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The Eulogy
First of all, I’d like to thank all of you for coming today. Although Dad was a private man, I know that he would appreciate that so many of you have joined us here today to honour his memory.
When I started writing this, I had no idea where to begin. After all, how can you condense 64 years of life into mere words, especially when the life in question is your father’s? However, for his sake, I will attempt my best to do him justice.
My dad, Brian *Blah* *Blah*, was born on 3 August, 1943, the first son of Hughie and Leila *Blah* and the eldest of over 30 cousins in his extended family. He was raised, along with his younger brother Bill, in Narrier Street *Blah*, and maintained a strong connection with this community during his lifetime. In fact, my mother always said that it would be a challenge to get my father to move any further away from *Blah* than *Blah*, a suspicion that was proved correct - the manoeuvres that she were forced to employ to get him to agree to this particular move have been described as being consistent with prising him away with a crowbar!
Although Dad may have appeared to some as a man of small stature whose courage outweighed his height, to me, my dad was always larger than life. My dominant memory of him is his sheer physical presence, which those who knew him often likened to the cock of the walk. Confidence, cheekiness and sheer indomitability characterised his stance and movements, wherever he happened to be.
In fact, I always marvelled at Dad's charisma, and his ability to get along well with a wide variety of people. His amazing grasp of general knowledge and local lore, mixed with his easy nature and spiced with reminiscences of his own life made him a man whose conversation was courted, and input valued by young and old alike. A favourite memory of mine was watching Dad and Nana reminisce about times past together, in which they recreated a world that was long gone.
However, for all his knowledge, Dad was a simple man, who enjoyed simple pleasures. Although he had the ability to make friends wherever he happened to be, he also liked his solitude. Another favourite memory of mine is watching Dad sitting on his lounger on the front verandah, book in hand; radio, cigarettes and a glass of whiskey beside him, appearing for all the world engrossed in the florid diction of James A. Michener. However, I suspect this was just a disguise that he used to keep a discrete and erstwhile eye on the doings of the neighbourhood, which he then in turn enjoyed reported on with relish – and people say that men don’t gossip and can’t multi-task.
One of the things that particularly tied Dad and I together was a joint love of nonsense. I will forever treasure memories of Dad humouring me by reading about tweetle-beetles battling in their bottles on top of noodle-eating poodles for the third time during one sitting. This adoration of the whimsical continued as we both aged, particularly in song. I would often hear him extolling along with Fatboy Slim that “everyone needs a bosom for a pillow” when I played one of his CDs – a notion on which that he and the artist appeared to reached complete agreement.
I’m sure that those of you who knew my dad and I well would be aware that almost from the start, we had a fairly rambunctious relationship – perhaps as a result of all the Step-Over-Toe holds and Boston Crabs that we used to practice on one another when I was a child, and which, as an adult, we replaced with verbal stoushes that consisted of a ready repartee, usually of the most dissolute order. However, no matter how badly either of us behaved (and believe me, we did) we always knew that we would be there for one another. His loyalty to family and friends was always beyond question, as were his affability, acceptance, tolerance, patience, kindness, compassion and generosity - characteristics that were self-evident to all who knew him.
In conclusion, I’d just like to say thanks to you, Dad, for all the memories that you blessed us with during your too-brief journey. In particular, I’d like to thank you for allowing me to rest my feet on your stomach after clambering into your bed after a childhood nightmare; for all the anxious Christmas Eves you spent constructing cubby houses, swing sets, bicycles and Barbie paraphenalia on my behalf; for not bashing me over the head for asking “Are we there yet?” every five minutes when we went on holidays; for holding me when I had to get my foot stitched up, even when “I cried and I cried, and I screamed and I screamed” not only loud enough to be heard from *Blah* Hospital to Nana’s house, but probably enough to deafen you, most of the hospital staff, and all the hounds of hell.
And finally, Dad? I want to thank you for simply being you. The hole you leave behind in my life may shrink with time, but it can never be completely filled because Auggie Doggie is definitely gonna miss her Doggy Daddy.
