Eulogy for Doreen Ward (nee Considine)

I have a picture in my mind of Doreen (Granma). It’s one of those composite images that never actually happened but seems to be a summary of how she was. In it she is standing up. I guess I’ve just arrived and she’s just popped up out of her chair. If she has, it’s without hesitating, groaning or needing assistance. She’s beautifully dressed, wearing a long necklace and shoes with a low heel. She’s standing upright, but leaning forward a little. She’s happy to see me, and I know this is true regardless of how long it’s been or how I’m travelling, and she’s standing with her arms open. She’s welcoming me but also opening herself and giving me all of her love and attention. The image I have of her reminds me of the classic image of the Madonna, the Mother of God. Perhaps Granma’s smile is bigger and her eyes, looking straight at me, are a little brighter. And perhaps there was a time when Doreen would have hinted that, of the two, she had the better ankles. But then again, I would have to counter that the Madonna probably wouldn’t have gone “A-Ah!” and smacked me on the hand with a breadknife if my manners weren’t up to scratch.

Doreen was born on the 19^th December, 1911, in Mildura. To understand how long ago that was we have to picture Doreen’s grandmother being midwife to her mother in the middle of a Mildura summer in a house with no air conditioning, no fans, in fact no electricity. The only lights are kerosene lamps.

The 19^th wasn’t too hot; there were hailstorms in Melbourne that day and rain across the state, which in a sense was lucky, given the size of the babies that arrived that day. Grandma Bennett (Doreen’s mother’s mother) did a good job and delivered Doreen successfully. The baby was little, but she was out and breathing, so Grandma got the bucket and started cleaning up. Doreen was the third child, a sister to James and Phyllis. And then there was another one! Unexpectedly, Doreen had a little twin sister: Honora.

The babies were tiny: 3lbs (about 1.5kgs). At first, Edith Emily (Doreen’s mum) thought the two babies were so delicate that she carried them around on pillows. And on those fiercely hot days that come through the Wimmera in waves, with no hospitals or humidicribs to turn to, she put them into the Coolgardie safe to keep them alive. But they did make it through that summer, and later, Keith was born.

Doreen remembered having a wonderful childhood. They were blockies – orchardists, fruit growers – growing mostly oranges and grapes. It was a life of being outside, walking the three miles to school along irrigation ditches and culverts and being excited when Dad – James Francis Considine – would wait outside the school on hot days to take her home in the horse drawn cart. Eventually, Doreen’s father bought a Model T Ford, one of the first in the district, and this was another cause for pride and excitement.

Doreen’s twin, Honora, was known as Noreen. You can imagine the opportunities for two identical twins, identically dressed, and with almost identical names, when they went to school. When one would get in trouble and be told to stay in and miss out on playtime, the other would go out and enjoy the first half, then sneak in and swap over so the other one could go out and play.

The whole family – uncles and aunts – all lived near each other on their blocks and were also close. The standard entertainment was playing cards or singing together, but at Christmas, an uncle would rent a circus tent and all the families would head down to the Murray to have picnics and swim.

Doreen was probably six or seven, and hadn’t yet learnt to swim, when she was walking in the shallows, on a sandbar, wearing a wide sunhat with a band running underneath her chin. Without realising it, she stepped off the sandbar and into a pothole so deep that all that was visible was the top of her hat. Underneath, held up just by her elastic chin-strap, was a flailing little Doreen. An Auntie happened to notice the hat floating downstream and pulled the bedraggled non-swimmer out of the water. Doreen was capable of being very fixed in her ideas so, despite 99 years and some determined efforts by at least one grandchild, Doreen never learned to swim or enjoy the water. However, one of Doreen’s great strengths was that she was very, very rarely bitter or negative about things. She remembered these holidays being “great fun” and having a “marvellous, happy childhood.”

At eight, both Doreen and Honora got diphtheria. After two months in hospital, Doreen survived and went home, but Honora died. Eighty years later, Doreen would still wonder, and say she had no idea why God took her little sister and not her. I remember when my own Dad died, when I was 16, hearing Granma say that children handle these things better than adults – they bounce back. I wonder if that’s how it was for her, losing her closest sister, first best friend and partner in crime so young. The grief stayed with her quietly, but for her whole life, but perhaps some of her resilience also developed in response to that first massive loss.

