Eulogy for my Father’s Funeral
When I was 4, Dad helped me build a huge, Meccano construction crane on the living room floor . . . In retrospect, it was probably only a foot high. But I was 4.
When my nephew Ben was born, I watched Dad doing the same things he did with me as a child; playing games, working on projects, getting involved in fantasy worlds . . . and telling stories.
He loved to tell stories.
Seeing Dad with Ben and Emily was like a window onto our childhood.
My Father encouraged us. It didn’t matter what we were interested in. If we wanted to draw pictures, he’d bring coloured pencils home from work. When I was 9, I wrote short stories and Dad brought a professional writer home to give me some advice. I can’t remember what he said. In her teens, Sue became a good track and field athlete and Dad – her personal coach. He ended up coaching all the kids in our suburb for Little Athletics.
As late as 2004, Dad paid my rent for 6 months while Phil and I wrote a screenplay. I promised Dad a good return on that investment. And one day, I will deliver.
As the age gap softened, Dad and I became good friends. Equals, if you like. Between singing gigs, he came around to my house for coffee and philosophy. We would spend hours talking about science, theology and politics. And when we were finished, he would return to his next gig. The big one he had with Mum.
So. Like Ben – I have also lost a close friend.
Dad’s helping hand extended beyond family. All who knew my father will remember him as a kind, considerate and very helpful man. If you cast your mind back, you will remember him helping you out in some way. He may have tuned your car engine, given you a lift, or loaned you a fishing rod. Or he simply may have sung you a song.
My father was more thoughtful about others – indeed of the human race as a whole – than he ever was about himself. He was designed to help people.
For a man who never had a father of his own, he did an amazing job of raising a family. I’m proud to add that Dad never left any of his jobs unfinished.
Rest in peace, Dad. You’ll always be with us.
