My lovely readers, humour me as I bring a piece of my soul to the blog today. You see, ten years ago on this day, the man with whom I’d spent 30 years of my life died. His Spirit continues to speak to those whom he held most dear, and I feel the need to respond. Raise a glass and giggle, cringe, relate or let my thoughts simply wash over you as we drink a toast to the late great ‘Telly’.
Dear Kent…
A heart attack, swift and sudden. Sadly, you didn’t go out in a blaze of glory in the sack as you’d always hoped. A relief though! Might have been a tad awkward given you’d just met your new love. A beautiful woman, shame you didn’t get to explore her potential.
What a life we had ‘eh? Franz Josef flirting at 19, married at 21, growing up together; years of pure joy, the last few not so as I found my voice and you fought for yours. The search for mutual ground too hard, a sad parting, both of us mourning the loss of our closest friend. Me. You. Twelve months later, you died.
Impressed with your timing? We lost your sister Beth in 1977, Poppa ’87, your Mum ’97 and you, at the tender age of 52, in 2007. Smarty pants! Does this trend only apply to blood relatives? Much too young; should have seen our older friends scrambling to reform their drinking, smoking and dietary habits!
We promised we’d never go to sleep on an argument and I’m sad that we didn’t fulfil that agreement. But hey! While this earthling struggled with her guilt, her fears; courage won, desires lost, you sir moved on to that ethereal place. I know this for we felt you all around us.
Bloody cigarette smoke for god’s sake! None of my neighbours indulged yet after you passed you heralded your presence by filling my home with the damn stuff. I’d pat the sofa and make space for you, and you’d stay awhile or for a fleeting moment; the only time Patou our little Burmese miaowed. She was blind, but didn’t need sight to feel the spirit. Those visits are rare these days, but that’s ok.
And what’s with the boating knots huh? Jenny and Ross continue to untangle those suckers from their timber louvre cords over permanently closed windows. Keep at it though for it amuses and keeps you close in their hearts. We’ve since travelled Europe together, a coin in the Trevi fountain for you; candles lit in remembrance in every goddamned cathedral. Citing your ‘It’s beer o’clock somewhere in the world’ as we supped first drink of the day. Religiously toasting you at sunset as you asked me to, knowing you’d be thinking of me too. Oh! And Rossie’s now a granddad! I know right? Makes the coolest one! A total bruiser that kid is too!
You’ll be chuffed to know I sold your beloved Bay Cruiser boat the ‘Sea Imp’ to the Tasmanian Maritime University where they restored her to her former glory just as you’d hoped to do. Funds went to your nephew. Wasn’t what our wills requested but I knew that’s what you’d want. The gesture thwarting his attempt to sue me for our house. Bless!
And dear sweet Bret, fellow skipper who helped you sail Sea Imp to Brisbane. The man became my rock during the tougher times and, 17 years my junior; poor devil consistently fought the ‘cougar’ label on my behalf. We made a good team for five years before finally casting off our own anchors. Reasons, Seasons, Lifetimes. He’s happily married now.
You’d also be proud of me for finding the courage to live on the coasts of Italy and France, our favourite countries, for six months. Alone. To grieve, write, reconcile; each evening, finding a spot to observe that sunset and think of you. Without fail, there was always a yacht on the horizon. Cheeky man, we always knew you were sailing the high seas.
More candles lit, plus one for John Mac, another for my friend Moo whom we also lost in the year of my sabbatical. Putting a flame to a candle for you in London’s St Paul’s Cathedral with your cousin David and Helen, my long-standing moroseness finally lifted, and I was ready to come home.
Ten years on, so many frogs kissed, a few with whom I fell a little in love, one providing my ‘forever person’ benchmark. Ironically a cheeky, fun, loving, true gentleman. A replica of you, my Tarzan, sans the habits that tore us apart and that Tom Selleck look you totally rocked.
Poppa Lyons passed, but not before we witnessed the septuagenarians renewing their wedding vows. The love in the room was palpable that day. So too our beloved mentor Trevor, ‘Mon Capitaine’ now with you on the high seas, Beverley and Heaton as well.
Knowing how much you loved your technology, you’d be seriously annoyed to know you’re missing out on the rapid advancements in this space too. Watson, IoT (Internet of Things) the font of all knowledge and connectivity; movies, TV programs and music now streamed directly to our ‘smart’ devices. Phone books, maps, nah! Remember how I’d call you from random parts of the city where I was usually hopelessly lost asking for directions? Google Maps is now our friend. Minuscule button phones now pocket-sized computers driving our connectivity and with apps catering to our every whim. The Dick Tracey wrist watch on steroids. Everything you imagined and would now be relishing.
Social Media too! Web sites where we talk, share imagery, create discussions and obtain instantaneous global awareness and opportunity to help or intervene. Suspect you’d have been king of Facebook!
A female Prime Minister, a Black American President, Donald Trump currently in the seat (yes seriously!). Gay Marriage legalised (given you championed LGBTI rights, you’d be furious to know our Government is holding back). Items and artificial body parts being 3D printed, genetic re-engineering, artificial intelligence rapidly advancing, the first driver less car due for release next year.
But most importantly dear man, you continue to be loved; our close mutual NZ and Aussie friends and family remain a huge part of my life, the stories we share now legendary as we toast yet again, the anniversary of your departure. We miss you, sir. Your humour, your compassion for the underdog, the love you bestowed upon your closest and dearest. And the love you had for me, for us. In memory xx
