Anth, that was truly wonderful. Thank you — it brought tears to my eyes. I came to feel privileged that I had the conversations with him that I did, when I became aware how comfortable I was with him. I connected. I could be myself. As it happens, I have never had relations (good or bad) with people from generations older than mine other than your parents, and Max’s mum. But I felt totally unselfconscious in Ray’s presence — utterly relaxed, so that I could be natural with him. He did that, not I. He created a space for people to be natural, and I had time enough to become aware of that, though it never occurred to me to bring that to his notice in any way. He probably knew anyway. After all, he was a consummate “people person”, whose first window on the world was always a humanist one. Yes, warmth. That was what greeted you when you met him. A warmth tranquil, not placid — this created an openness, an inviting sense that you were welcome to contribute (as opposed to plenty of older people I’ve witnessed who were concerned only to steamroll their opinions over everyone).
And yes, there was always either a twinkle in his eye or a wry twist to his lips, as if he was always on the edge of smiling, looking for any excuse to laugh. It was obvious that his soul was clear of blackness; that here was someone who didn’t nurse grudges or prejudices and didn’t rail against the world — this becomes clear only minutes after meeting him. It must take a lot of willpower to prevent a positive-minded outlook from being sullied by the frequent vulgarity of our world. No, not willpower, but confidence; self-surety in his (hopeful) take on the world. He projected a calm confidence in people at large, even as he immersed himself in the details of our daily shames through his saturation attention of the daily news coverage. That curiosity about the fate of humans at large, about history, became evident in scraps of detail that he passed out here and there, quite unselfconsciously, as he chatted about entirely unrelated things. Slowly you became aware just how much he knew, how much he’d lived, and you began to hope he’d expound a bit more, drop some more nuggets, but he was never one to hog the limelight; he just dropped pebbles into conversational ponds, modest in size but often golden-cored and correct weight.
Anth, man I loved the description of his paper rounds. How brilliant. I’m willing to believe anyone who could box like that would’ve had the precision-dexterity to pull this off! What a sight it must’ve been! It should be in a film. And I loved how in “the force” he awarded himself all the driver’s licenses he’d ever need! (It’s just a pity we can’t hear his tales of the funeral trade — maybe later??)
You know what else is a privilege? Hearing more about how your parents were like in each other’s company. Authentic, loving and playful; simple inspiration that that still happens, and therefore that it can still happen.
Perhaps his lifelong sacrifices for family didn’t yield justly compensatory riches, but undoubtedly he led instead a life rich in character and experience, full of family and friends. I’d wager he would have been content with his life, ungrudging and unafraid of death?
I’m amazed to hear of a father who would share tales of his dreams with his son — that seems to go against the grain of contemporary bloke-dom (where reserve and embarrassment seem to be one’s first duties in all matters emotional). Refreshing to hear this. I wonder exactly how many father-sons have had this experience — and repeatedly, at that?!
And yet so sad for Matt that they never got to finish that M*A*S*H saga. How long had they been at it, years? How close to the series’ end were they?
It will sound pretty fanciful, but somehow this denial of closure between Matt and Ray reminds me of the end of Death in Venice. Bear with me. I mean the bit when Aschen is dying, and the boy Tadzeo points off-screen, beyond the agreed-upon film-stage where cinema is meant to screen the life-stories it’s telling, capturing them within the golden mean of its silver screen — no, Tadzeo is pointing off-screen, alluding to a process beyond the one any of us can see to the finish (no, not “God”, but the river of genes and family stories at work within us). Ultimately, that process – life – begins in the genes of all our forefathers and is borne through us to private ends we can never witness, much less share, because those ends are the deaths of consciousness more than they are the deaths of bodies — and of those there will be generations, death upon death upon death, and yet although these ends occur alone, unwitnessed, unshared, they don’t have to be the end of the process (damn what a piss-weak phrase!): that is, not the end of the river of genes and family stories. They can still be borne out through you and all the Carrs. Carry your dad off-stage, off-screen, to a fate more enduring than he’d’ve expected. Celebrate him justly, as you have already done here in this great eulogy. He will be a living force in your family history.
In this admittedly clumsy analogy, your father is Tadzeo-the-innocent addressing the Carrs, pointing beyond to the existence of life vaster than the one framed by any one conscious experience of it, not yours, nor even his. (Again, no allusion to “God” or even spirituality, but the river of genes and family stories through time immemorial to come.) I have no doubt you will continue to celebrate your father, for he deserves to be.
If the word “gentleman” passes totally out of currency Ray would still be recognized for who he is, simply because of his upright qualities as a solid citizen. I’ve never felt I’ve known "the soul" of anyone of his generation — even my mum is rather opaque to me. Certainly I wish I could have had someone like him for a father. You’re lucky to have had him, but at least your eulogy did him proud. Rest, now. It is done. Carry up your pen another day.
