Old Yellow Moon: January 2014

Friday, 31 January 2014

The weeping song

Go son, go down to the water

And see the women weeping there

Then go up into the mountains

The men, they are weeping too.

Father, why are all the women weeping?

They all are weeping for their men

Then why are all the men there weeping?

They are weeping back at them.

This is a weeping song

A song in which to weep

While all the men and women sleep.

This is a weeping song

But I won't be weeping long.

Father why are all the children weeping?

They are merely crying son.

O, are they merely crying father?

Yes, true weeping is yet to come.

This is a weeping song

A song in which to weep

While all the little children sleep.

This is a weeping song

But I won't be weeping long.

O father tell me are you weeping?

Your face seems wet to touch.

O then I'm so sorry father

I never thought I hurt you so much.

This is a weeping song

A song in which to weep

While we rock ourselves to sleep.

This is a weeping song

But I won't be weeping long

No. I won't be weeping long

by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

Wednesday, 22 January 2014

I read this eulogy for my father at his funeral - 8th January 2014. My brothers' eulogies provided more personal anecdotes and introduced some humour to the very sad occasion. The farewell was sung in Zulu by my brother - "Thulu Baba" - a South African lullaby, and there was not a dry eye in the room. The coffin was carried out through a guard of honour formed by oars.

On 1 January this year, my father sadly passed away after suffering for years with dementia.

As you may agree, that he is no longer confined in the shell he became, is perhaps a blessing.

My father was born and grew up in Barberton, South Africa. His father was the local doctor, and my father would tell amazing stories of his school and university days, and wild and crazy pursuits while growing up. I was always fascinated that they had a cook, house servants and gardeners. Those were different times.

When he was younger my father worked as a mining engineer in South Africa and Canada. He also pursued mining interest for a number of years in Australia, before turning to farming near Armidale.

My father was very close to his sister (name removed for privacy), and her husband (name removed for privacy), and spent happy weeks visiting at their property north of Mullumbimby in northern New South Wales.

I would like to remember my father as a gentle caring man who was always available to lend an ear to listen.

He liked to play outdoor games with us as children, or simply spend time with us. I felt he always had our best interests at heart.

He was very good spatially and conceptually, and in constructing things with his hands. I remember he built us a swing-set, an African bark hut, hammocks, catapaults, cages for various pets, gates, fences, a corral for our horses, mine shafts, boats, boxes, furniture, fireplaces, chimneys – you name it – he could build it.

He loved nature and quiet reflection in nature. This was probably why he treasured his farm so much and working there. He loved animals, and kept a series of treasured dogs that helped him on the farm. These included Alfie, and Zoom. He also had Cfer and Fleabody - cats.

Almost every year we would go for a family holiday to Scotts Head, a lovely seaside town near Coffs Harbour. Some of our happiest times were spent there. I remember some amazing surfing experiences, and getting wonderfully tanned. My father and brother (name removed for privacy) invested in surf skis and these accompanied us on these holidays, and they perfected the art of riding the waves using these fibreglass shells.

While raising me and my brothers in Armidale, my father was heavily involved with my mother in establishing and maintaining the local rowing club. He and my brother (name removed for privacy) were excellent rowers. My father was always hauling in the medals. He had many great successes at the International Masters Games. Rowing was the key focus of my parents’ life for quite a number of years.

My parents were also keen skiers and were members of Thredbo Alpine Club. Some wonderful winter holidays were had there.

My father was a great storyteller, and I wish when I was younger I had a better handle on technology and could have recorded some of these stories for posterity.

In his final years, my mother was the primary carer for my father. He was diagnosed as having Alzheimer’s disease which then progressed to high care Dementia. While still living in Armidale, she was solely responsible for my father’s care. This however became far too much of a load, once incontinence and night wandering became a daily concern.

She confided to me her extreme feelings of guilt at unwittingly having placed my father in a nursing home where he was given “chemical restraint” during a short period of violent behaviour.

The chemical restraint caused my father to suffer a stroke, and due to limited staffing and the occupational health and safety constraints practised in the nursing home – he was denied basic rehabilitation and physiotherapy in the early stages when he needed it most.

Essentially he lost the use of speech and eventually of his lower limbs. My husband and I would take our children out to the nursing home, request that he be put in a wheelchair and take him to the park, where my husband would hoist him up and walk with him across the part to a bench seat, where he would watch the kids play, or a football game if there was one.

Eventually his muscles atrophied to such an extent that we could no longer take him for walks, but still took him to the park to enjoy any available sunlight, and just the experience of being outside.

My mother took it upon herself to fill in the significant gaps in his care at the nursing home by spending up to seven hours some days making sure he was adequately fed and generally looked after. She also arranged quite a number of ancillary care services such as physiotherapy, massage and dental care.

It was an awful period for his family to watch him suffer a slow end in this way, but now that he is free from this suffering, it is perhaps a blessing.

I would now like to share with you one of my poems, which I feel is apt:

"Cry Freedom"

Claw at the fabric of time

Rail at the passing years

Rend the shards of time and place

Tear asunder tradition and circumstance

Throw history aside

Be as nothing, as no-one

Rise phoenix from the ashes

Of past existence

Naked, washed and open

Play freely in the world.