Mum
Lilian Ann Holmes Funeral Service
Monday, 7th June 2004, 10am
Lakeview Chapel
Albany Creek Crematorium
A memorial card was handed out to mourners as they entered the chapel.
The coffin was simple and elegant unburnished brown pine, with gold furnishings.
On top rested a large spray of roses – Mum’s favourite flower – in the colours of red, yellow, orange, and pink.
This song was played as the service begun:
Ohhhh, oh, oh, oh, ohhh.
It must have been cold there in my shadow,
to never have sunlight on your face.
You were content to let me shine, that's your way.
You always walked a step behind.
So I was the one with all the glory,
while you were the one with all the strain.
A beautiful face without a name…for so long.
A beautiful smile to hide the pain.
Did you ever know that you're my hero,
and everything I would like to be?
I can fly higher than an eagle,
for you are the wind beneath my wings.
It might have appeared to go unnoticed,
but I've got it all here in my heart.
I want you to know I know the truth, of course I know it.
I would be nothing without you.
Did you ever know that you're my hero?
You're everything I wish I could be.
I could fly higher than an eagle,
for you are the wind beneath my wings.
Did I ever tell you you're my hero?
You're everything, everything I wish I could be.
Oh, and I, I could fly higher than an eagle,
for you are the wind beneath my wings,
'cause you are the wind beneath my wings.
Oh, the wind beneath my wings.
You, you, you, you are the wind beneath my wings.
Fly, fly, fly away. You let me fly so high.
Oh, you, you, you, the wind beneath my wings.
Oh, you, you, you, the wind beneath my wings.
Fly, fly, fly high against the sky,
so high I almost touch the sky.
Thank you, thank you,
thank God for you, the wind beneath my wings.
After welcoming the congregation and leading them in a brief prayer, Minister Andrew Otte delivered the following eulogy, which had been written by David, based on remembrances by all three of Ann’s children.
Ann Holmes Eulogy
We are here to pay our respects to the memory of Lilian Ann Holmes.
This is a very sad occasion obviously, and it is very tough to say goodbye to Ann. But as well as a sad goodbye, we would also like this occasion to be a celebration of her life, and all the joy she brought into the world. We would like this to be a bonding experience for all of you, all of you who knew her and loved her so much. You all, I am sure, have your own wonderful memories of Ann, and I hope that you share some of them with each other before the day is out.
Ann’s three children – Kathryn, David and Alan – have asked me to invite all of you, if you can make it, to a morning tea at Kathryn’s in-laws place, just down the road here at Carseldine. The address will be handed out after the service.
Now.
Many of you know Ann as a friend. Many of you know her as a relative, a sister, an auntie, a cousin. A few of you know her as a Mum. And one of you knows her as just plain “gramma”.
Ann Holmes was many different things to many different people.
It is impossible to define a person’s life in a few words, but if I may, I would like to share a bit of her history with you all.
Ann was born in 1936 - the middle child of David and Maisie Goodall. They lived in a district near Sarina outside of Mackay, a district that went by the exotic and exciting name of Alligator Creek.
Even though much later, she moved to the big city of Brisbane – and mostly lived in cities the rest of her life, Ann was always – in her heart – a humble farm girl. And this was because her upbringing on the family sugarcane farm was such a happy childhood. The family – including Ann’s older brother Ian and younger sister Judith - lived with might seem just the bare necessities in this day and age – without dozens of comforts which we now take for granted. Ann’s parents had a tough, hard life back then, but they always made sure the kids had food in their bellies, warm, clean clothes, and a proper schooling.
Ann always recalled her father – known as “Granfie” to his grandkids later - with much fondness, as a kind, gentle soul. She always wished her own kids had gotten to know him even a little bit as well as she. Granfie had led a turbulent, yet seemingly blessed life – or perhaps “nine lives” would be more accurate”. As a child, he had been protected by family friends during the occupation of Germany in World War One. As a young man, he had come out to Australia to seek his father, only to discover that he had committed suicide. Later, while his young daughter Ann rushed to get the shotgun, he had stared down a deadly taipan snake before shooting it. He once had the misfortune to fall down a well, and had his arm savagely disabled after being caught in a cotton-milling machine. Yet despite all these adversities, he never lost his kind nature or gentle good humour – something he would always share with his loving daughter Ann.
Ann always recalled with fondness those days of Granfie’s kindness, those days of early childhood on the farm. Memories like the family going into town once a month for supplies. Or of her mother Maisie cooking dinner for the local Kanaka work gang who toiled on the farm. Or of riding on horseback with her elder brother to and from a one-teacher country school, for miles each way, crossing flooded creeks and dodging snakes on the way.
Snakes were apparently a large part of country life in Queensland back then – one morning a snake was found alongside one of the Goodall babies in its crib!!! On another day Ann remembered her Mum shooting a rifle at a large snake that had crawled into the water tank and blasting a hole straight in side of the corrugated iron tank!
Perhaps it was to escape the snakes, but eventually Ann’s parents left Alligator Creek and moved to a pineapple farm on the side of Mount Nathan in the Gold Coast Hinterland – alongside hills so steep that Ann often wondered after they had taken the produce to market whether the old Ute would make it up the “goat track”-like road again!!
At this time, Ann was undergoing her schooling at Brisbane Girls Grammar – as a boarder. She often spoke of the strictness inherent in the boarding school system – but also of the great camaraderie she found in living so closely with her school friends. In this way, she shared something with Harry Potter, and indeed, when watching those films recently, she often felt nostalgia for those halcyon days of uniforms and dormitories and rules. On holiday with some school friends at the family farm, she marvelled at the extravagence of one of the girls’ tri-colour toothpaste. Tri-colour toothpaste was an opulent luxury she was unused to!!!
On the completion of her studies, Ann remained in Brisbane and began her professional working life - at the Bank of New South Wales on Queen Street. She loved the town in those days, the hustle and the bustle, the travelling to work on trams. Not to mention – with the benefits of a paycheck – the shopping! Ann loved fashion, and always, through her life, looked her best. Simple and conservative. Yet stylish and elegant.
In her twenties, Ann’s fascination with travel began. While an overseas pilgrimage is a standard youth ritual these days, back in the sixties it was quite a rare thing to even consider. Yet with her quiet, determined bravery, she took off to live and work overseas – not just once, but twice!
She spent approximately two years in New Zealand, getting a transfer with the bank, and living in Auckland and Wellington, and forged a very strong friendship with Cynthia Blennerhasset – both Ann and Cynthia’s parents had a strong bond. Cynthia remembered going on the town hell-raising with Ann and friends a few times in New Zealand, and later in life, Cynthia raised some hell of her own a few times – with gloating, TransTasman phone calls whenever the All Blacks had pulled of one of their rare wins against the Aussies. But their friendship was built on a lot more than teasing, and Ann and Cynthia – despite the distance between them – often relied on each other by sharing their most privates thoughts and fears. Ann – always known as the most discrete, least gossipy person around - was grateful for a close confidante out of her regular circle.
Ann’s second trip overseas was a lot further, and a lot braver. These days it seems that every second Aussie youth in their twenties grabs an UK working visa and jumps a flight over to England, yet, back in the sixties, it wasn’t quite so easy. The trail may be well trodden these days, yet Ann was one of the first to blaze that trial. She wanted to challenge herself, see the world, experience life, change, and diversity.
Times back then were different though. Global air flights were uncommon – and too expensive! – for regular people. So Ann took a steamboat to Europe – loving the open sea and the excitement of passing through exotic ports like Singapore, Bombay, the Suez Canal, and Cairo. In her leather bound travel journals she exhibited a fascination for the infinite diversity of the world, listing the sights, sounds, foods, colours, and crazy characters of her destinations.
Finally settling in London, she quickly found work in a Bank and just as quickly found many lifelong friends. She thrilled to the swinging-sixties vibe of the city, and in the evenings was seldom to be found at home in her tiny Chelsea bedsit.
She fondly remembered walking home one Christmas eve, as snow fell from the sky and blanketed the streets and cars, and Christmas carollers sung melodically in the background. She loved the history and tradition and culture – not just of London - but of all of Europe, and she travelled extensively throughout the British Isles and the Continent, both with friends, and – very rarely (and bravely) for a woman in those days – alone. She visited much of Spain, France, Italy, Austria, Switzerland, Germany and Holland. Many years later - after her son David’s record-breaking trip around Australia in a tiny Fiat Bambino - she recollected with bemusement the experience of purchasing the car that would take her and her cousin Jean around Europe – a similarly small Mini. After initially picking the car up, Jean refused to drive at all, and Ann found herself behind the wheel of the tiny Mini, jostling for position on the narrow London roads, trying not to be run over by a double-decker bus bearing down on them from behind.
In Scotland she remembered struggling through feet-deep drifts of snowfall on the road, and in the same country she visited the same humble home where her grandfather had been born and raised. In Germany she visited the dwelling where her father and his sisters had been held as hostages when World War One broke out – these children were later exchanged for German children held hostage in Britain.