At ten, Doreen’s mother enrolled her in dancing classes and piano lessons. She learned Scottish and Irish dancing, but it was learning the piano that changed her life.

In 1925, going to the cinema was a big deal. It was the new thing. I saw a picture recently of the audience at the opening of the Astor Theatre, in Mildura, in 1925. In the picture, the cinema is full and there must have been at least a thousand people there. A swanky new art-deco style cinema called the Odeon opened in Redcliff at about this time, too, and other cinemas must have been opening all along the Murray. The movies were big business, but they were silent, and needed a pianist to accompany them. Doreen’s aunt was a pianist, and was the one who, each Saturday night, played the soundtrack to the film in front of an audience of local families and couples out on a Saturday night. In 1925, Doreen was 14 and had been playing piano for about four years. One night, her aunt couldn’t play, and asked Doreen to fill in for her. Again, there’s a chance to see some of Doreen’s qualities coming out. Was she determined? Talented? Optimistic? Eager? Resilient? Brave? Or just confident that whatever happened, it would be all right and she would still have her happiness and her friends and family? My guess is she had to be all of these things to take that opportunity at that age. She said it was “certainly a great experience”. After that, whenever her Aunt was unable to play, she called on Doreen and Doreen said she loved “playing dreamy music for the love scenes and mad, thumping music for the wild cowboy fights.”

She went on to be the organist at her local church and filled that role for the next fifteen years. She also played in a dance band and played at all the local balls and big social events. Occasionally, she got frustrated about being stuck up on stage and wanted to dance with her friends. I’m sure, though, that there was a part of her that loved being able to be a generous host, giving others music to dance to and a good time, and no doubt she didn’t mind the glamour of being at least to some degree the centre of attention. She had, she said, a great social life. And still, with no wireless, let alone a TV, the family entertainment was to play cards together or to get around the piano and sing. Doreen would play while everyone would crowd around her. Doreen’s Dad, James, was Irish, and therefore inevitably loved to get around the piano and sing; and Doreen remembered that her brother, also James, had a lovely baritone voice when he sang, both at home and in the choir at church.

When she starting working, it was as a dental nurse. When she wrote about this she made it sound as if she could have chosen any career in the world, but this was the one she wanted. She was lucky in that she did have options and was supported, but that sense of control over her choices (even when it wasn’t entirely the case) seems to me to have been an important part of her seeing herself as and therefore being such a strong, confident and independent woman.

(At times, it was also a little comical. When she made going into St Joseph’s Hostel sound like it was a decision she’d made on her own, positively and willingly, and that it was one of the best choices she ever made, it must have been, for Marie and Jenny in particular, a little like hearing a manager who you’ve been trying to convince of something for years suddenly turn to you and say, “I’ve got this great idea!”)

But she enjoyed being a dental nurse, and I’ve realised recently that perhaps we all owe her boss a debt of gratitude. The dentist she worked for was, she said, “a lovely fellow” and he told her that it was important for her to remember people’s names as it helped make them feel comfortable. She loved meeting people, “even people with toothaches,” (this probably set her up well for living in a nursing home!) but this must have been like a training ground for her, meeting new people every day and remembering something about every patient that was coming back for a second or third time. This started a life-long habit of remembering people, their names and what they were up to, and being concerned and attentive about how they were going. Marie and Jenny were talking just the other night about how Doreen would always remember who was doing what and follow up the conversations you’d had. If you were going out to something and you’d bought a dress, she would remember what colour it was and ask you what kind of shoes you were wearing or tell you she’d been thinking that a matching scarf or necklace would be just right for that outfit and that occasion. And Mum talked about how Granma would notice if it was a rainy day and whether or not it might be a bad drive home. She’d try to usher you out earlier if it meant the drive home would be easier or safer.

Doreen was generous, she was curious, she was open and she was a great host. A few years ago – remembering how much she had enjoyed the country life and how she enjoyed the fact that she’d moved around and had to join new clubs and societies, meet new people and make new friends – Doreen said: “I still like meeting people and just go up and talk to people straight away.” And I’m sure everyone here probably has at least a few stories of cups of tea and sponge cakes to tell. But I want to share just one of my own.

