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.