After her European adventure, Ann returned on steamboat to Australia via the Panama Canal separating the Americas. Once back home, there was nothing separating her from her future husband. The wisest man in the world had kept his word and waited for her. He was waiting for her boat as it docked.
Ann had met Raymond Holmes several years before – before even she left for New Zealand. Before her travels, her Mum and Dad had moved due to ill health from their hinterland home to Allen Street, in Hamilton in Brisbane, and Ann made many friends in the neighbourhood her own age. She met Ray at a table tennis game organised through the church, and after a tentative courtship…well, he knew a good thing when he saw it. He chased her for four years, and of course he waited for her until her return from overseas, and they were married in September of 1964.
They moved into what she would thereafter and always think of as “home”. Located in Coolah Street, Aspley – initially it was, “out in the sticks” - surrounded by bushland, and initially, when they moved in, the home was mere brickwork, having no steps, no windows, no veranda, no curtains or cupboard doors…until Ann and Ray finished building it themselves, one bit at a time.
Three little – but very important bits – were added to the home over the next few years – Kathryn in 1966, David in 1968, and Alan in 1969.
Because – while Ann had lived a great 30 years up until this point – nothing would ever be the same for her again. She might have excelled as a daughter, scholar, worker, traveller, friend, and even wife – but all these things paled in comparison against the thing which really brought out her best.
Being a Mum.
And Ann was an exceptional Mum. The best. One quietly determined to give her kids absolutely everything she possibly could. Not giving of “stuff”. But giving of herself. Her time. Her devotion. Her love. And give she did.
She was almost lost when giving the ultimate gift of all – birth. Alan was born three months premature, his head as tiny as an apple, his chances of a normal life heralded by doctors as less than 3%. Both Ann and Alan were critically sick in those early months of Alan’s life – but when Ann was needed was when Ann was at her best. Her fighting spirit never flagged, and she rallied her own strength until her health improved and she could nurse Alan back to health, and eventually - into the strapping 6 foot 2 lad that she was to become so proud of.
Each of Ann’s kids was so extremely fortunate to have her. Kathryn, David and Alan grew up in a very close family environment, surrounded by lots of friends, relatives, aunties, uncles, and cousins. They had an especially close relationship with their Grandma – Ann’s Mum – who visited often by walking across Marchant Park to help Ann with the ironing and present the kids with treats like vegemite rusks and cream puffs.
The children were also fortunate enough to spend many of their school holidays away from home with short trips down the Gold Coast and longer road trips to visit relatives in exotic places like Canberra or a sugarcane farm near Bundaberg. However, the overwhelming majority of weekends and holidays which the Holmes family spent together, were spent at one of the first houses built in Kawana Waters on the Sunshine Coast, a holiday home Ann and Ray had built, ANOTHER home they had sweated and toiled over to give the kids an upbringing filled with joy and abandon.
Many, many weekends, the family, ever increasing in size (especially the boys!) would pile into the little orange Corolla - “PUJ” - with budgerigar cages and their beloved pet corgi Scamp on their laps.
Up at the beach house, the kids would tuck into the treat of “fish and chips” for Friday dinner, before enjoying two swims a day at their favourite beach Mooloolaba, with fresh hot bread and a snooze in between. Many good times were had by the whole family, for many years, as Ann good-naturedly sheparded the explorers up and down the coast from Caloundra to Coolum.
Alan remembers looking out the back window of the holiday home to see the approaching lights of the Greyhound bus on the Bruce Highway as it headed up from Brisbane, containing Grandma. Back then, traffic was so rare the bus could easily stand out, and would stop anywhere Grandma asked it to.
David remembers the cyclone aftermath which left sea foam so high and so thick that it washed up over the beach and over the road, covering the car and the gallivanting kids so thoroughly that Ann thought she’d lost them for awhile.
Another day when Ann thought she might lose the kids – forever! - was on a trip to Bullen’s African Lion Safari, at Beenleigh. The family car – “PUJ” - entered the free-range Lion enclosure with all the other family vehicles. Unfortunately, PUJ’s colour – a distinctive orange – was unlike any other family vehicle. It WAS like – exactly like - the colour of the safari truck that used to feed the lions huge slabs of meat at lunchtime. Needless to say, the lions became confused, and jumped all over the car, resting on the roof and on the bonnet, staring inquisitively at the family inside and wondering when dinner was to be served. Mum and Grandma – in the front seats – remained calm, chanting “lock the doors, lock the doors” while in the back seat three kids went into hysterics – Alan in horror, and Kat and David in kind of a delusional, hilarious laughter.
There was lots of laughter around the Holmes family in those years. Lots of love. And lots of support too. Ann encouraged the kids with quiet but consistent motivation. “You can do anything you want to in life.” She encouraged them to dream and she encouraged them to work. She taught them to drive and taught them manners. (And hopefully SOME of those lessons have stuck).
Ann was a leader – known as “Akela” - in the Scout Group David and Alan attended, near where Kathryn attended Brownies and Guides. “Akela” - from “The Jungle Book” means “mother wolf”. And it is a perfect name for Ann. Strong and nurturing.
Her creativity as a scout leader knew no bounds, nor did her creativity as a seamstress – designing and making multiple costumes for the kids’ fancy dress parties, all individual, all unique, all special. She also showed great flair for kid’s parties, designing creatively themed cakes three times a year and inventing new clues for garden treasure hunts many times over.
Then there was school. In many ways, Ann went back to school herself – three times – when her kids attended. She helped all three of them with school homework when she must have been so tired. She proofread and corrected dozens of school projects, and later she typed or compiled dozens of University assignments. Kathryn, Alan and David truly believe that they owe a large part of their High School Certificates and university degrees to Ann. As much as them themselves, she got them through, with her quiet, constant, unwavering support.
For Kathryn, Ann’s support took the form of that uniquely female mother/daughter bond. Ann taught Kathryn to sew, to cook, and many, many handicrafts, like embroidery. She was STILL teaching Kathryn some tricks of the trade this year, always full of helpful, gentle advice. Back in 1991, Ann aided Kathryn with the making of her wedding dress, and provided limitless practical and emotional support, on that very special day for both mother and daughter.
And in 1998, even though her health was failing, Ann joined Kathryn and her husband Brad on a trip around England, and was STILL adding something special – reliving old memories, sharing her love of the culture and her extensive knowledge of British History with Kat and Brad. Not to mention being a great back-seat driver!
As for David’s memories, he will never forget the support his Mum showed him as he abandoned her on not one, not two, but THREE long adventures away from home. On his move to Sydney as an accountant in 1990, Ann felt strongly the mother’s pain of separation, yet she packed extras of EVERYTHING he might need, just in case. On his Bambino Odyssey around Australia in 1991, she was the only one with the faith that the car and the boys would make it further than the edge of the suburb before breaking down. And on the longest, hardest break of all from home – when David left in 1998 for four years to explore the world - all his Mum did was give him was limitless encouragement, a pre-paid phonecard and her tips for the best places to see and stay.
She never stood in their way of anything. She watched them make mistakes, and helped them up again. Always there. Always.
The 1990’s weren’t all smooth sailing for Ann and her loved ones. In 1991 she lost her beloved Mum, this kid’s beloved Grandma, and Ann nursed her till the end. In 1993, she lost her beloved husband, her constant companion for the past 30 years, Ray, and - once again - Ann nursed him at home till the end, giving up work to do so. After he was gone, Ann missed him dearly. Everything took its toll, but Ann never faltered, never took a misstep, never let anyone down. And then, at the end of the century, after much cajoling from her children, she finally made a tough and traumatic decision and sold and left the family home in Aspley. Her home hadn’t seemed the same since her brood had left the nest. Nor since it was broken into one night when she was home. Ann – typically – without thought for herself – defended her home against the burglar by bravely chasing him through the house and out the window!!!
Eventually, after the sale of Coolah Street, she moved to Bonney Avenue, Clayfield, where she found a cosy and secure home once again.
As the kids had slowly but surely left the nest in the previous decade, Ann found herself with more time again to develop friendships, which she surely did. Her work at the University of Queensland had not only bought her a variety of challenging work positions, but - much more importantly - a plethora of deep and lasting friendships, which continued after her retirement two years ago. Ann eagerly received visits from friends, family and neighbours in Clayfield, the most often and valued of which surely came from her dear son Alan, who never tired of joining his Mum on the unit’s balcony or in the lounge, sharing a Friday evening drink and chatting about everything – from Mum’s past family history to Alan’s future dreams – just everything - chatting as comfortably as the best friends that they truly were. Alan and Ann shared an unbreakable bond – and shared many of the same beliefs, opinions, and philosophies on life. There were never two closer confidantes, sharing their joys and their fears and their worries and their thoughts with each other.
