Statistically about average; factually, distressing

An uncle died on Saturday. He was 85.



My uncle Roy breathing
life into his bagpipes.

Considered dispassionately and looked at in a purely analytic way that was about right, rather a little above the average for Australian men.

Irony however abounds, for that same day I had received an update about a family reunion of which my uncle would have had a pivotal role for, until his death, was one of four siblings from the family of seven still alive.

As a young boy all my uncles seemed invincible; big, strong and resourceful men and my aunties, women equally strong, resourceful and wonderfully tactful and tenacious.

Time erodes all qualities making even the perfect dysfunctional and a death such as that on Saturday triggers thoughts of personal mortality.

Like all people, uncles fill the whole spectrum of passions, behaviours and personalities from less than pleasant to excellent and conscious of how many glorify the dead and although eager to avoid that, “excellent” clearly dominates my thinking.

My uncle was at times a serious man, although not someone I had ever seen angry or negative, I am sure he had been both, but he loved to laugh and did so with enthusiasm.

He appeared at first glance a contradictory fellow living and working as a farmer with an attachment to many of the earthy fundamentals of life and yet enjoying the subtleties of music delighting and entertaining many with his saxophone or stirring the blood as he stood in his kilt breathing life into his bagpipes.

A sheep dog at work.

Beyond that he inherently grasped of the mysteries of how a dog can be encouraged to yard sheep and subsequently trained many champions.

Although not implicated intimately in my life, he was, in a distracted sense, something of a mentor as I almost unknowingly warmed to his diverse passions and interests and upon reflection he was an inconspicuous inspiration.

Obviously he was not unlike his father who, among other things was a sleeper cutter and who played, beautifully, the violin. I can still remember that as an amazed young boy I watched and listened as my grandfather, “Pa”, put down his violin, took up a handsaw and produced music.

Born on the doorstep of the Great Depression, my uncle lived through some obviously challenging times, World War Two being an example, but looked at from earth’s present state – diminishing irreplaceable resources and a worsening environment – he and others of that generation enjoyed something of a “purple patch” for humanity as it was rich in both promise and opportunity.

My uncle realised much of that promise and opportunity, but within that was both decent and honest.

He was as beautiful man and among other things led me to barrack for the Western Bulldogs.