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Funeral Reconnections
Mar. 27th, 2021 12:48 amEvents are moving in my life like lightning flashes, "the text is the thunder rolling long afterwards". So today I shall focus on the attendance of the funeral of one Bev K. I remember so well the night we met; I was at a Labor Party function in Brunswick, and I attended with fashion in mind, set of grey tailcoats with lace cuffs. It was not Bev who caught my eye first that night, but rather her daughter, one Sarah K., who had also had the temerity to dress with style. Our eyes met across the room and, when she left the table for a moment, in my semi-inebriated state I ventured over and constructed one of the few origami folds I know - a swan. That is when first made contact with Bev K., as she cocked her head slightly to one side and smiled, recognising the behaviour of a romantic fool. Poor Sarah returned to her place to be confronted with a paper swan staring at her, and I believe Bev then pointed her in my direction. We talked, we exchanged numbers, and shortly we would begin what was an all-too-short but quite wonderful romance that I will always hold quite dear to my heart.
But this is not a story of Sarah and I; I can sing her praises (and at some length) another time, even if my friends joked that I was a bit of "rough trade" to her. But for Bev, I only knew her for a relatively brief period, but it had a profound and lasting effect on me. She was born just after WWII, and was an otherwordly, imaginative child, radicalised in the 1960s, she became a literary critic of some note, skilled in Russian, and had a major book on Chekov published by Cambridge University Press in the 1970s. After that her focus turned to law reform. When I knew her she was active in the Law Reform Commission, and today I learned that she continued on to become significantly involved in environmental law especially in relation to some of the state's large infrastructure projects. When I knew the family, I would often be in awe Bev's ability and determination to organise and still carry out a deep conversation whilst packing lunches for whatever was the adventure of the day. She also shared with me a mischievous sense of humour. She also had the insight to see I was rather besotted by her daughter: Prove to me that you wish to change the world and have the motivation and competence to do so, and I'm yours; you carry the torch, and I will carry the sword by your side.
So today I attended Bev's funeral. Struck down too early by that monster, Motor Neuron Disease, the funeral was held at the old St Mary's Anglican Church in North Melbourne, where she had been a member of the congregation for many years; inner-city, academic-professional, Anglican Christian-socialists, a running trait from British romanticism ("just a bunch of old rocks" was a family saying, a comment from a disappointed tourist from across The Pond visiting the remains of a Celtic iron age village). It has been some twenty-three years since I had stepped foot in the place with the family, a different world back then, but not one I will ever forget. Alas, I had classes to give and could not stay as long as I would have liked.
Liza K., gave a beautiful poem from Dorothy Parker; I caught her eye for a moment and lost her in the crowd. I hope she still has the illustrated version of "The Hobbit" I gave her, and that it has served her well. Young Roderick recited moving prayers; the boy has all grown up now, tall and strong, although I have discovered he no longer plays the piano. Sarah gave a most moving eulogy from the deep heart I know she carries in a way that most do not. Our encounter was again all too brief, but so deeply respectful, with her expressing caring sympathy for my own current difficulties of the heart. To Bev, who really did make the world a better place, I raise a glass. You - and the entire family - treated me with a respect that I was unfamiliar with. Despite my discomfort with such love, I assure you it was deeply, albeit awkwardly, appreciated. You saw within me - "I will not cease from Mental Fight, Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand: Till we have built Jerusalem" - where so many others have not.
But this is not a story of Sarah and I; I can sing her praises (and at some length) another time, even if my friends joked that I was a bit of "rough trade" to her. But for Bev, I only knew her for a relatively brief period, but it had a profound and lasting effect on me. She was born just after WWII, and was an otherwordly, imaginative child, radicalised in the 1960s, she became a literary critic of some note, skilled in Russian, and had a major book on Chekov published by Cambridge University Press in the 1970s. After that her focus turned to law reform. When I knew her she was active in the Law Reform Commission, and today I learned that she continued on to become significantly involved in environmental law especially in relation to some of the state's large infrastructure projects. When I knew the family, I would often be in awe Bev's ability and determination to organise and still carry out a deep conversation whilst packing lunches for whatever was the adventure of the day. She also shared with me a mischievous sense of humour. She also had the insight to see I was rather besotted by her daughter: Prove to me that you wish to change the world and have the motivation and competence to do so, and I'm yours; you carry the torch, and I will carry the sword by your side.
So today I attended Bev's funeral. Struck down too early by that monster, Motor Neuron Disease, the funeral was held at the old St Mary's Anglican Church in North Melbourne, where she had been a member of the congregation for many years; inner-city, academic-professional, Anglican Christian-socialists, a running trait from British romanticism ("just a bunch of old rocks" was a family saying, a comment from a disappointed tourist from across The Pond visiting the remains of a Celtic iron age village). It has been some twenty-three years since I had stepped foot in the place with the family, a different world back then, but not one I will ever forget. Alas, I had classes to give and could not stay as long as I would have liked.
Liza K., gave a beautiful poem from Dorothy Parker; I caught her eye for a moment and lost her in the crowd. I hope she still has the illustrated version of "The Hobbit" I gave her, and that it has served her well. Young Roderick recited moving prayers; the boy has all grown up now, tall and strong, although I have discovered he no longer plays the piano. Sarah gave a most moving eulogy from the deep heart I know she carries in a way that most do not. Our encounter was again all too brief, but so deeply respectful, with her expressing caring sympathy for my own current difficulties of the heart. To Bev, who really did make the world a better place, I raise a glass. You - and the entire family - treated me with a respect that I was unfamiliar with. Despite my discomfort with such love, I assure you it was deeply, albeit awkwardly, appreciated. You saw within me - "I will not cease from Mental Fight, Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand: Till we have built Jerusalem" - where so many others have not.