When on her own at home, Ann kept busy with her crafts and painting, her beloved books, and of course with staying in touch with her many friends all around the world. She did this by phone and letter until recently, when she discovered the joys of e-mail through her kids, and eagerly embraced them. Yet she never lost the personal touch, never forgot a birthday card, and was always asking for little envelopes to be posted. She loved to let her friends and family know she was thinking of them.
Her giving spirit never gave out.
And her giving spirit reached a peak again in September 2001, when her beloved granddaughter Sarah was born. Ann had wished for a grandchild for so long, for herself yes, but especially because her daughter Kat so desperately wanted a child. When the miracle of baby Sarah came into the world, she instantly became a completely doting grandmother, loving her grandchild with all her heart from the instant she was born. Kathryn has never forgotten – and always deeply appreciated – the invaluable support she got from her own mother as she raised Sarah – especially during those early weeks when Ann moved in to help Kathryn - help with feeding, dressing, and putting Sarah to sleep.
Kathryn has always known that Ann has always loved her without limit, but has only recently, since becoming a mum herself, understood completely the unconditional, fathomless love that a mother has for her child. So, since becoming a Mum herself, Kathryn has appreciated her Mum that much more.
As each of her children have. As they have become adults themselves, they have all appreciated the complete sacrifices that Ann has made for them every day of her life. They have understood more and more the complete devotion she has always shown them.
And for this they will always be grateful.
Ann had struggled with her health for half of her life. Her condition worsened so much in recent years that she was hospitalised several times for critical care. At about this same time of year in the past two years, we almost lost Ann due to similar infections to the one which claimed her last week. She lived through those times and has enjoyed some laughs, enjoyed some smiles, and enjoyed much love, in the past two years. But she has also suffered. Horribly.
But, to hear her talk about it, you never would have known it.
Ann never complained. She was happiest when she was giving, not taking. She never asked for anything. She was a quiet person in a group, not a drama-queen, not an attention-seeker, but when she spoke, you always knew that she wasn’t going to waste her words. You always knew that she was going to say something worth listening to. She had a cheeky, often dry, sense of humour, which she always used without offence. She found amusement in the simplest things, often at a slapstick occurrence when self-importance was deflated. She found joy and pride in all her children and grandchild, always.
She never stopped loving, never stopped giving. She was never bitter about the horrible nature of her illness, never a victim, never a martyr. She coped the best she could. In her last two years, since retirement, she filled her life with distractions, with occupations, with “giving”. Unable to get to the shops, she stayed at home and crafted personal little keepsake gifts for her friends. She kept making bright animal-pattern shorts for David. She regularly helped Alan with job applications and life advice. She worked with Kathryn to compile detailed, family history scrapbook albums. Albums for – who else? Her children. Her grandchild.
One place which Ann shared the joys of giving to her family over the last few years was the beachhouse at Kawana. This lovely retreat – the second holiday home built by Ann and Ray – is a lovely place on the Mooloolah river where Ann loved to relax in the front room, enjoying the sea breeze, watching the sailboats pass gently by. Reading. Watching Sarah play. Enjoying her special, unique bond with Sarah. Enjoying her special, unique bond with each of her kids. Joining them all for walks along the riverfront to Sarah’s playgrounds, or to the mouth of the river, or up to Point Cartwright overlooking the expanse of the coast. Of the wide, vast ocean.
More recently, those walks became wheelchair rides.
But she still loved them.
Why? Because she was with her family. Her children. Her grandchild.
Because she loved them with all of her heart. Such a huge, huge heart. Filled with love.
A heart which may have stopped beating last Wednesday morning. But a love which will live on forever…
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The minister now introduced the following speech of more personal thoughts and relinquished the pulpit:
Memories, Thank You & Goodbye
by David Holmes
Hello Everyone.
Many of you know me, but for those that don’t, my name is David Holmes. I am Ann’s middle child. I would just like to speak to you briefly today about my Mum on behalf of my sister Kathryn, my brother Alan, and myself.
Firstly, I would like to thank you all for coming. I don’t think Mum would have expected this turnout, because my Mum was a very humble person, a very modest person. My Mum didn’t want a big fuss made for her funeral. She didn’t want people going out of their way for her. Which is ironic, because she always made the effort to go out of her way for a lot of people. I’m talking about everyday life of course, but even talking specifically about funeral’s, Mum always thought it was very important to show respect for her family or friends that had passed on.
About 15 years ago she was too sick to attend the funeral of her friend’s mother and she asked me to attend on the family’s behalf for her. And a few years ago, when I was overseas, and a dear friend of mine’s father passed away, she was determined to attend the service on my behalf.
She very much understood the important of occasions like this to say goodbye to a friend, to pay respects to their family, and to acknowledge the life they had lived.
And yet, Mum being Mum, she didn’t want a “fuss” made over herself when the time came. She rarely acknowledged how her quiet, generous nature had won her dozens of friends all her life. Looking through her little book of telephone numbers a year or so ago, my brother and sister and I realised there was no WAY that a fuss COULDN’T be made over her. She had so many friends. So many close relatives. So we convinced her, recently, that it would be nice to let all of those people say goodbye properly.
But, modest as ever, she still wasn’t convinced anyone would turn up.
How wrong she was.
Because she DID touch so many people’s lives in her short time on Earth.
MANY.
So, thank you everyone for coming.
Mum was many things to many people.
I am sure almost all of you have special, valued memories of Mum.
But I just want to share a few of mine with you. And I know you’ll forgive me if I falter or struggle a little with that.
You know, you are a pretty lucky person if your path through life crosses even just once or twice that of the kindest, most loving, most giving, most generous person in the world. So when that kind, loving, giving, generous person is your own Mum…well, you are beyond lucky. You are blessed.
So – you might think that my brother, my sister and I are feeling a little cheated, a little bitter, and a little unlucky to have lost our Mum. But no…we are not. We feel extremely fortunate to have had the time with her that we did. We feel blessed.
We were the luckiest kids in the world. And we still are.
Because Mum was a great Mum.
She was the best.
Mum showed phenomenal support to us kids. She would always back us in whatever we chose to do until the very end – even if she thought our plans were crazy. She must have known that things might fall apart sometimes, but she never ceased to help us get back up again when they did. She supported me in my crazy travel dreams when there was rampant cynicism from everyone else. And she always welcomed ANY of our friends into her house – no matter how different those friends were from what she was used to. Very gracious.
She was also very quick to laugh.
I remember this past Christmas, only a few months ago, when the whole family was holidaying together at the house up the coast. We played a game of Pictionary. Mum was partnered with my sister Kat. They laughed uncontrollably with each other through the entire game. Laughing at their truly incompetent drawings and hopeless guesses. Mum was the first person in the room to laugh at herself. And she laughed often. She had a great sense of humour. She loved comedies on TV, and after I converted her to watching “MASH” she never missed it. She even loved the last series of “Big Brother” believe it or not. If “Big Brother” has done one good thing in the world it was providing Mum with a distraction from her illness. She loved the winner last year too – because I think she saw a lot of herself in Reggie – humble, modest, open to the world, willing to laugh at herself. What you saw my what you got. No pretence. That was Mum.
One thing I used to do a lot recently when Mum was sick was slowly stroke my hand across the hair on her forehead. She loved it, it seemed to relax her and take away some of the pain. Often she would say, “Oh, that’s so gentle.” Which I found truly ironic, because as I am sure that most of you would agree, one of the things that Mum was the most, was gentle. She was so calm, so placid, so tender. Always giving with utmost care and minimal fanfare. Never to call attention to herself. Just to give. Just so gentle.
It may seem strange, yet one of the things that Mum was, that went hand in hand with her gentleness, was her strength.
All through her life, my Mum showed tough, determined, yet gracious and quiet strength. She may have been a figure of frailty, but she had a spirit of steel. So strong. She raised a family in sometimes difficult circumstances, and she never faltered, never weakened. Her capacity to give – to share her strength - was inexhaustible. Her backbone and her pride were unbreakable.
In the last years of her working life, when her physical strength was fading, Mum showed an incredible inner spirit. Mum used to park her car at what would normally be a five minute walk – for you or I – from her office. Not long before she retired, she would leave for work extra early, because that walk took her twenty minutes. Often it would TAKE twenty minutes after she reached her desk before she could speak, it took that long to regain her breath. Now THAT’s strength. THAT’S courage.
More recently, when I returned from overseas two years ago, I saw that determination to not be a victim come to the fore again. My brother greeted me alone at the airport terminal, and told me that Mum had insisted on coming along. But she hadn’t made it to my arrivals gate. Her spirit had driven her poor body as far as it could through the terminal, until her body had refused to cooperate. I greeted Mum were she was sitting, gasping, halfway through the terminal. She could barely walk. Yet her phenomenal inner strength had gotten her that far. And she didn’t go that far for herself. She went that far for me.