I was lucky enough to visit Doreen the day before she died. She was struggling, as you can imagine: she was literally on death’s doorstep. Her left arm was swollen and tender; her breathing wasn’t too bad, but she was exhausted. She was sitting in her chair, head to one side, sleeping. Mum came in with me and my partner, Lily. Mum leant in close to Granma’s good ear and said gently, “Mum, Tim’s here.” No response. A little louder. “Mum. It’s Tim. Tim’s here to see you.” Nothing much: maybe just a hint of a lift of one eyebrow, as if she was trying to open her eyes but couldn’t manage it. I went over, leaned in and said hello, that it was me, that I just wanted to stop by and see her and tell her I loved her. I think there was a small smile as I kissed her on the head, maybe a mumble, but then she was asleep again. The doctor, Barbara, came in and we had a chat. Then the nurse came in and, with the lovely care they have obviously shown her for a long time, tried to rouse her to give her some medication. “Dor! Come on Dor! Are you with me? I need to give you some meds.” After a few efforts, without success, the nurse decided that if she wasn’t going to rouse there was no point pushing her right now.

Mum said she’d give me some time with Granma, and left.

I knelt down next to her and said a few things, then told her that when I saw her a week before I’d promised to bring Lily down, so she had a guest, Lily was here. Bing! The eyes opened wide and that old smile of welcoming lit up her face. “Oh Lily! Hello dear!” she said, struggling to make the words. “It’s nice to see you!”

Even at death’s door, she did everything she could to make her guest feel welcome and that she was excited to see her.

And this old Doreen was the continuation and culmination of the young Doreen, and as I guess is always the case with someone who has lived for almost a century – or at least is certainly the case here – there seems to be so much more to remember, to try to understand, and to celebrate.

There was a Sunday in 1936 – I don’t know which one, unfortunately – but on this particular Sunday, Doreen had come back to Mildura from working in Melbourne, and went to church. There, as usual, she caught up with a group of her friends. Among them was a young man she hadn’t met before. He was handsome. He was fit, being a very good cricketer. He’d just moved to Mildura and was working in the railway office. People called him Clark, and Doreen worked out that this was because his smile was crooked, but attractive in a quiet, understated, manly way, like Clark Gable’s.

If I picture this moment, I imagine Doreen – the cinema pianist, member of a dance band, tennis player, happy socialite – walking up to this handsome stranger, fearlessly taking the initiative and introducing herself.

But however that first conversation went, she found out his name was Laurie, that he was a keen cricketer, that he was from Bendigo, and that he was single. Doreen and her brothers were always very keen tennis players, and sport was something Doreen was in general very interested in. Much later, she told me that one of the secrets to good health and happiness is: “Never stop playing sport!” She said that she’d never stopped and it had been one of the things that had kept her out of what she called “the armchair of decay.” However, until that Sunday in 1936, she’d “never been much interested in cricket, but all of a sudden I got very interested in it!” They started going to dances and balls together, playing tennis and, two years later, Doreen was an expert on cricket, on Bendigo and, on 19^th January, 1938, Laurence Edward and Doreen Mary were married.

Picking the hottest day of the hottest summer in the hottest part of Victoria for your wedding day may not be the greatest choice. Doreen remembers it being the hottest day on record, and (both having an eye for that kind of detail and being a gardener, from a family of orchardists) she remembered the posies wilting in the heat, and scrambling through her mother’s rose garden for replacements, and finding Madonna lilies for the bridesmaids and a bit of fern for herself. And that it was so hot that by four o’clock the replacement flowers had all wilted as well. But she and Grandad looked stunning. And they and the 150 guests at the reception may all have been sweltering, but they were all also very happy.

Doreen and Laurie went on their honeymoon – two weeks in Sydney and two weeks in Victor Harbour – then settled down to married life.

Kevin and Marie were born in Bendigo; Bob and Jenny were born in Mildura. With Laurie working for railways, the family moved around as the kids grew up: Bendigo, Ararat, Cressy, Korumburra, and into Melbourne… Each time they moved, Doreen made new friends, joined different clubs, like the Altar Society or Country Women’s Association. She also spread her arms to welcome others into her house and, while she was incredibly proud of her “four beautiful children”, she was also a stickler for impeccable manners.

