We farewelled Dad at the South Melbourne Uniting Church on a grey, rainy day.
As I’ve been helping Mum prepare for today over the past week, I’ve been thinking about what memories I could share with you.
Dad didn’t have many shortcomings, but there were a few which made him human like the rest of us. One notable one, shared by many of the family, is a lack of ability to sing in tune. Nevertheless, he enjoyed singing hymns at church with gusto and happily led every rendition of Happy Birthday at countless family gatherings. I’m sure he would have cheerfully joined us in belting out some of his favourite hymns that we chose for today.
In looking through hundreds of photographs of his travels with Mum to find one for the cover of the order of service, it also became apparent that he was a very ‘happy snapper’, if not a very accomplished one. Amongst many blurred shots there are some gems though, with a particular interest in photographing his own hand holding a note of foreign currency. He clearly enjoyed capturing memories of those trips, and didn’t hand over the camera very often, because for every hundred pictures on the SD cards there might have been two or three at most of him. The lesson I’ll remember from Dad’s singing and photography is that if you enjoy doing something, do it and enjoy it; you don’t have to be good at it.
The very earliest memory I have is one of Dad; it’s of looking up into his smiling face as he sat on one of Grandma’s chairs in her flat at Stoke Avenue, surrounded by family watching tele. He was bouncing me on the ankle of his right leg which he’d crossed over his left, holding my hands to keep me balanced as he gave me a horsey-ride. The overwhelming emotion associated with that memory is of being loved and being safe.
Other memories of Dad include the garage at the house in Stoke Avenue Kew, where I grew up. He would often be found in there in his grey dust coat, tinkering with tools or with a boat in the winter off-season. In addition to Dad’s workbench and tools, that garage was a treasure trove of literature; there were old books in cardboard boxes up on dusty shelves and when I asked Dad which ones were his favourites he pulled out the Adventures of Biggles and Treasure Island. He also showed me collections of poetry by Keats as well as his favourite, Robert Louis Stevenson. I spent many hours in the garage poring over these, dreaming of sailing the high seas and developing a love of writing; two passions that have stayed with me all my life.
One word that has come up again and again to describe Dad in the cards Mum has received over the past week is ‘gentleman’, and anyone who knew Dad would agree he was certainly that. I’ve been thinking about what it actually means to be a gentleman and why so many of us would use that word to describe Dad. The concept of a ‘gentleman’ has often been described as being elusive but in 1869, J.R. Vernon defined it like this and I think it’s as good a description of Dad as any:
The Gentleman is always truthful and sincere; will not agree for the sake of complaisance or out of weakness; will not pass over that of which he disapproves. He has a clear soul, and a fearless, straightforward tongue. On the other hand he is not blunt and rude. His truth is courteous; his courtesy, truthful; never a humbug, yet, where he truthfully can, he prefers to say pleasant things.
Dad was a quiet man, but behind his gentleness there was a strength that was the backbone of our family. His is an inspiring example of remaining true to his values and applying them in his every-day life. By his words and actions he taught us honesty, sincerity, tolerance, respect and courtesy, compassion and forgiveness not just for those close to us but for all people. Most of all, he showed us that he loved us and that he was proud of us, and for that I thank him.
Mum and Dad had 58 wonderful years of married life together; they built our family together; they’ve agreed and disagreed, laughed together and cried together and I know that she will miss him terribly, as will we all. Mum has told me over this last week how grateful she is for the life they shared. She chose these words of Robert Louis Stevenson’s to use today:
SO live, so love, so use that fragile hour, That when the dark hand of the shining power Shall one from other, wife or husband, take, The poor survivor may not weep and wake.
Mum I hope you take some comfort from knowing that you and Dad did indeed use each and every fragile hour, and that you lived your lives together to the fullest.
As Ian piped the hearse out of the driveway with Amazing Grace, I hugged my six-foot son as he stood sobbing silently.
Goodbye Dad, I’ll miss you.