Her strength personified itself recently whenever visitors came to see her in our flat in Clayfield. Often too weak to really stand, often too weak to really talk, Mum would muster all of her strength for the day into those short visit times and give it her all graciously – the hostess with the mostess. Often her visitors would have no idea how sick Mum really was – because she didn’t want them to feel uncomfortable. After they left, Mum would collapse in exhaustion for hours. That’s strength. She was so strong, so brave, so dignified. Especially in the last days of her life.
Mum’s strength never ceased to amaze me. Often when her granddaughter came to visit, Mum would entertain her with one of Sarah’s favourite games – blowing bubbles. Mum would muster all her strength and would blow these bubbles for Sarah to chase…with breaths that she sorely needed for herself.
Strength. In her last years and months, as Mum’s health declined rapidly - to hold Mum’s hand – as I did often – you never would have guessed unless you’d known that she was physically very weak. Because she had a strong, firm grip of steel. I would hold hands with Mum whenever I greeted her or farewelled her each day. And often when she needed comfort, because she just loved that personal touch, towards the end. Her grip never got weaker. She always grabbed you like she never wanted to let go.
And I don’t think she ever did.
Mum’s special, beautiful hands – and that grip – are one of those things I will miss the most about her. No matter how thin they became, they always seemed to fit with mine perfectly.
Back when I was a teenager, and in my early twenties, I would often hold Mum’s hand in mine in the middle of the night. Because back then, I was out on the town till all hours four nights a week, Mum used to insist that I wake her when I got home. And whenever I woke her with a soft, whispered, “Mum, I’m home”, she would reach out to me and grab my hand – I think to make sure that she wasn’t dreaming, that I was real. Then she would say, “OK darling”, and drift back to sleep. I don’t think she ever slept soundly before that. Because…Mum was a worrier. I am sure my brother and sister will agree with me, because, yeah, Mum’s favourite leisure activity was worrying about us kids. I guess that went hand in hand with caring – worrying. But it was pretty hard to take at times.
Even after I returned from overseas to live with Mum, she STILL worried. For a while initially, before she needed constant care, if I was out for the night and came home later than she expected, I would find her waiting up for me, worrying. I was like, “Mum! I’m 30-something years old. I’ve lived out of home for ten years! I’ve been out late in dozens of cities around the world. And you didn’t need to wait up for me then!” And Mum was like, “Yes David, but I didn’t KNOW you were out those nights around the world. It’s different here. I KNOW you are out.”
Yeah, once a Mum, always a Mum. Mum worried about everything. Sometimes I think she got the worrying gene that I should have gotten. She got extra, and I got none.
Sometimes it was frustrating. Mum would worry about things that were out of her control. She would waste energy and hours. She knew it, but she couldn’t help it. It was innate. Built into her.
Because here’s the thing. She would never worry about herself, her own situation. She ALWAYS worried about other people. Especially us kids. As sick as she got, she never worried about where her health was heading, what was to become of her. She only worried about us – about the effect it was having on us, on the disruptions to our lives, whether she was becoming a burden.
Because that was Mum. Completely unselfish. Completely caring. Completely giving.
When my brother and I were little, maybe four or five years old, I remember one night when Mum was tucking us into bed in our room. We were obviously JUST old enough to begin understanding the concept of death, and understand the possibility that Mum, herself, might one day die. And obviously, the thought terrified us. We sobbed and cried and told Mum that we didn’t want her to die. I remember the feeling well. The horrible thought of losing her. Of not having her there for us. We were very upset. She reassured us – as Mum’s do – and said to us, “Don’t worry my darlings. It’s all right. I’m not gonna die.”
I guess she didn’t keep her word.
But – I don’t begrudge her that, of course. Because that night Mum did what she needed to do. What she always did. She was a Mum. And she made us feel better.
Many, many years later, Mum was still making me feel better. Only maybe ten days ago was the last time Mum left the house. She left the home that she died in a few days later for a simple walk around the block with me. She was in the wheelchair, and I was on foot. She made the best of her time outside, noticing flowers, trees, homes, birds, dogs, children. Commenting on how beautiful things were. She managed a few smiles. And of course – she wasn’t thinking about herself. She was thinking about me. She must have been suffering quite a bit then, and eager to get back to the oxygen machine, but she kept telling me that I must have been tired from pushing her, and should take a rest. The definition of unselfish.
I think the last real sentence that Mum spoke to me - that wasn’t a simple response to me offering her food or medication or help with the loo - was one night after I made her comfortable on the couch with pillows and hot-water bottles and she murmured to me, “You’ve become a wonderful nurse.”
Which was again – most ironic - because Mum was the most nurturing person I’ve ever known. Kind, tender, gentle, caring, giving. Mum gave more to me in my lifetime than I could ever repay in a million. Mum would often thank me for looking after her in the final years of her life. But the truth IS, we looked after each other. She looked after me just as much as I looked after her, and I told her so, many times.
When she could barely manage it, she would wash the dishes that I had left, wash the laundry, water the houseplants, make me pair of shorts, tidy up the place. When she COULDN’T manage it any longer, she would remind ME to do that stuff. Looking after me, like I said.
But she also looked after me in much less tangible ways, ways in which she always had. She was just THERE. Always there. Always interested in my life, my day, myself. Always offering support and encouragement. Little stuff. Day-to-day. Each little thing nothing in itself, even trivial. But when combined together, they made up a life. A wonderful life. A beautiful person.
Mum was my rock.
Always there.
And I don’t know how I will manage without her.
But I will.
Because, in a way, she is STILL looking after me.
Mum sacrificed everything for her family, for her children. For us. For me. She gave and gave and gave and gave until she couldn’t give anymore. And then she gave more. In a way, she is STILL giving.
Because they best way to live forever, is to give of yourself, give without limit, like Mum did.
And Mum’s gone, yes, and we will miss her terribly.
But she’s not really gone. She lives on – partly – in all of us in this room.
She lives on – especially - in her children. And her grandchild.
Whenever I look at my sister, I see Mum’s limitless kindness and inner strength.
And I always will.
Whenever I look at my brother, I see Mum’s limitless generosity and gentleness.
And I always will.
And whenever I look at my niece, Mum’s granddaughter, I see Mum’s beautiful - oh so beautiful – blue eyes.
And I always will…
(Seeing that I was struggling to speak a little at this point of my speech, perhaps in danger of becoming overwhelmed with emotion, my brother and sister stood up and stood alongside me as I finished.)
My brother and sister have become the very best of Mum’s qualities, and they should be so proud of themselves. As Mum was so proud of them. As Alan and Kathryn have become adults they have become the very best of their mother. They have looked beyond themselves and given. And become the people Mum wanted them to be. Alan helped maintain Mum’s old family home after it became too much for her. And Alan and Kathryn helped her pack up her life and memories in the house when it was time to leave. Kathryn has become the perfect giving mother herself in the last few years, and she made Mum such a part of that experience. And Alan showed the strength to shoulder the privilege
of holding Mum’s hand – her beautiful hand – as she passed away last Wednesday morning.
Just like I had the honour of sharing a large part of Mum’s final years with her.
So as for me…what did I inherit from my Mum?
Well, itchy feet for one. An unquenchable desire to travel, to read, to open myself up, to experience this incredible world of ours. And I guess she also gave me my unfortunate addiction to Big Brother.
But more than these things, above all else, what Mum gave me…was love.
Mum gave me an inexhaustible supply of love, and with it an extraordinary ability to feel love, and to give love.
Mum poured so much love into me, all my life, that I constantly feel full to overflowing with it. An untappable reservoir of love.
I can feel the love that Mum gave to me, inside me, and pouring out of me, every day. And I am sure it will always be there. Because she gave me so much.
She gave my brother and sister and me life. But she gave us so much more than life.
She gave us everything that is good about ourselves, and everything good in our lives. All that is due to our Mum. Anything good about me, it’s due to Mum.
I owe so much – everything to Mum.
So…for one last time…thank you Mum. Thanks for everything.
I love you.
Goodbye.
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My brother and sister and I now sat down. The minister spoke again briefly, mainly to pray, as two curtains – firstly a translucent one, then an opaque one, were drawn across the niche in which the coffin rested.
Then, this song was played, closing the service:
Fly, fly little wing
Fly, beyond imagining
The softest cloud, the whitest dove
Upon the wings of heaven’s love
Past the planets and the stars
Leave this lonely world of ours
Escape the sorrow and the pain
And fly again
Fly, fly precious one
Your endless journey has begun
Take your gentle happiness
Far too beautiful for this
Cross over to the other shore
There is peace forevermore
But hold this mem’ry bittersweet
Until we meet
Fly, fly do not fear
Don’t waste a breath, don’t shed a tear
Your heart is pure, your soul is free
Be on your way, don’t wait for me
Above the universe you’ll climb
On beyond the hands of time
The moon will rise, the sun will set
But I won’t forget
Fly, Fly little wing
Fly where only angels sing
Fly away, the time is right
Go now, find the light
-----------
Lilian Ann Holmes
1936 - 2004
Monday, 7th June 2004, 10am
Lakeview Chapel
Albany Creek Crematorium
A memorial card was handed out to mourners as they entered the chapel.