I remember, as a little kid, hearing the phrase: “A-Ah! Granma smack!” as a very clear reminder of exactly where the line was. I can clearly remember her left hand raised, her giving me a serious look, and it’s from this more than anything else that I remember that she was left-handed, at least in some things. Until recently, I thought that this “Granma-smack” thing had developed in response to the birth of us unruly, modern, ratbag grandchildren. But now I know that when her own kids were children, they – Kevin, Marie, Bob and Jenny – would all sit around the dinner table, with Laurie and Doreen at each end. In the middle of the table there’d be a cob of bread resting on a wooden chopping board. Lying next to it would be the long bread knife. The kids were too far away for her to reach, but whenever one of them would do something impolite, like be too greedy or not wait for others to be ready, Doreen’s left hand would scoot out, grab the knife and give them a quick wack on the back of the hand before they could get the offending slice of bread or piece of meat onto their plates. There was a right way and a wrong way to do things, and Doreen was a strong advocate of doing things the right way.

But wherever they lived, she was also a welcoming host, never fazed by the challenge of having to find an extra bed for someone to sleep in or more space at the dinner table. People down from the country, studying in Melbourne but without a place to stay; babies who needed to be looked after while others were tended (or given birth) to; people who were just better off there than anywhere else, people who needed just a night or stayed for months: Doreen had her arms open in this way for as long as she had a roof to offer. Jenny and Marie can’t really remember how it worked, having that many people in that small a house for that long, but it never seemed to be a problem. It just happened, and even in her eighties, Doreen shared her home with different grandchildren whenever they asked, and they stayed with her for weeks, and months, at a time.

By being social, gregarious, and always willing to join a club, play a sport, or host an afternoon tea, Doreen continued to be (for as long as possible) the optimistic, outgoing, connected and confidently (perhaps fearlessly) social woman she was as a 20 year old. When she was in her 70s and 80s, and by then she was living alone, it was always funny to think, in some shape or form: “Oh the poor lonely old thing; I’d better go and visit” and pick up the phone to call her to tell her you were going to come around, only to be told, “No. Today’s no good: I’ve got the girls coming over for bridge; tomorrow it’s Lady’s Day at the Bowling Club; you can come on Thursday morning, but you’ll have to help make sponges for the afternoon tea I’m hosting on Friday.” She was so positive and welcoming of people that she acted as if nothing was ever going to hurt her, which is the thing that turns out to be really remarkable.

On a hot Saturday in October of 1961, Kevin, who was 22 and Doreen and Laurie’s oldest child, played cricket. He and Marie were both studying for their Accountancy exams, but there was a barbecue on at Mt Martha. Marie and her partner, Ron, who went on to become my dad, decided they wouldn’t go, but Kevin decided he would make the effort and drive down.

At six the morning, a police officer knocked on the door. Somehow, without having even heard the news, just that knock on the door was terrible. The policeman delivered the horrible news that Kevin had been killed in a car crash. Grandad (Laurie) ran to the back of the house, looking, I suppose, for air. Doreen raced into the girls’ room and threw herself onto the bed, howling.

How do you come back from a loss of this magnitude? How did the charismatic and fearless Doreen get back to the surface? The truth is that it was very hard, for the whole family.

At the time, a nun told Doreen that “God weighs your cross very carefully and makes sure it’s not an ounce too heavy.” She didn’t tell me where it was from, but she shared that saying with me a few years ago, when she was in St Vincent’s hospital with a twisted bowel. She hadn’t been able to eat for 11 days, weighed just over 40 kilos and everyone, including her, thought that perhaps she wouldn’t make it. She repeated that sentence about the fact that “God weighs everyone’s cross very carefully and makes sure that it isn’t an ounce to heavy.” And I think her faith in her connection to God, and her trust in His confidence that she had the strength to survive tragedy, to keep going and still give to others – her belief that her cross had been specially weighted to suit her and bring out her best – was important. It was a source of resolve and energy, and it so deep and strong in her that she was able to make light of it.

“Of course,” she laughed, “He doesn’t make it any lighter than it needs to be, either!”

When she was in St Vincent’s, she would talk to God and ask him why he was making her suffer and stay on earth when she was ready to go. But then she would put the cup of hospital-grade tea down, turn to me with a smile and say, “I’m not going to die until I get at least one more decent cup of tea!”

