When death knocks at your door

Seven days ago, we bid my father farewell in the formal manner of a funeral. As customary in our culture we held a service befitting his memory and then celebrated his life, with family and friends, at the traditional wake, sharing memories over drinks and finger food.

Seven days later his loss is still raw and I never imagined that death would knock on our door this year. But in fact, it has, twice. On New Year's Day we received the tragic news that my children's grandfather had passed away unexpectedly. He was my ex-father-in-law from my first marriage and despite many challenges through divorce and difficulty, he was always there. Always a friend and guiding mentor. Always ready to lend a hand and never forget a birthday or a special occasion. He was generous in nature and forthright in his opinions. He was confident and always a gentleman. His loss is great but I am so grateful that my children grew up knowing their grandfather -  that is the greatest gift they will ever have from him. Compounding our sadness and shock, eight days later, my own father passed into the next life. When death knocks at your door, it brings many emotions, rich and raw.

Receiving a call from the nursing home on January 2nd we were told my father was unwell, and as discussed medical attention was required straight away. I arrived at the home, in the afternoon, and was shocked by his deterioration. We had fortunately visited him the day before New Year’s Day and shared a coffee with him, he was in good spirits. But he was now struggling for every breath. With the doctor in the room, he diagnosed a chest infection, and while I thought it might be a bit more serious, who was I to argue with no medical training on my side? I questioned a few decisions and it was agreed that the nursing staff would keep us informed of any changes. By the following day he was no better and an ambulance was called. Three hours later he was in the emergency department and the longest emotional journey, I have ever known, was about to begin. Unable to speak for himself, clearly in immense pain and discomfort I became his voice and advocate, fighting a system that is stretched. Over the next six days the hospital became our home, some of the grandchildren were able to visit, for what would be the last time, Daryl was by my side as much as possible. After many discussions with medical staff, surrounding Dad's lack of response to treatment and continual deterioration, we began the complex process of determining the best course of action. This is a decision I would wish on no-one, but I know many before me have made it, and many will stand in my place in the future and have similar questions asked of them. It was time to let him go and with heavy hearts our main concern was for him to be pain free until he chose to say goodbye. In the early the hours of Tuesday morning on January 9th Dad drew his final breath.  Three days later on Friday we farewelled one grandfather amidst making funeral preparations for another. Poppy (as my kids affectionately called him) was laid to rest on Tuesday January 16th. Reeling from one loss, the kids rallied around and helped select photos of their Poppy and accepted roles for the service. Despite their immense pain they stepped up and did what needed to be done, I am so proud of them all.  Without any sibling support, I found comfort in emails and messages from many friends along with Dad's relatives in Wales, they will never know how much I appreciated their words and phone calls. Poor Daryl, coping with his own grief at losing his father-in-law, was a tower of strength propping me up. And I needed it, with fatigue well and truly set in, responsibility weighing heavily on me, I am not sure how we made it from one day to the next, but make it, we did.

And this is his eulogy, as I wrote it in my effort to tell his story.

Thank you all for coming here today to share with us in our grief at the loss of Guy, but also to share in our stories and memories of a man who lived a life bigger than most. It is without doubt one of life’s most difficult tasks to stand before you, here today, and speak on behalf of my family, who have been hit hard with loss this past week, and I thank you in advance for your patience as I muddle through, especially with the Welsh words! My dad was born Iorwerth Haydn Jones but was known by a number of names during his lifetime – to his family in Wales he was always Haydn, to others, in particular work colleagues, he was called a variety of names that are not repeatable today, and then more familiar to you all, he was Guy. To his grandchildren he was Poppy and to his great grandchildren Poppy Guy.

Iorwerth is a Welsh name, composed of two elements: iôr meaning "lord" and berth meaning "fair" or "handsome". I suspect he took this to heart and ran with it. Dad was renamed Guy when he journeyed to Australia as a young man and the Aussie lads just couldn’t get their tongues around the old-style Welsh pronunciation, so Guy, became his new moniker.

Dad was the fifth of seven children born to Joseph and Margaret Annie Jones. He was born in Lower Brynover, Wales on April 26, 1935, and attended Trefnanney Primary School, which recently closed and later Llanfyllin High School, a bilingual school in mid Wales. To get to secondary school he had to walk 1 1/2 miles (2.4 km), then get a taxi for 4 miles (6.4 km) to Llansantffraid where he got on a train to Llanfyllin another 6 miles (9.6 km).