The coffin was simple and elegant unburnished brown pine, with gold furnishings.
On top rested a large spray of roses – Mum’s favourite flower – in the colours of red, yellow, orange, and pink.
This song was played as the service begun:
Ohhhh, oh, oh, oh, ohhh.
It must have been cold there in my shadow,
to never have sunlight on your face.
You were content to let me shine, that's your way.
You always walked a step behind.
So I was the one with all the glory,
while you were the one with all the strain.
A beautiful face without a name…for so long.
A beautiful smile to hide the pain.
Did you ever know that you're my hero,
and everything I would like to be?
I can fly higher than an eagle,
for you are the wind beneath my wings.
It might have appeared to go unnoticed,
but I've got it all here in my heart.
I want you to know I know the truth, of course I know it.
I would be nothing without you.
Did you ever know that you're my hero?
You're everything I wish I could be.
I could fly higher than an eagle,
for you are the wind beneath my wings.
Did I ever tell you you're my hero?
You're everything, everything I wish I could be.
Oh, and I, I could fly higher than an eagle,
for you are the wind beneath my wings,
'cause you are the wind beneath my wings.
Oh, the wind beneath my wings.
You, you, you, you are the wind beneath my wings.
Fly, fly, fly away. You let me fly so high.
Oh, you, you, you, the wind beneath my wings.
Oh, you, you, you, the wind beneath my wings.
Fly, fly, fly high against the sky,
so high I almost touch the sky.
Thank you, thank you,
thank God for you, the wind beneath my wings.
After welcoming the congregation and leading them in a brief prayer, Minister Andrew Otte delivered the following eulogy, which had been written by David, based on remembrances by all three of Ann’s children.
Ann Holmes Eulogy
We are here to pay our respects to the memory of Lilian Ann Holmes.
This is a very sad occasion obviously, and it is very tough to say goodbye to Ann. But as well as a sad goodbye, we would also like this occasion to be a celebration of her life, and all the joy she brought into the world. We would like this to be a bonding experience for all of you, all of you who knew her and loved her so much. You all, I am sure, have your own wonderful memories of Ann, and I hope that you share some of them with each other before the day is out.
Ann’s three children – Kathryn, David and Alan – have asked me to invite all of you, if you can make it, to a morning tea at Kathryn’s in-laws place, just down the road here at Carseldine. The address will be handed out after the service.
Now.
Many of you know Ann as a friend. Many of you know her as a relative, a sister, an auntie, a cousin. A few of you know her as a Mum. And one of you knows her as just plain “gramma”.
Ann Holmes was many different things to many different people.
It is impossible to define a person’s life in a few words, but if I may, I would like to share a bit of her history with you all.
Ann was born in 1936 - the middle child of David and Maisie Goodall. They lived in a district near Sarina outside of Mackay, a district that went by the exotic and exciting name of Alligator Creek.
Even though much later, she moved to the big city of Brisbane – and mostly lived in cities the rest of her life, Ann was always – in her heart – a humble farm girl. And this was because her upbringing on the family sugarcane farm was such a happy childhood. The family – including Ann’s older brother Ian and younger sister Judith - lived with might seem just the bare necessities in this day and age – without dozens of comforts which we now take for granted. Ann’s parents had a tough, hard life back then, but they always made sure the kids had food in their bellies, warm, clean clothes, and a proper schooling.
Ann always recalled her father – known as “Granfie” to his grandkids later - with much fondness, as a kind, gentle soul. She always wished her own kids had gotten to know him even a little bit as well as she. Granfie had led a turbulent, yet seemingly blessed life – or perhaps “nine lives” would be more accurate”. As a child, he had been protected by family friends during the occupation of Germany in World War One. As a young man, he had come out to Australia to seek his father, only to discover that he had committed suicide. Later, while his young daughter Ann rushed to get the shotgun, he had stared down a deadly taipan snake before shooting it. He once had the misfortune to fall down a well, and had his arm savagely disabled after being caught in a cotton-milling machine. Yet despite all these adversities, he never lost his kind nature or gentle good humour – something he would always share with his loving daughter Ann.
Ann always recalled with fondness those days of Granfie’s kindness, those days of early childhood on the farm. Memories like the family going into town once a month for supplies. Or of her mother Maisie cooking dinner for the local Kanaka work gang who toiled on the farm. Or of riding on horseback with her elder brother to and from a one-teacher country school, for miles each way, crossing flooded creeks and dodging snakes on the way.
Snakes were apparently a large part of country life in Queensland back then – one morning a snake was found alongside one of the Goodall babies in its crib!!! On another day Ann remembered her Mum shooting a rifle at a large snake that had crawled into the water tank and blasting a hole straight in side of the corrugated iron tank!
Perhaps it was to escape the snakes, but eventually Ann’s parents left Alligator Creek and moved to a pineapple farm on the side of Mount Nathan in the Gold Coast Hinterland – alongside hills so steep that Ann often wondered after they had taken the produce to market whether the old Ute would make it up the “goat track”-like road again!!
At this time, Ann was undergoing her schooling at Brisbane Girls Grammar – as a boarder. She often spoke of the strictness inherent in the boarding school system – but also of the great camaraderie she found in living so closely with her school friends. In this way, she shared something with Harry Potter, and indeed, when watching those films recently, she often felt nostalgia for those halcyon days of uniforms and dormitories and rules. On holiday with some school friends at the family farm, she marvelled at the extravagence of one of the girls’ tri-colour toothpaste. Tri-colour toothpaste was an opulent luxury she was unused to!!!
On the completion of her studies, Ann remained in Brisbane and began her professional working life - at the Bank of New South Wales on Queen Street. She loved the town in those days, the hustle and the bustle, the travelling to work on trams. Not to mention – with the benefits of a paycheck – the shopping! Ann loved fashion, and always, through her life, looked her best. Simple and conservative. Yet stylish and elegant.
In her twenties, Ann’s fascination with travel began. While an overseas pilgrimage is a standard youth ritual these days, back in the sixties it was quite a rare thing to even consider. Yet with her quiet, determined bravery, she took off to live and work overseas – not just once, but twice!
She spent approximately two years in New Zealand, getting a transfer with the bank, and living in Auckland and Wellington, and forged a very strong friendship with Cynthia Blennerhasset – both Ann and Cynthia’s parents had a strong bond. Cynthia remembered going on the town hell-raising with Ann and friends a few times in New Zealand, and later in life, Cynthia raised some hell of her own a few times – with gloating, TransTasman phone calls whenever the All Blacks had pulled of one of their rare wins against the Aussies. But their friendship was built on a lot more than teasing, and Ann and Cynthia – despite the distance between them – often relied on each other by sharing their most privates thoughts and fears. Ann – always known as the most discrete, least gossipy person around - was grateful for a close confidante out of her regular circle.
Ann’s second trip overseas was a lot further, and a lot braver. These days it seems that every second Aussie youth in their twenties grabs an UK working visa and jumps a flight over to England, yet, back in the sixties, it wasn’t quite so easy. The trail may be well trodden these days, yet Ann was one of the first to blaze that trial. She wanted to challenge herself, see the world, experience life, change, and diversity.
Times back then were different though. Global air flights were uncommon – and too expensive! – for regular people. So Ann took a steamboat to Europe – loving the open sea and the excitement of passing through exotic ports like Singapore, Bombay, the Suez Canal, and Cairo. In her leather bound travel journals she exhibited a fascination for the infinite diversity of the world, listing the sights, sounds, foods, colours, and crazy characters of her destinations.
Finally settling in London, she quickly found work in a Bank and just as quickly found many lifelong friends. She thrilled to the swinging-sixties vibe of the city, and in the evenings was seldom to be found at home in her tiny Chelsea bedsit.
She fondly remembered walking home one Christmas eve, as snow fell from the sky and blanketed the streets and cars, and Christmas carollers sung melodically in the background. She loved the history and tradition and culture – not just of London - but of all of Europe, and she travelled extensively throughout the British Isles and the Continent, both with friends, and – very rarely (and bravely) for a woman in those days – alone. She visited much of Spain, France, Italy, Austria, Switzerland, Germany and Holland. Many years later - after her son David’s record-breaking trip around Australia in a tiny Fiat Bambino - she recollected with bemusement the experience of purchasing the car that would take her and her cousin Jean around Europe – a similarly small Mini. After initially picking the car up, Jean refused to drive at all, and Ann found herself behind the wheel of the tiny Mini, jostling for position on the narrow London roads, trying not to be run over by a double-decker bus bearing down on them from behind.
In Scotland she remembered struggling through feet-deep drifts of snowfall on the road, and in the same country she visited the same humble home where her grandfather had been born and raised. In Germany she visited the dwelling where her father and his sisters had been held as hostages when World War One broke out – these children were later exchanged for German children held hostage in Britain.
