All their families - Page 4
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 10: Family Politics
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Joanna Mendelssohn
IT COULD BE ARGUED THAT FUNERALS ARE THE ULTIMATE FAMILY OCCASION, more so than weddings, christenings or graduations. Perhaps the best definition of the modern family is that it consists of those who will feel both obliged and entitled to attend someone's funeral. The links of kinship at funerals are either of blood or such a close connection that it would be a lack of respect not to be there. Funerals are also where the dividing lines between cultures and families are blurred in a tribute to the dead.
Last year, my friend and colleague, the artist Alan Oldfield, died and all his families came to honour him. As with many artists, Alan had come from an apparently ordinary background. His father had been a fitter and turner; art was not on the official family agenda. Because he had gone to a comprehensive government high school, East Hills Boys High, in the 1950s, Alan had learnt Latin and ancient history, which introduced him to a world of beauty. A talent for painting took him to the National Art School and then to Sydney's bohemian cultures of the 1960s. His partner, CSIRO scientist Jim Davenport, took him to Oxford, then Italy, where he found a lifelong love of medieval and Renaissance traditions in art. The golden boy of abstract art returned to Sydney to teach painting on a human scale at an art school that was eventually renamed College of Fine Arts, a part of the University of New South Wales. He became a wise and witty exponent of the splendours of the Renaissance; his love of the great traditions of art was reflected in his work. He was a great gossip over "a glass of wine, or five", and in meetings would make sotto voce comments with devastating effect to undermine any attempt at pomposity. In another life, away from art, Alan was the erudite member of the parish council of his church, St James King Street in Sydney. When he visited his sister, her husband and their children, he was the beloved brother and uncle. But he was also very much a part of the families not joined by blood.
Alan died of cancer so he was able to plan his funeral. In Francis Greenway's church, a full choir sang the Solemn Eucharist, with music in Latin and air thick with the incense he loved. Spoken tributes came from his skin family, his art family and his church family. All came together in this passing and most appreciated the elements in the funeral that would tease them: the atheists bowing in prayer; those whose taste was limited to pop obliged to listen to the best of the baroque; the iconoclasts constrained by elaborate ceremony; the way the extended prayers around the hearse stopped Sydney traffic. It was easy to imagine Alan chuckling away in his coffin.
Choosing your own funeral is a luxury most people don't have. When my father died, it was sudden. He had been ill and unhappy for a long time. It was the first funeral I had ever attended or even seen and, many years later, I realised how large it was, and how strange. I was 20. My father's death came without notice. I only had one clean dress. So I wore pink and white voile, and no hat. The lack of a hat caused some comment among my aunts, but not the colour. In 1970 in Hurstville, the wearing of black by women indicated a Mediterranean origin. My aunts all wore pastel suits – pink, blue, green. I remember the colours and the cut, their bodies dappled among the greys of my uncles' suits. And, of course, the suits of all the other men, most of whom I did not know.
It was years before I realised that Dad's funeral was exceptionally large. When my father-in-law died eleven years later, only five people were at the funeral in the Woronora Crematorium. But Dad's funeral filled the church to overflowing. It was as crowded as Alan Oldfield's. Dad's funeral service was at Mum's church, the Church of England, even though she knew he would never voluntarily enter it. His relatives also felt uncomfortable outside their Baptist comfort zone, but they were pleased that their wayward brother's death was given a religious context. My sister was there, with her new husband, although Dad had not been invited to their wedding only months before.
After the service, the procession wound its way to the crematorium and men, strangers, took over. This was when I began to realise the web of families that had supported my father's life. I knew he had not been alone. The unknown men spoke the tired words of Laurence Binyon's For the Fallen and made them sound fresh. They produced rosemary and honoured his memory and the young man he had once been. Then one of our neighbours placed a square apron on the coffin with a sprig of wattle. He and some others who stepped forward also wore aprons and I heard someone say: "The memory of his virtues lingers in our memory, and reflects its shining lustre beyond the portals of the tomb." Dad had another semi-secret life as a Mason and his brothers were there to see him at the end, to make sure that his funeral was in some way connected to his life. In the end, my father's family was there for him.
Mum's funeral, at the end of 2003, was a quiet celebration of a life that came to a peaceful end. Relatives had come to see her after the car accident and there had been a reconciliation of sorts. In the long months in hospital, she had talked of what she had wanted when she died. "I want a party," she had said and got me to write it down, then signed the declaration in case she would be denied her desire:
When I die I do not want a funeral, as I have willed my body to the anatomy department of the University of Sydney.
I would, however, like a memorial service, and after the service a party to be held at the house of my daughter, Joanna Mendelssohn. The cost for this shall be borne by my estate.
The guests at the party should include relatives, friends and neighbours, including their children.
After she moved to my house, Mum had enjoyed the care and support of the local church. Even in the last months when she had needed 24-hour care and had gone to a nursing home, the church people came. I visited every day with one or more children to feed her and to bring the dog to play. Sometimes she forgot the children's names but did not forget who they were. Her last three days of life were spent with my twins caring for her and other patients as a part of their school's community service program.
In accordance with Mum's wishes, the Anglo Catholic Church of St Luke stripped the service back to her beloved Book of Common Prayer. Neighbours and carers joined with relatives, including my childhood friend, Anne, who travelled down from the North Coast. The lesson was read by Mary, the church visitor; the psalm by Mum's youngest sister, Ruth, who is interested in theosophy. Lucy, my eldest daughter, read one of Mum's poems and Arthur, her eldest brother, gave a brief official account of her life. My sister did not attend the church but remained at my house while three of her sons, all Orthodox Jews, came from Melbourne to pay homage to their grandmother.
Back at my house, different groups mingled in harmony. The food was from a kosher caterer. Soft drinks and tea were served as well as champagne and beer. Aged aunts, my father's sisters, did not know whether to be more amazed that my son bears such a close physical resemblance to their memories of his grandfather or that I did not stop him drinking beer in his grandmother's honour. My children in turn were fascinated to see resemblances in distant cousins, elderly aunts and a surviving uncle. We had a sheet of cardboard displayed with photographs of Mum's distant past – images from her early childhood, her confident years in her twenties and the last photos taken by my daughter, Lucy. This was a life complete. Modern families defy rigid definition. Maybe they have always been like that. ♦
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References
David de Vaus http://www.aifs.gov.au/institute/afrcpapers/devaus.html Children's responsibilities to elderly parents 1996 Accessed 4/8/05
David de Vaus Diversity and Change in Australian families: Statistical profiles Australian Institute of Family Studies, 2004, ISBN 0 642 395115 2
http://www.abc.net.au/changi/about/default.htm Accessed 4/8/05
http://news.bbc.co.uk/onthisday/hi/dates/stories/february/1/newsid_3749000/3749771.stm. Accessed 4/8/05
http://www.bbc.co.uk/london/news/january/canvey_flood.shtml Accessed 20/8/05