My past few days have been stressful. Yesterday, Mr Bingells removed my father's ashes from the cupboard in which I have been keeping them, cuddled the container and said goodbye. I had been keeping my father's ashes on a buffet in my kitchen, but I was getting upset when I looked at them, as was my husband, so we put them in a cupboard until the day they were to be interred, which was yesterday. My father, as you might be aware, was a former Australasian rodeo champion, and Australian buckjumping champion. He spent his life on the land, and mainly on the back of the horse. He and the horse appeared to blend into a hybrid, like a centaur. He was a tall, fit and robust man, and to see him reduced to a container of ashes the size of a shoebox was making me cry. Ergo, he stayed in the cupboard for a while. Also, we didn't want to upset our kids. Our youngest in particular is having a hard time of it; he is missing his Pop terribly.
The youngest stayed home with his father, and Master 14 and I drove to my home town. The dead kangaroo count was four. Drive along a country road in Australia, and count the dead kangaroos. It's a great way to keep the kids entertained. ('New game, fun for the whole family!'). We arrived at the cemetery first, although the minister was already there. We were shortly joined by my brother and sister, their respective families, and a few assorted relatives. This group gathered at the grave of my brother, who died in an accident in 1981. The local council had dug a hole behind the headstone. After a few prayers, my brother, sister and I went to the hole. I passed over the box for my siblings to have a hold, and my brother knelt down and placed Dad in his final resting place to join his wife (who died in 1993) and his son. A family unit again. RIP, Dad.
We spoke about what we remember about Dad, and played 'Rhinestone Cowboy'. Then we played it again at the minister's suggestion, and someone suggested we sing along. The only ones who sang along were my sister and me. Our late mother had a glorious rich singing voice; she sounded like Judith Durham. I have a voice that could bring down a scud missile, and my sister is not much better. My 14yo was giving me Looks (the kids have banned me from singing in the house). Our brother joined in on a chorus, but would have been hard for him to harmonise with what sounds like tone deaf caterwauling donkeys.
Anyway, my son took some lovely pictures of us gathered at the headstone. I asked him to make sure he got the three of us, along with his uncle's headstone. This is the only picture I have of myself with ALL my siblings. I did have another one, but I think I lost it when my house flooded. In this picture, I am about eighteen months old, and standing at the front with the others around me. We are en route to the swimming pool, and posing near the ubiquitous family car of the Seventies: the station wagon. The picture is in black and white, and I have a rather grouchy look on my face. My sister is hanging onto me, and I look like I'm trying to get away. Maybe that's why I'm so irked looking. I hope I can find that picture.
Oh, and the kangaroos that survived the carnage on the road somehow got into the cemetery and pooped everywhere. The only kangaroo pellets you couldn't see you were standing on. It was a chore to avoid them when my sister and I were kneeling near the headstone trying to arrange flowers in the receptacles provided. Nobody wants to find a squashed, pancake-like piece of kangaroo dung plastered to their kneecap when they stand back up.
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