After her European adventure, Ann returned on steamboat to Australia via the Panama Canal separating the Americas. Once back home, there was nothing separating her from her future husband. The wisest man in the world had kept his word and waited for her. He was waiting for her boat as it docked.
Ann had met Raymond Holmes several years before – before even she left for New Zealand. Before her travels, her Mum and Dad had moved due to ill health from their hinterland home to Allen Street, in Hamilton in Brisbane, and Ann made many friends in the neighbourhood her own age. She met Ray at a table tennis game organised through the church, and after a tentative courtship…well, he knew a good thing when he saw it. He chased her for four years, and of course he waited for her until her return from overseas, and they were married in September of 1964.
They moved into what she would thereafter and always think of as “home”. Located in Coolah Street, Aspley – initially it was, “out in the sticks” - surrounded by bushland, and initially, when they moved in, the home was mere brickwork, having no steps, no windows, no veranda, no curtains or cupboard doors…until Ann and Ray finished building it themselves, one bit at a time.
Three little – but very important bits – were added to the home over the next few years – Kathryn in 1966, David in 1968, and Alan in 1969.
Because – while Ann had lived a great 30 years up until this point – nothing would ever be the same for her again. She might have excelled as a daughter, scholar, worker, traveller, friend, and even wife – but all these things paled in comparison against the thing which really brought out her best.
Being a Mum.
And Ann was an exceptional Mum. The best. One quietly determined to give her kids absolutely everything she possibly could. Not giving of “stuff”. But giving of herself. Her time. Her devotion. Her love. And give she did.
She was almost lost when giving the ultimate gift of all – birth. Alan was born three months premature, his head as tiny as an apple, his chances of a normal life heralded by doctors as less than 3%. Both Ann and Alan were critically sick in those early months of Alan’s life – but when Ann was needed was when Ann was at her best. Her fighting spirit never flagged, and she rallied her own strength until her health improved and she could nurse Alan back to health, and eventually - into the strapping 6 foot 2 lad that she was to become so proud of.
Each of Ann’s kids was so extremely fortunate to have her. Kathryn, David and Alan grew up in a very close family environment, surrounded by lots of friends, relatives, aunties, uncles, and cousins. They had an especially close relationship with their Grandma – Ann’s Mum – who visited often by walking across Marchant Park to help Ann with the ironing and present the kids with treats like vegemite rusks and cream puffs.
The children were also fortunate enough to spend many of their school holidays away from home with short trips down the Gold Coast and longer road trips to visit relatives in exotic places like Canberra or a sugarcane farm near Bundaberg. However, the overwhelming majority of weekends and holidays which the Holmes family spent together, were spent at one of the first houses built in Kawana Waters on the Sunshine Coast, a holiday home Ann and Ray had built, ANOTHER home they had sweated and toiled over to give the kids an upbringing filled with joy and abandon.
Many, many weekends, the family, ever increasing in size (especially the boys!) would pile into the little orange Corolla - “PUJ” - with budgerigar cages and their beloved pet corgi Scamp on their laps.
Up at the beach house, the kids would tuck into the treat of “fish and chips” for Friday dinner, before enjoying two swims a day at their favourite beach Mooloolaba, with fresh hot bread and a snooze in between. Many good times were had by the whole family, for many years, as Ann good-naturedly sheparded the explorers up and down the coast from Caloundra to Coolum.
Alan remembers looking out the back window of the holiday home to see the approaching lights of the Greyhound bus on the Bruce Highway as it headed up from Brisbane, containing Grandma. Back then, traffic was so rare the bus could easily stand out, and would stop anywhere Grandma asked it to.
David remembers the cyclone aftermath which left sea foam so high and so thick that it washed up over the beach and over the road, covering the car and the gallivanting kids so thoroughly that Ann thought she’d lost them for awhile.
Another day when Ann thought she might lose the kids – forever! - was on a trip to Bullen’s African Lion Safari, at Beenleigh. The family car – “PUJ” - entered the free-range Lion enclosure with all the other family vehicles. Unfortunately, PUJ’s colour – a distinctive orange – was unlike any other family vehicle. It WAS like – exactly like - the colour of the safari truck that used to feed the lions huge slabs of meat at lunchtime. Needless to say, the lions became confused, and jumped all over the car, resting on the roof and on the bonnet, staring inquisitively at the family inside and wondering when dinner was to be served. Mum and Grandma – in the front seats – remained calm, chanting “lock the doors, lock the doors” while in the back seat three kids went into hysterics – Alan in horror, and Kat and David in kind of a delusional, hilarious laughter.
There was lots of laughter around the Holmes family in those years. Lots of love. And lots of support too. Ann encouraged the kids with quiet but consistent motivation. “You can do anything you want to in life.” She encouraged them to dream and she encouraged them to work. She taught them to drive and taught them manners. (And hopefully SOME of those lessons have stuck).
Ann was a leader – known as “Akela” - in the Scout Group David and Alan attended, near where Kathryn attended Brownies and Guides. “Akela” - from “The Jungle Book” means “mother wolf”. And it is a perfect name for Ann. Strong and nurturing.
Her creativity as a scout leader knew no bounds, nor did her creativity as a seamstress – designing and making multiple costumes for the kids’ fancy dress parties, all individual, all unique, all special. She also showed great flair for kid’s parties, designing creatively themed cakes three times a year and inventing new clues for garden treasure hunts many times over.
Then there was school. In many ways, Ann went back to school herself – three times – when her kids attended. She helped all three of them with school homework when she must have been so tired. She proofread and corrected dozens of school projects, and later she typed or compiled dozens of University assignments. Kathryn, Alan and David truly believe that they owe a large part of their High School Certificates and university degrees to Ann. As much as them themselves, she got them through, with her quiet, constant, unwavering support.
For Kathryn, Ann’s support took the form of that uniquely female mother/daughter bond. Ann taught Kathryn to sew, to cook, and many, many handicrafts, like embroidery. She was STILL teaching Kathryn some tricks of the trade this year, always full of helpful, gentle advice. Back in 1991, Ann aided Kathryn with the making of her wedding dress, and provided limitless practical and emotional support, on that very special day for both mother and daughter.
And in 1998, even though her health was failing, Ann joined Kathryn and her husband Brad on a trip around England, and was STILL adding something special – reliving old memories, sharing her love of the culture and her extensive knowledge of British History with Kat and Brad. Not to mention being a great back-seat driver!
As for David’s memories, he will never forget the support his Mum showed him as he abandoned her on not one, not two, but THREE long adventures away from home. On his move to Sydney as an accountant in 1990, Ann felt strongly the mother’s pain of separation, yet she packed extras of EVERYTHING he might need, just in case. On his Bambino Odyssey around Australia in 1991, she was the only one with the faith that the car and the boys would make it further than the edge of the suburb before breaking down. And on the longest, hardest break of all from home – when David left in 1998 for four years to explore the world - all his Mum did was give him was limitless encouragement, a pre-paid phonecard and her tips for the best places to see and stay.
She never stood in their way of anything. She watched them make mistakes, and helped them up again. Always there. Always.
The 1990’s weren’t all smooth sailing for Ann and her loved ones. In 1991 she lost her beloved Mum, this kid’s beloved Grandma, and Ann nursed her till the end. In 1993, she lost her beloved husband, her constant companion for the past 30 years, Ray, and - once again - Ann nursed him at home till the end, giving up work to do so. After he was gone, Ann missed him dearly. Everything took its toll, but Ann never faltered, never took a misstep, never let anyone down. And then, at the end of the century, after much cajoling from her children, she finally made a tough and traumatic decision and sold and left the family home in Aspley. Her home hadn’t seemed the same since her brood had left the nest. Nor since it was broken into one night when she was home. Ann – typically – without thought for herself – defended her home against the burglar by bravely chasing him through the house and out the window!!!
Eventually, after the sale of Coolah Street, she moved to Bonney Avenue, Clayfield, where she found a cosy and secure home once again.
As the kids had slowly but surely left the nest in the previous decade, Ann found herself with more time again to develop friendships, which she surely did. Her work at the University of Queensland had not only bought her a variety of challenging work positions, but - much more importantly - a plethora of deep and lasting friendships, which continued after her retirement two years ago. Ann eagerly received visits from friends, family and neighbours in Clayfield, the most often and valued of which surely came from her dear son Alan, who never tired of joining his Mum on the unit’s balcony or in the lounge, sharing a Friday evening drink and chatting about everything – from Mum’s past family history to Alan’s future dreams – just everything - chatting as comfortably as the best friends that they truly were. Alan and Ann shared an unbreakable bond – and shared many of the same beliefs, opinions, and philosophies on life. There were never two closer confidantes, sharing their joys and their fears and their worries and their thoughts with each other.