While these do not seem like long distances for us here in Australia, back in the day, in Wales no less, they were exceptionally far (especially when he walked in the snow, as he loved to remind us all). There is Welsh poem as written on the front of your booklets saying “To be born Welsh, is to be born privileged. Not with a silver spoon in your mouth. But, with music in your blood and poetry in your soul”

 This, from my understanding, sums Dad up to tee. According to Dad’s family they had a happy, if hard upbringing.  There wasn’t much money as they grew up, having to either catch or make a lot of the food they ate. Living on damson (plum) jam sandwiches, from the damson trees on their farm and rabbits caught by their father and later the young sons, they also had a cow which they milked for milk and butter. Although times were tough, Dad was a scallywag who could sing like an angel. He was a crooner, always happy to belt out a verse or two. He was blessed with a typical Welsh voice and could sing beautifully if struck to do so, which was quite often. When he left school, Dad went to work at Spoonley Farm in Llansantffraid, working with the cows and delivering the milk around the village and area – on foot! His mum and dad were living at Glanvrynwy Cottage in Llansantffraid at this time. Annie, his mother died in June 1956 and he was devastated, so later that year at the age of 21 Dad sailed from Scotland to New Zealand. His brothers David and Idris, with Dad, travelled up to Scotland on the now famous Flying Scotsman steam train. The ship he sailed in was the Captain Hobson. Whilst in New Zealand he worked on a 700-acre farm, all sheep and fat stock, for princely sum of £50 a month. His sister Rose says he always wrote home during his travels and she still has these letters. A year later in 1957 he moved to a different place and continued to move around and work in both North and South Islands before moving to Australia in October 1960. He sent a letter to his father and sister from Woollahra Sydney before moving in the November, to work in the Snowy Mountains. He worked building the large dams to supply water and power stations known as the Snowy Hydro Electric Scheme. He then earned £56 ($95.97) a week.

In April,1961 he sailed from Melbourne to London on the ship Oronsay working aboard ship as a Tourist/wine waiter, which he continued to do for a further year where on his travels at sea he met my mother, Maria in a South American port. He could speak no Spanish, she could speak no English but somehow, someway, something worked and in November 1963 they were married and living in London. During this time Dad worked on building sites and always got a job, he was never out of work for very long, despite having no formal qualifications. In June 1965 he and Mum were accepted to go to Australia.

Dad’s niece Jenny remembers Dad as bit of a hero. She recalls grand stories he would tell her about his travels. When Dad was on shore leave he usually stayed with his sister at Holly Cottage.  There was no notice of his visits, as they did not have a phone in those days, the first they knew of his arrival was pebbles being thrown at their bedroom windows in the early hours of the morning.  Apparently, he always used to bring them the most amazing presents.  Jenny remembers a doll which stood nearly as tall as her, called Angela, and was apparently from Brazil.  Dad told her that in order to get her through customs he walked her through, holding her hand.   Of course, Jenny aged 12, believed him.  Jenny still has a Koala made from wallaby skin called Kiki, not very politically correct but she says she will never part with him. Other vivid memories are of football matches, when all the brothers gathered together, and they either played at Glanvyrnwy Cottage where Taid Joe (Grandpa) lived and he grew prize marrows.   Invariably the ball would land in the marrows and however quiet that brothers were, Taid always yelled at them to get out of his marrows.   Usually the culprit was my Dad.   My Auntie Rose would like to add that they are all very sad to lose such a happy, funny brother. He was diligent and thoughtful about keeping in touch over the years he was in New Zealand and when at sea and then for all the years in Australia. According to the overseas clan, the letters were always so interesting and certainly never dull. It seems he always called himself the black sheep of the family.

There are lots of other stories I’m told, but unfortunately, I am also told they are not suitable to be mentioned in this eulogy.

My parents chose to live in Australia from 1965 and make it their home. They both left family members behind, an ocean away and of course back in those days there was no quick way to communicate news or stories. They last visited them in Wales in 1991 and sadly this was the last time they would see them in person again. I often wonder if this was a regret they both carried with them. Despite the challenges, they made a successful life in various states of Australia, travelling wherever work took them. Dad worked on the Snowy Hydro Scheme then spent most of his years in construction of some sort or another. His work with Esso on the offshore platforms brought him to Sale and they settled here for a few years, before buying a farm in Pearsondale, which would be there forever home, living there for more than 40 years.

In January 1968 Dad and mum adopted their first son Richard in Argentina, with Mum making the long slow journey by sea home to Australia with Rick, as an infant, on her own, while Dad continued to work. Sadly, this relationship has faltered and dissolved in recent years, Dad was always saddened, even in his most confused state, about its abrupt and unexplained ending. In 1970, they brought home a daughter, me, also adopted in Melbourne. This little family of four was quite unconventional in its time, but like all families, we found our own rhythm, rightly or wrongly and made it work. Dad spent much of our formative years working overseas on one platform or another, then in his spare time he had a list of chores to do on the farm. We had few holidays and little time for leisure, I recall many a frosty morning milking cows before school. I know dad achieved great satisfaction from selling his steers for a good dollar at the sale yards and breeding his pigs, going on to make the most magnificent smoked bacon I have ever eaten in my life. I remember many a pig hanging from the old gum tree, which still stands today. The pigs were killed onsite and we would have these massive boiler tubs heated by fire ready to dunk the beasts to scrape them clean. I have vivid memories of killing our chickens and I got the job of holding their heads on the chopping block. Thankfully dad had a good aim in those days, a few years later he sliced his thumb clean off cutting kindling! Dad was obsessed with cutting wood, although rarely had enough to last from season to season. I think this could have been due to his insistence on lighting the kitchen combustion stove 24/7 to keep the water, hot. Dad refused to turn on the electric hot water back up during summer, this would cost him money, even when the forecast was well into the high 30s or 40s. The kitchen was always toasty warm!

