Eulogy for my Father

Eulogy for DW “Bill” Curran
Delivered 08 July 2017
John Cooper Methodist Hall, Benalla

Douglas William Curran,
Bill Curran,
Dad,
Poppy,
Uncle Bill.

My father was born, the youngest of five children, in Melbourne on 2^nd March 1935.

His life was difficult from his earliest days. His mother Eva Matilda Myrtle, passed away when he was very young, about 4 years old, and he was sent to live with a local family. His father, in poor condition due to his war service, lived a fairly nomadic life and passed away tragically several years later.

His brother Joe and his sisters Flo and Grace were all sent their separate ways and it would be some years before he saw them again.

By all accounts he was a fair student, though a bit rebellious - I’m sure that no one here would fall into that category - but at that time, he was not interested in school so much as finding his siblings and especially his brother Joe.

I know much of this as dad went to the trouble of writing it all down. I’ve spent much of the last few days reading through his notes and to give you a feel for the sort of child he was, I’d like to read you dad’s own words. A short extract of what he had written:

Mrs Conley [Dad’s foster parent] was very strict to me and was not easy to please. She had a razor strop that was made of leather and she used it on my backside if I was bad. One day I hid the razor strop and she used an ironing cord instead, so I decided to relocate the razor strop as it didn’t hurt as much.

Dad finished with school when he was 13 years old and much to his annoyance, Mrs Conley found him a job in Myers. Dad had other ideas though and one evening set off on his bicycle to find his siblings. He spent several months travelling and working until eventually the police found him and brought him back to Melbourne. He was not yet 15 years old.

Again, I’ll let dad tell the next part of his story directly.

I hated the city, so Mrs Conley got a job for me with relatives in Tawonga working for Frank Cooper and his son Ted. Ted was going with my sister, Flo.

I’ve glossed over dad’s story up until this point as though it were a great adventure, but I’ll pause here to say that he also faced enormous difficulties and paid a dear price at times for his decision to strike out on his own as a 13-year-old child. And while he did find kindness, sadly he came to know that within some people is an evil that shows no respect and I suspect that many of the events he endured in those years stayed with him throughout his life.

Like his father, dad served his country in the armed forces, although in dad’s case it took the form of national service.

Dad told me once that the Army had recommended that he attend NCO training at Portsea, but for various reasons he was unable to. I always considered this just “one of those stories”, a sort of “Oh yes son, I could have gone to NCO school” but when I was looking through his papers this week I stumbled across his army records. In particular, there is an “Individual Training” record that reads, in part,

“This soldier proved himself above average in keenness and enthusiasm, he is very willing to assume responsibility […] he will be excellent NCO material with further training.”

Dad was discharged in 1956 and appears to have once again taken up a fairly nomadic life.

Eventually, he returned to Melbourne and took up a job with AMP as an insurance salesman. He would have been about 25 or 26 at this time and was in need of a place to live. He heard of a house that took in borders not too far away and one afternoon made his way there.

Coming through the gate, dad heard a voice call out to him,

“Yes, hello?”

He looked around but couldn’t see anyone and so he called back “Hello?”

“I’m up here!” said the voice and he realised that it was coming from a young lady who had climbed up a tree!

That young lady was Colleen Lee and while it may not have been love at first sight, I’m sure the tree sitter made an impression on him. I know this, because a few years later, in 1964, he married her. 

That was my mother.

In 1965, for once everything went right for dad and he was blessed with a child so beautiful, that words cannot describe it. Yes, I was born.

Turned out that I was more trouble than they expected and the family took a decision to move to the countryside for my health, this time to Deneliquin. Then, in an appalling display of not being satisfied with perfection, they had another child, Lee. Then another and another and another. In all, there were six children. Myself, then Lee, then Katrina, then Jacinta, then Nyree - who passed away, and finally Matthew, who was born a scrawny child of 3 pound in 1977 and retains a waifish appearance to this very day.