When on her own at home, Ann kept busy with her crafts and painting, her beloved books, and of course with staying in touch with her many friends all around the world. She did this by phone and letter until recently, when she discovered the joys of e-mail through her kids, and eagerly embraced them. Yet she never lost the personal touch, never forgot a birthday card, and was always asking for little envelopes to be posted. She loved to let her friends and family know she was thinking of them.
Her giving spirit never gave out.
And her giving spirit reached a peak again in September 2001, when her beloved granddaughter Sarah was born. Ann had wished for a grandchild for so long, for herself yes, but especially because her daughter Kat so desperately wanted a child. When the miracle of baby Sarah came into the world, she instantly became a completely doting grandmother, loving her grandchild with all her heart from the instant she was born. Kathryn has never forgotten – and always deeply appreciated – the invaluable support she got from her own mother as she raised Sarah – especially during those early weeks when Ann moved in to help Kathryn - help with feeding, dressing, and putting Sarah to sleep.
Kathryn has always known that Ann has always loved her without limit, but has only recently, since becoming a mum herself, understood completely the unconditional, fathomless love that a mother has for her child. So, since becoming a Mum herself, Kathryn has appreciated her Mum that much more.
As each of her children have. As they have become adults themselves, they have all appreciated the complete sacrifices that Ann has made for them every day of her life. They have understood more and more the complete devotion she has always shown them.
And for this they will always be grateful.
Ann had struggled with her health for half of her life. Her condition worsened so much in recent years that she was hospitalised several times for critical care. At about this same time of year in the past two years, we almost lost Ann due to similar infections to the one which claimed her last week. She lived through those times and has enjoyed some laughs, enjoyed some smiles, and enjoyed much love, in the past two years. But she has also suffered. Horribly.
But, to hear her talk about it, you never would have known it.
Ann never complained. She was happiest when she was giving, not taking. She never asked for anything. She was a quiet person in a group, not a drama-queen, not an attention-seeker, but when she spoke, you always knew that she wasn’t going to waste her words. You always knew that she was going to say something worth listening to. She had a cheeky, often dry, sense of humour, which she always used without offence. She found amusement in the simplest things, often at a slapstick occurrence when self-importance was deflated. She found joy and pride in all her children and grandchild, always.
She never stopped loving, never stopped giving. She was never bitter about the horrible nature of her illness, never a victim, never a martyr. She coped the best she could. In her last two years, since retirement, she filled her life with distractions, with occupations, with “giving”. Unable to get to the shops, she stayed at home and crafted personal little keepsake gifts for her friends. She kept making bright animal-pattern shorts for David. She regularly helped Alan with job applications and life advice. She worked with Kathryn to compile detailed, family history scrapbook albums. Albums for – who else? Her children. Her grandchild.
One place which Ann shared the joys of giving to her family over the last few years was the beachhouse at Kawana. This lovely retreat – the second holiday home built by Ann and Ray – is a lovely place on the Mooloolah river where Ann loved to relax in the front room, enjoying the sea breeze, watching the sailboats pass gently by. Reading. Watching Sarah play. Enjoying her special, unique bond with Sarah. Enjoying her special, unique bond with each of her kids. Joining them all for walks along the riverfront to Sarah’s playgrounds, or to the mouth of the river, or up to Point Cartwright overlooking the expanse of the coast. Of the wide, vast ocean.
More recently, those walks became wheelchair rides.
But she still loved them.
Why? Because she was with her family. Her children. Her grandchild.
Because she loved them with all of her heart. Such a huge, huge heart. Filled with love.
A heart which may have stopped beating last Wednesday morning. But a love which will live on forever…
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The minister now introduced the following speech of more personal thoughts and relinquished the pulpit:
Memories, Thank You & Goodbye
by David Holmes
Hello Everyone.
Many of you know me, but for those that don’t, my name is David Holmes. I am Ann’s middle child. I would just like to speak to you briefly today about my Mum on behalf of my sister Kathryn, my brother Alan, and myself.
Firstly, I would like to thank you all for coming. I don’t think Mum would have expected this turnout, because my Mum was a very humble person, a very modest person. My Mum didn’t want a big fuss made for her funeral. She didn’t want people going out of their way for her. Which is ironic, because she always made the effort to go out of her way for a lot of people. I’m talking about everyday life of course, but even talking specifically about funeral’s, Mum always thought it was very important to show respect for her family or friends that had passed on.
About 15 years ago she was too sick to attend the funeral of her friend’s mother and she asked me to attend on the family’s behalf for her. And a few years ago, when I was overseas, and a dear friend of mine’s father passed away, she was determined to attend the service on my behalf.
She very much understood the important of occasions like this to say goodbye to a friend, to pay respects to their family, and to acknowledge the life they had lived.
And yet, Mum being Mum, she didn’t want a “fuss” made over herself when the time came. She rarely acknowledged how her quiet, generous nature had won her dozens of friends all her life. Looking through her little book of telephone numbers a year or so ago, my brother and sister and I realised there was no WAY that a fuss COULDN’T be made over her. She had so many friends. So many close relatives. So we convinced her, recently, that it would be nice to let all of those people say goodbye properly.
But, modest as ever, she still wasn’t convinced anyone would turn up.
How wrong she was.
Because she DID touch so many people’s lives in her short time on Earth.
MANY.
So, thank you everyone for coming.
Mum was many things to many people.
I am sure almost all of you have special, valued memories of Mum.
But I just want to share a few of mine with you. And I know you’ll forgive me if I falter or struggle a little with that.
You know, you are a pretty lucky person if your path through life crosses even just once or twice that of the kindest, most loving, most giving, most generous person in the world. So when that kind, loving, giving, generous person is your own Mum…well, you are beyond lucky. You are blessed.
So – you might think that my brother, my sister and I are feeling a little cheated, a little bitter, and a little unlucky to have lost our Mum. But no…we are not. We feel extremely fortunate to have had the time with her that we did. We feel blessed.
We were the luckiest kids in the world. And we still are.
Because Mum was a great Mum.
She was the best.
Mum showed phenomenal support to us kids. She would always back us in whatever we chose to do until the very end – even if she thought our plans were crazy. She must have known that things might fall apart sometimes, but she never ceased to help us get back up again when they did. She supported me in my crazy travel dreams when there was rampant cynicism from everyone else. And she always welcomed ANY of our friends into her house – no matter how different those friends were from what she was used to. Very gracious.
She was also very quick to laugh.
I remember this past Christmas, only a few months ago, when the whole family was holidaying together at the house up the coast. We played a game of Pictionary. Mum was partnered with my sister Kat. They laughed uncontrollably with each other through the entire game. Laughing at their truly incompetent drawings and hopeless guesses. Mum was the first person in the room to laugh at herself. And she laughed often. She had a great sense of humour. She loved comedies on TV, and after I converted her to watching “MASH” she never missed it. She even loved the last series of “Big Brother” believe it or not. If “Big Brother” has done one good thing in the world it was providing Mum with a distraction from her illness. She loved the winner last year too – because I think she saw a lot of herself in Reggie – humble, modest, open to the world, willing to laugh at herself. What you saw my what you got. No pretence. That was Mum.
One thing I used to do a lot recently when Mum was sick was slowly stroke my hand across the hair on her forehead. She loved it, it seemed to relax her and take away some of the pain. Often she would say, “Oh, that’s so gentle.” Which I found truly ironic, because as I am sure that most of you would agree, one of the things that Mum was the most, was gentle. She was so calm, so placid, so tender. Always giving with utmost care and minimal fanfare. Never to call attention to herself. Just to give. Just so gentle.
It may seem strange, yet one of the things that Mum was, that went hand in hand with her gentleness, was her strength.
All through her life, my Mum showed tough, determined, yet gracious and quiet strength. She may have been a figure of frailty, but she had a spirit of steel. So strong. She raised a family in sometimes difficult circumstances, and she never faltered, never weakened. Her capacity to give – to share her strength - was inexhaustible. Her backbone and her pride were unbreakable.
In the last years of her working life, when her physical strength was fading, Mum showed an incredible inner spirit. Mum used to park her car at what would normally be a five minute walk – for you or I – from her office. Not long before she retired, she would leave for work extra early, because that walk took her twenty minutes. Often it would TAKE twenty minutes after she reached her desk before she could speak, it took that long to regain her breath. Now THAT’s strength. THAT’S courage.
More recently, when I returned from overseas two years ago, I saw that determination to not be a victim come to the fore again. My brother greeted me alone at the airport terminal, and told me that Mum had insisted on coming along. But she hadn’t made it to my arrivals gate. Her spirit had driven her poor body as far as it could through the terminal, until her body had refused to cooperate. I greeted Mum were she was sitting, gasping, halfway through the terminal. She could barely walk. Yet her phenomenal inner strength had gotten her that far. And she didn’t go that far for herself. She went that far for me.