Even with Kevin gone, and despite the temporary freeze that seemed to put on everything, things kept happening. Marie went overseas for a while, Bob and Jenny finished school and Bob started at RMIT, studying science. In Bob’s lab group were two boys – young men – who had come down from “the bush” to study. They needed somewhere to stay? Of course. With that decision to do what had always been natural to her – to be a generous and welcoming host – Doreen started coming up out of her melancholy and finding that gregarious, joyful side of herself again.

Marie, Bob and Jenny grew up, got jobs, found partners and got married. Doreen was intensely proud of them and seeing them settled and successful was a huge part of her life. She grieved the people she had lost – her mother and father and eventually all her own family – but she was also excited about and celebrated every addition to her life: the partners of her children, her nieces and nephews and their partners, and then her children’s children. When the next generation came, she was excited to be a grandmother, and as they grew up, she was excited about their partners and developing lives. When her grandchildren started getting married, she called becoming a great-grandmother her “next goalpost.” And as she predicted, she has greeted the birth of every one of her great-grandchildren “with great joy and excitement.” At last count there are 21 great-grandchildren, some of them old enough to go on overseas trips or sing at the Opera House, a couple not walking or talking yet. At any moment, she would have been able to tell you exactly who was who and how they were doing, and if she didn’t know, and you visited her, she would be sure to ask something like: How’s Greg…? Or Robin? Or Matthew? Or George? Or Have you heard from Monica? She’d be very busy with a two year old. When’s she moving back from Africa? It must be terribly difficult for her over there. And if you didn’t know the answer, she’d probably find out before you did because someone else would visit and she would be sure to ask them if they’d heard anything…

Eventually, she lost Laurie after 45 years together. Ron passed away, and then, later, Bob died. More huge losses added to her carefully weighted, but at times very heavy, cross. She stayed with the bowling club as long as she could. She kept active in the garden for as long as she could. I doubt there have been many other eighty year olds who have ended up in hospital after injuring themselves while weeding her garden, with a tomahawk! She kept walking as long as she could, and was always proud of her stately posture and elegant ankles. And she kept being interested, optimistic, polite, warm and welcoming, all for as long as she could.

So what are we left with? There’s one more story which I think tells us something about Doreen, but also something about how to grieve for her and with each other, which is handy, since she’s left us with those jobs to do now.

Before Kevin died, he was trying to teach himself the piano. Well, he wanted to. He managed to teach himself just one song, but would pull out his entire repertoire whenever the opportunity arose, over and over, encore after encore.

The song was You Are My Sunshine.

After he died, Granma used to play it a lot. They would all hear it and soon everyone would be crying, trying to sing and being a bit snotty and sounding terrible and then just crying. It was their grieving song.

At Christmas that year (three months after Kevin’s death) the family went up to Uncle Tom’s place in Ringwood. The family tradition of gathering around the piano, with Doreen playing and everyone else singing, was still very much alive. Bob, in particular, had a good voice and Uncle Tom, who was also a pianist, stood next to Doreen so he could turn the pages of the sheet music for her. They sang all sorts of songs, Christmas carols and hymns and jigs, and eventually, right at the end, Doreen played You Are My Sunshine. Almost instantly, Marie and Bob and Jenny are all out on the back veranda crying away, while Doreen finishes the song.

Soon Uncle Tom came out onto the veranda to be with the kids. He said that he’d been watching their mother’s hands all night, and at the end of every song he could see her make the shape, with her hands, of the opening notes of You Are My Sunshine. But then she would decided: no, not yet. And move onto another song. So all night he’d been waiting for her to find the right time, to decide that she was ready and we were ready. He’d been waiting for this moment, he said, (when the song was played and everybody cried and the grief was let out and shared) all night.

I think there’s something in there about picking the moment, picking the song, and sharing your grief, but also something about celebrating how great it was to have shared so much time with a fantastic woman.

To paraphrase Robert Louis Stevensen, who wrote something about what constitutes a successful life:

“Doreen is a success. She lived well, laughed often, and loved much; she gained the respect of intelligent people and the love of children; she filled her niche and accomplished her task; she leaves the world better than she found it, whether by an improved poppy, a perfect poem, or a rescued soul; she never lacked appreciation of earth's beauty or failed to express it; she looked for the best in others and gave the best she had.”