Respect, Understanding and Celebrations of a Different Kind

I was up at my father's place for christmas holidays spending some of my respite time away when we heard the news. My fathers's friend we had known since we were little from camping trips around the Murray River had been sick for a long time. His wife was and still is a lovely woman; as genuine as they come. He had two daughters from a previous marriage but she still loved those kids like they were her own. My father was one of the first she called to tell the news after his passing and after hearing the news of a great childhood friend's passing third hand from my Dad. I wanted to be there for both him and my father. The funeral was only weeks away. My half-brother took time off work to drive us both down to Mildura where the proceedings were held because my father had lost his license once again. This was the first funeral I had been to where I truly understood what was happening and what had happened. It was a long journey by car over two days, arriving there late on the second day to organise what had to be done and who was doing it. My father ofcourse being a lifetime friend was a lead Pallbearer on the right-hand side. The journey down was quiet and eerie, none of us spoke anymore than was necessary to avoid sparking emotions, atleast that's what I felt was the reason. My half brother didn't know this man. I'm not sure he had even met him before. All he knew was Dad had no license to drive to his best friend's funeral so he concentrated on getting us there as quickly as the speed limit would allow. I'd made this trip a few time's before and only once for a funeral I didn't understand at all. I bought straight black suit pants and a long sleeved black collared shirt with black dress shoes for the occasion. Only to find out on the day my father had forgotten to mention the dress code was a flannolet shirt and blue jeans. I always thought he made it his business to make me look worse in some way to my brother. He was what felt like god in my father's eyes. I remember before the funeral the first place we went to visit was my fathers friend's place to see his widow and give them our condolences. We had no idea if she'd even be home but that didn't matter. We walked around the back of the house, any friend that knows what's what knows to walk around the back of the house and knock at the back door. There was a sigh of relief eminating from all three of us when no-one answered after five minutes. I asked my father where to go next, he just nodded and said to go to our Aunty's house in Merbein. It took us what felt like half an hour's drive to get anywhere we were going. That night we stayed at my Aunty's place. Dad stayed up late drinking with his sister's husband and my half brother. I was only sixteen and had to choose not to drink like I wasn't normal or something. I was feeling anxious about the proceedings that were happening the next day. We had barely made it there in time because I knew my Dad didn't want to stick around for long enough to see more than he needed or wanted to. He was what felt like to me a cold and lonley-hearted man that I had never had a proper conversation with. He never spoke to me more than he needed to either. I was the one always asking questions about him and never getting a real response. He kept everything to himself and never held on to the past yet it shaped him completely. This funeral was un-like any other I'd been to. This was a gathering of my whole family on my father's side, friends and relatives of the deceased. It was huge. There had to be atleast five hundred people there that this man had enough of an affect on for these people to come to his funeral. The loss of this man I barely knew had taken more of an affect on me than the loss of my own Grandpa. This man was willing and gave me the chance to learn from him and enjoy his company. I felt when my Grandpa was around he barely even wanted us to be there. I felt the time I spent with this man, my father's friend, was valuable and I looked up to him. He took my brother and I camping on nearly every occasion we visited Mildura. My most treasured memory of him was going yabbi potting in his secret location. The next day we cooked up a huge feast of yabbis in a pot of boiling water and ate them for dinner between his partner, two daughters, my brother, father and I. It was and still is the best meal of my life. Not only for the food but the atmosphere that surrounded us. Tents, campfire, tall tales, family and family friends in an area so serene and untouched by man that we were the only people around for miles and kangaroos of a morning as far as the eye could see. This is one of my most cherished memories and for this I thanked him in my own mind. The proceedings were performed and my father was asked to speak. On the way down to Mildura he was trying to figure out what to write, silently without asking for help. We never even knew he was writing it until he told us when we stopped for the night at a motel on the way there. He spoke of his adventures into the Northern Territory with him and his childhood with this man I only knew as my father's best friend. This was the first time I had heard more than a few words on the subject and at most this was a couple of sentences. With so little words spoken, I felt like I knew him a thousand times better than before. This was one man my father cared about enough to drop what he was doing, get leave from work for a week and organize for two of his sons to keep him company on an emotionally exhausting journey for him. The proceedings continued on and few stood up to speak; both of his daughters were the last to speak before the funeral ended. He was to be buried in the same cemetery as my Grandpa and only relatives and close friends were to be present, my father among them. We watched and bowed our heads in memory as the mahogany coffin, with a hand painted mural of the Murray Darling River where he used to fish as a kid draped on the side, was slowly lowered into the grave. His life partner then spoke these words, "my best friend, my partner, whom I love and will always love shall be cherished by all those who paid their respects and tributes today and many who could not make it here, all I ask is that we do not delve deep into sadness and memories but live on, enjoy life and make this a celebration; do not shed your tears. My daughters and I want you to join us in celebration of his death, this is not a time to mourn but let it be a celebration of his life. We call upon you to join us at the wake and enjoy yourself in his memory." Those words I will remember as they have taught me that sorrow of passing is not how I want my funeral to be either. We continued to the wake after a few quiet spoken words with the widow, our close friend and a great woman in not only my eyes but many others. I got the chance to hug her and her daughters and wish them my best; I remember distinctly being asked if my brother who could not make it if he still had a crush on the eldest daughter. I couldn't help but smile and say to them that he did. The wake was held in the local dirtbike racing club where the deceased raced as a child. This brought back memories of my own when I was brought there by my father when there were races that my cousins were participating in. I talked for a long time catching up on things with people whom I hadn't seen in years, having a quiet drink of coke and some nibblies. My father introduced me to basically everyone that afternoon. Most people there I had met when I was still a toddler and couldn't remember any of them. There were even a few others with my father's name. I understood now the unspoken tradition of our first born son's name, what it meant and why I would want my own first born son's name to be the same. Even after the words spoken by this woman I felt so much respect for; I could not get past the sorrow of such a great mentor and friend. The wake went on into the evening until about five. By this time my father was fairly drunk and was offered to join the continued celebration back at her place. My half brother was the designated driver and was just enjoying meeting more and more of his relatives. Meanwhile I was just a kid and I wasn't drinking. Again I was offered to drink at the celebration's but I chose not to as I knew it would only make me feel worse. We only stayed there for about an hour or two because my father wanted to be among people he knew that night. The people invited to the celebrations at her place were not people he knew at all. We only knew the widow and two daughters. We stayed in town for the next day aswell. We visited a few taverns catching up with more of my father's friends and he did more drinking. It came to the evening when he visited a closer friend out in the bush. I didn't know who this man was and I felt uncomfortable around my father's friends. He then asked his friend if he would like to visit his father's, my Grandpa, grave. I was extremely surprised because I knew my Dad didn't have much time for his own father and vice versa. Yet in death he felt more obligated to see him. I felt uneasy walking through the cemetery but I suspected that was normal and stuck close to my half brother. We found the grave-site fairly easily and there were no words spoken. Just a silence out of respect I believed. I kept silent aswell to not anger my Dad. I still don't really understand the relationship they had and I doubt I will any time soon.