Sadly though, the marriage did not last and dad found himself once again alone.

He made a great effort to maintain contact with his children, initially finding accommodation close by, but the pressures of work, time and perhaps of insolent teenage children, I think got the better of him.

Dad married again in the 1980s and it was during this time that he became interested in his family history along with his sister Grace (whom he continued to call ‘Gerty’ much to her annoyance) and his friend Brenda. He discovered his great grandfather had been the bareknuckle boxing champion of Victoria and he found a wealth of new information about his parents. In an odd way, I think it was during this period that he came to know his parents better than ever.

Dad moved here to Benalla about 10 years ago and I don’t think it would be much of an exaggeration to call these the happiest years of his life. He enjoyed being here and enjoyed renewed contact with his family. I’m happy to say that during this time, he and I became good friends.

Over these last few years I saw my father as truly contented with his life. Certainly there were ups and downs, but on the whole I believe he came to terms with himself. And when I look around at the local people from Benalla that are here today, I can see that dad made new friends and established new relationships here. The Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard once said that “life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” Perhaps in dad’s case this really is true.

I’d like to say a few words about my own relationship with my father and the effect that he had upon me. The earliest memory I have is a memory of my father; we were fishing in a river near Deneliquin, I guess it was the Edwards River.

I would have been less than three years old, I remember my third birthday was a little afterward, but some of the memories of that day are as vivid as any memories I have. There was a battered brown esky with bait, sandwiches and lime coola cordial. Dad’s car was parked at the top of a sort of ridge that ran down to the riverside. My father in those days was a giant to me, enormous in so many ways.

We caught no fish that day and I remember asking him why. He told me that the fish were on holidays and I can remember wondering why we came fishing while the fish were on holidays. It was a given to me that my father would have known they were on holidays, so why come fishing that day?

In more recent years I have continued to learn from him and to enjoy his company. I guess in the last few years I have learned patience from the old man. When someone tells you the same five stories every time you visit, patience becomes an important attribute.

Recently I have found my father to be calmer and steadier than before. Whether that is age or contentment is hard to say, but I have enjoyed seeing him reach this point.

The stoic philosopher Seneca said that “our care should not be to have lived long as to have lived enough.” My father was certainly stoic and indeed lived a good life. Whether he lived enough is a question I have pondered these last few days and although he might not have lived enough for me, I wonder whether perhaps he had lived enough for him.

In 2012 I was happy to be able to bring dad to Japan for a couple of weeks. The two of us travelled to Kyoto and Osaka and spent quite some time in my home city of Tokyo as well. He enjoyed the trip and often spoke of it afterward. I was touched to find among his papers handwritten notes that he had made of each day’s adventures while he was there.

Dad also developed a bit of an interest in Japanese culture and in honour of that, I’d like to present to you a Japanese ‘Death Poem’

Death poems are usually quite short. Just a few lines to express a sentiment upon dying. They are written by the departed in their last days or by someone close to them. Some of them are quite poetic, for example;

旅に病んで     Tabi ni yande            Falling ill on a journey

夢は枯れ野を   yume wa kareno o         my dreams go wandering

かけめぐる     kakemeguru               over withered fields

Other poems are more humorous;

我死なば            Ware shinaba         Bury me when I die

酒屋の瓶の下にいけよ  sakaya no kame no    beneath a wine barrel

もしや雫の          shita ni ikeyo       

                   moshi ya shizuku no  in a tavern.

もりやせんなん       moriyasennan         With luck the cask will leak

In this case, the author, Moriya Sen'an, was also making a joke about his own name. The phrase “with luck the cask will leak” is moriyasennan and the author’s name is Moriya Sen'an.

With that in mind, for Dad I have composed the following death poem;

Bury me when I die

Choose my casket while I’m still

Measure carefully for size

Or you’ll be stuck with the Bill.

I loved my dad and I know he loved so many of you. Remember him well and remember him kindly.

Thank you.