Nicholas Gruen also on Speakola.

Nicholas Gruen