And yes, there was always either a twinkle in his eye or a wry twist to his lips, as if he was always on the edge of smiling, looking for any excuse to laugh. It was obvious that his soul was clear of blackness; that here was someone who didn’t nurse grudges or prejudices and didn’t rail against the world — this becomes clear only minutes after meeting him. It must take a lot of willpower to prevent a positive-minded outlook from being sullied by the frequent vulgarity of our world. No, not willpower, but confidence; self-surety in his (hopeful) take on the world. He projected a calm confidence in people at large, even as he immersed himself in the details of our daily shames through his saturation attention of the daily news coverage. That curiosity about the fate of humans at large, about history, became evident in scraps of detail that he passed out here and there, quite unselfconsciously, as he chatted about entirely unrelated things. Slowly you became aware just how much he knew, how much he’d lived, and you began to hope he’d expound a bit more, drop some more nuggets, but he was never one to hog the limelight; he just dropped pebbles into conversational ponds, modest in size but often golden-cored and correct weight.
Anth, man I loved the description of his paper rounds. How brilliant. I’m willing to believe anyone who could box like that would’ve had the precision-dexterity to pull this off! What a sight it must’ve been! It should be in a film. And I loved how in “the force” he awarded himself all the driver’s licenses he’d ever need! (It’s just a pity we can’t hear his tales of the funeral trade — maybe later??)
You know what else is a privilege? Hearing more about how your parents were like in each other’s company. Authentic, loving and playful; simple inspiration that that still happens, and therefore that it can still happen.
Perhaps his lifelong sacrifices for family didn’t yield justly compensatory riches, but undoubtedly he led instead a life rich in character and experience, full of family and friends. I’d wager he would have been content with his life, ungrudging and unafraid of death?
I’m amazed to hear of a father who would share tales of his dreams with his son — that seems to go against the grain of contemporary bloke-dom (where reserve and embarrassment seem to be one’s first duties in all matters emotional). Refreshing to hear this. I wonder exactly how many father-sons have had this experience — and repeatedly, at that?!
And yet so sad for Matt that they never got to finish that M*A*S*H saga. How long had they been at it, years? How close to the series’ end were they?
It will sound pretty fanciful, but somehow this denial of closure between Matt and Ray reminds me of the end of Death in Venice. Bear with me. I mean the bit when Aschen is dying, and the boy Tadzeo points off-screen, beyond the agreed-upon film-stage where cinema is meant to screen the life-stories it’s telling, capturing them within the golden mean of its silver screen — no, Tadzeo is pointing off-screen, alluding to a process beyond the one any of us can see to the finish (no, not “God”, but the river of genes and family stories at work within us). Ultimately, that process – life – begins in the genes of all our forefathers and is borne through us to private ends we can never witness, much less share, because those ends are the deaths of consciousness more than they are the deaths of bodies — and of those there will be generations, death upon death upon death, and yet although these ends occur alone, unwitnessed, unshared, they don’t have to be the end of the process (damn what a piss-weak phrase!): that is, not the end of the river of genes and family stories. They can still be borne out through you and all the Carrs. Carry your dad off-stage, off-screen, to a fate more enduring than he’d’ve expected. Celebrate him justly, as you have already done here in this great eulogy. He will be a living force in your family history.
In this admittedly clumsy analogy, your father is Tadzeo-the-innocent addressing the Carrs, pointing beyond to the existence of life vaster than the one framed by any one conscious experience of it, not yours, nor even his. (Again, no allusion to “God” or even spirituality, but the river of genes and family stories through time immemorial to come.) I have no doubt you will continue to celebrate your father, for he deserves to be.
If the word “gentleman” passes totally out of currency Ray would still be recognized for who he is, simply because of his upright qualities as a solid citizen. I’ve never felt I’ve known "the soul" of anyone of his generation — even my mum is rather opaque to me. Certainly I wish I could have had someone like him for a father. You’re lucky to have had him, but at least your eulogy did him proud. Rest, now. It is done. Carry up your pen another day.
Petri Sinda
1 comment:
Thanks for this Petri. The reactions I have had to this eulogy are a testament to dad. I practiced reading it twice before the funeral and was a wreck both times so feared I would be blubbering so excessively that I would fail on the day. It was not that I was afraid of crying in public, as you know, we are an emotional lot, but I did fear not being able to get the words out. As it turns out I got through it, with only a few well placed pauses needed to compose myself. The funeral was huge, yet again a testament to dad, with about 230 people there. When I finished the congregation broke into applause, something frowned upon in a Catholic mass. I was most gratified and at that point my tears truly flowed. Dad approved of you. Thanks for your kind words.
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