When Dad did have a chance to relax it would often be in front of the tv watching the cricket, enjoying a chilled wine or a beer or two. He loved to run commentary on the game, I think his loyalty was torn between his beloved Poms and the Aussies. He also barracked for the Richmond Tigers, a legacy from his Esso days, and never wavered in his loyalty to them, although I doubt he ever attended a live football game. Dad was Poppy to my six children and later welcomed two more grandkids, my step sons, as his own. He was a friend to his son-in-law Daryl and when the great grandchildren arrived, he was simply beaming. He couldn’t always show it, but he was so very proud of each and every one them.

 In his younger years, it seems Dad travelled far and wide, partied hard and was never short of a female companion. He was a smooth talker, with a wicked accent and a charmer to boot. Even in his days in the nursing home, he always seemed to have a few ladies fighting to be by his side.

He never lost the travel bug, and I suspect if life had dealt him a different hand, he and mum would have ventured out again in their retirement.

Instead he devoted himself to the care of his beloved wife and stayed by her side for more than 50 years, with her when she drew her final breath. His dedication to her was unwavering. Some would describe dad as charming, chatty and kind while others will say he was hard, indignant and arrogant, some may even remember him as funny, generous and one of the lads with a work ethic as solid as a rock. He had no tolerance for laziness, had strong opinions and was always quick to send off a letter to whomever it may concern letting them know his concerns. He was loyal to his family both near and far.

Each of us here today have many varied and some shared memories of this man who is finally at rest. I hope today you will raise a glass and remember the man that you knew, respected and loved with a smile on your face despite the tear in your eye.

One his granddaughters Catherine also shared special memories of her Poppy:

I remember my Poppy full of life and always on the go, always exceptionally happy to see us kids.

The stories he would tell of the countries he had been to, were always amazing and full of mischief.

I loved the way he used to try and teach you things, one moment in particular, he tried to teach me to drive a tractor. I got most of the lesson, he did however, forget to teach me how to stop! The fence came second best in that scenario!!

I remember his laugh that sounds like Bert from Sesame Street’s Bert and Ernie.

All the fruit he let me eat, even though Mum said it would give me a bellyache.

I loved when we would watch “Porridge” during lunchtime with Nana. We were quite the trio. Lunch would always consist of frozen fish or pastries with some kind of sauce; due to Nana always being the cook previously, Poppy was still her apprentice. He would do his best and it was always a treat.

I loved that he would always call me a Pom because of all the tea I drank.

I loved it when Nana fell asleep, Poppy and we would always sneak Spanish biscuit in the kitchen with another cuppa.

I love when I would come to stay, he always cut up a grapefruit for me, and I got to eat it in bed.

I will miss my car trips into town with him. He would pick me up at the station any day I wanted. Each time there was a new story to tell me. The trip is only 15minutes but that was enough time for Poppy to tell me about a snake he’d found or how the cockatoos were eating all his fruit.

I loved the way he called me Little Blondie, even though I reminded him my name was Catherine.

I adored the stories Poppy would tell me of Nana. How beautiful she was.

He would tell me stories of how he took charge on the jobs and had to be rough with some of the scally wags.

He would always laugh at me when I got scared. One day his belly moved so much, when I screamed at an apple, because a worm came out of it and as a 13-year-old I practically nearly ate it, therefore faced a near death experience.

I recall many walks down the river with Poppy. I had my oversized boots and walked like a duck but Poppy waited patiently for me to catch up.

Now we walk the farm and it feels different. We cannot explain it. It just is.

Dad was last here Christmas Day and he enjoyed a beer with us, laughed with us and shared a final memory that will be precious to us all in the future. Because now, that is all we have, memories for as long as we can hold onto them. Next year we will return Dad to his homeland of Wales and I suspect he will be most pleased with this decision. In the meantime, we will continue to run this farm and hopefully he will be proud, if he looks down on us, from wherever he may be.

Read by my eldest daughter Alexandra on behalf of her Poppy

Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die.
I have sent up my gladness on wings, to be lost in the blue of the sky.
I have run and leaped with the rain, I have taken the wind to my breast.
My cheeks like a drowsy child to the face of the earth I have pressed.
Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die.

I have kissed young love on the lips, I have heard his song to the end,
I have struck my hand like a seal in the loyal hand of a friend.
I have known the peace of heaven, the comfort of work done well.
I have longed for death in the darkness and risen alive out of hell.
Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die.
I gave a share of my soul to the world, when and where my course is run.
I know that another shall finish the task I surely must leave undone.
I know that no flower, nor flint was in vain on the path I trod.
As one looks on a face through a window, through life I have looked on God,
Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die.
Amelia Burr, American poet (1878 – 1968)

Until next time,

N.