Her strength personified itself recently whenever visitors came to see her in our flat in Clayfield. Often too weak to really stand, often too weak to really talk, Mum would muster all of her strength for the day into those short visit times and give it her all graciously – the hostess with the mostess. Often her visitors would have no idea how sick Mum really was – because she didn’t want them to feel uncomfortable. After they left, Mum would collapse in exhaustion for hours. That’s strength. She was so strong, so brave, so dignified. Especially in the last days of her life.
Mum’s strength never ceased to amaze me. Often when her granddaughter came to visit, Mum would entertain her with one of Sarah’s favourite games – blowing bubbles. Mum would muster all her strength and would blow these bubbles for Sarah to chase…with breaths that she sorely needed for herself.
Strength. In her last years and months, as Mum’s health declined rapidly - to hold Mum’s hand – as I did often – you never would have guessed unless you’d known that she was physically very weak. Because she had a strong, firm grip of steel. I would hold hands with Mum whenever I greeted her or farewelled her each day. And often when she needed comfort, because she just loved that personal touch, towards the end. Her grip never got weaker. She always grabbed you like she never wanted to let go.
And I don’t think she ever did.
Mum’s special, beautiful hands – and that grip – are one of those things I will miss the most about her. No matter how thin they became, they always seemed to fit with mine perfectly.
Back when I was a teenager, and in my early twenties, I would often hold Mum’s hand in mine in the middle of the night. Because back then, I was out on the town till all hours four nights a week, Mum used to insist that I wake her when I got home. And whenever I woke her with a soft, whispered, “Mum, I’m home”, she would reach out to me and grab my hand – I think to make sure that she wasn’t dreaming, that I was real. Then she would say, “OK darling”, and drift back to sleep. I don’t think she ever slept soundly before that. Because…Mum was a worrier. I am sure my brother and sister will agree with me, because, yeah, Mum’s favourite leisure activity was worrying about us kids. I guess that went hand in hand with caring – worrying. But it was pretty hard to take at times.
Even after I returned from overseas to live with Mum, she STILL worried. For a while initially, before she needed constant care, if I was out for the night and came home later than she expected, I would find her waiting up for me, worrying. I was like, “Mum! I’m 30-something years old. I’ve lived out of home for ten years! I’ve been out late in dozens of cities around the world. And you didn’t need to wait up for me then!” And Mum was like, “Yes David, but I didn’t KNOW you were out those nights around the world. It’s different here. I KNOW you are out.”
Yeah, once a Mum, always a Mum. Mum worried about everything. Sometimes I think she got the worrying gene that I should have gotten. She got extra, and I got none.
Sometimes it was frustrating. Mum would worry about things that were out of her control. She would waste energy and hours. She knew it, but she couldn’t help it. It was innate. Built into her.
Because here’s the thing. She would never worry about herself, her own situation. She ALWAYS worried about other people. Especially us kids. As sick as she got, she never worried about where her health was heading, what was to become of her. She only worried about us – about the effect it was having on us, on the disruptions to our lives, whether she was becoming a burden.
Because that was Mum. Completely unselfish. Completely caring. Completely giving.
When my brother and I were little, maybe four or five years old, I remember one night when Mum was tucking us into bed in our room. We were obviously JUST old enough to begin understanding the concept of death, and understand the possibility that Mum, herself, might one day die. And obviously, the thought terrified us. We sobbed and cried and told Mum that we didn’t want her to die. I remember the feeling well. The horrible thought of losing her. Of not having her there for us. We were very upset. She reassured us – as Mum’s do – and said to us, “Don’t worry my darlings. It’s all right. I’m not gonna die.”
I guess she didn’t keep her word.
But – I don’t begrudge her that, of course. Because that night Mum did what she needed to do. What she always did. She was a Mum. And she made us feel better.
Many, many years later, Mum was still making me feel better. Only maybe ten days ago was the last time Mum left the house. She left the home that she died in a few days later for a simple walk around the block with me. She was in the wheelchair, and I was on foot. She made the best of her time outside, noticing flowers, trees, homes, birds, dogs, children. Commenting on how beautiful things were. She managed a few smiles. And of course – she wasn’t thinking about herself. She was thinking about me. She must have been suffering quite a bit then, and eager to get back to the oxygen machine, but she kept telling me that I must have been tired from pushing her, and should take a rest. The definition of unselfish.
I think the last real sentence that Mum spoke to me - that wasn’t a simple response to me offering her food or medication or help with the loo - was one night after I made her comfortable on the couch with pillows and hot-water bottles and she murmured to me, “You’ve become a wonderful nurse.”
Which was again – most ironic - because Mum was the most nurturing person I’ve ever known. Kind, tender, gentle, caring, giving. Mum gave more to me in my lifetime than I could ever repay in a million. Mum would often thank me for looking after her in the final years of her life. But the truth IS, we looked after each other. She looked after me just as much as I looked after her, and I told her so, many times.
When she could barely manage it, she would wash the dishes that I had left, wash the laundry, water the houseplants, make me pair of shorts, tidy up the place. When she COULDN’T manage it any longer, she would remind ME to do that stuff. Looking after me, like I said.
But she also looked after me in much less tangible ways, ways in which she always had. She was just THERE. Always there. Always interested in my life, my day, myself. Always offering support and encouragement. Little stuff. Day-to-day. Each little thing nothing in itself, even trivial. But when combined together, they made up a life. A wonderful life. A beautiful person.
Mum was my rock.
Always there.
And I don’t know how I will manage without her.
But I will.
Because, in a way, she is STILL looking after me.
Mum sacrificed everything for her family, for her children. For us. For me. She gave and gave and gave and gave until she couldn’t give anymore. And then she gave more. In a way, she is STILL giving.
Because they best way to live forever, is to give of yourself, give without limit, like Mum did.
And Mum’s gone, yes, and we will miss her terribly.
But she’s not really gone. She lives on – partly – in all of us in this room.
She lives on – especially - in her children. And her grandchild.
Whenever I look at my sister, I see Mum’s limitless kindness and inner strength.
And I always will.
Whenever I look at my brother, I see Mum’s limitless generosity and gentleness.
And I always will.
And whenever I look at my niece, Mum’s granddaughter, I see Mum’s beautiful - oh so beautiful – blue eyes.
And I always will…
(Seeing that I was struggling to speak a little at this point of my speech, perhaps in danger of becoming overwhelmed with emotion, my brother and sister stood up and stood alongside me as I finished.)
My brother and sister have become the very best of Mum’s qualities, and they should be so proud of themselves. As Mum was so proud of them. As Alan and Kathryn have become adults they have become the very best of their mother. They have looked beyond themselves and given. And become the people Mum wanted them to be. Alan helped maintain Mum’s old family home after it became too much for her. And Alan and Kathryn helped her pack up her life and memories in the house when it was time to leave. Kathryn has become the perfect giving mother herself in the last few years, and she made Mum such a part of that experience. And Alan showed the strength to shoulder the privilege
of holding Mum’s hand – her beautiful hand – as she passed away last Wednesday morning.
Just like I had the honour of sharing a large part of Mum’s final years with her.
So as for me…what did I inherit from my Mum?
Well, itchy feet for one. An unquenchable desire to travel, to read, to open myself up, to experience this incredible world of ours. And I guess she also gave me my unfortunate addiction to Big Brother.
But more than these things, above all else, what Mum gave me…was love.
Mum gave me an inexhaustible supply of love, and with it an extraordinary ability to feel love, and to give love.
Mum poured so much love into me, all my life, that I constantly feel full to overflowing with it. An untappable reservoir of love.
I can feel the love that Mum gave to me, inside me, and pouring out of me, every day. And I am sure it will always be there. Because she gave me so much.
She gave my brother and sister and me life. But she gave us so much more than life.
She gave us everything that is good about ourselves, and everything good in our lives. All that is due to our Mum. Anything good about me, it’s due to Mum.
I owe so much – everything to Mum.
So…for one last time…thank you Mum. Thanks for everything.
I love you.
Goodbye.
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My brother and sister and I now sat down. The minister spoke again briefly, mainly to pray, as two curtains – firstly a translucent one, then an opaque one, were drawn across the niche in which the coffin rested.
Then, this song was played, closing the service:
Fly, fly little wing
Fly, beyond imagining
The softest cloud, the whitest dove
Upon the wings of heaven’s love
Past the planets and the stars
Leave this lonely world of ours
Escape the sorrow and the pain
And fly again
Fly, fly precious one
Your endless journey has begun
Take your gentle happiness
Far too beautiful for this
Cross over to the other shore
There is peace forevermore
But hold this mem’ry bittersweet
Until we meet
Fly, fly do not fear
Don’t waste a breath, don’t shed a tear
Your heart is pure, your soul is free
Be on your way, don’t wait for me
Above the universe you’ll climb
On beyond the hands of time
The moon will rise, the sun will set
But I won’t forget
Fly, Fly little wing
Fly where only angels sing
Fly away, the time is right
Go now, find the light
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Lilian Ann Holmes
1936 - 2004
posted by The Dave Reports @ 11:00 am
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