To my parents,

Around November 1957, half a world away, a seventeen-year-old left Croatia with just a few possessions in her suitcase. This girl was Milka Mejak, my mum-to-be. An attractive woman who had endured a not-so-normal upbringing.

Born in rural Croatia in 1940 she was one of six. Her father Andrej was killed in World War Two when she was three. Her mum and two other siblings died from disease when she was eight.

To say she didn’t experience much in the way of parenting is an understatement. Despite all this, she arrived in Australia in 1958, worked hard and made herself a new life.

Mum, or Emily, as you were called in Australia, I love you and all the things you’ve done for me over my life.

I love you for every whack (which broke numerous wooden spoons) and your persistent love. The values you instilled and all the lessons you’ve taught me have held me in good stead. I often recall your words, ‘If you haven’t got something good to say, then don’t say it,’ or, ‘You’re the eldest, so it’s your fault!’ I love you for the bacon and eggs you’d cook us each morning, and all of the lasagnas and roasts. Bless you for ensuring we had dazzling white shirts and immaculately ironed clothes. For all of your loving care and nurturing, I thank you with all my heart.

My dad Ljubo, or Danny as he became known, arrived from Croatia in 1960. On the day he arrived, he was offered a job as a painter, found a place to live and, bingo, met my mum!

My dad is my hero. He has had demons to fight, yet has shown me that most obstacles are conquerable with the right support. Dad instilled in all of us the values of hard work, perseverance and having fun. He worked hard; harder than necessary, but he saw opportunity. Australia was indeed the ‘lucky country’ for him.

Dad’s catchcry for as long as I can remember was: ‘Work hard at school, because I don’t want you to be a painter like me.’ After a hard day of work, he’d come and kick the footy with us in the park. He’d also take us to play our local football at Macleod, and he’d often be on goal umpiring duties.

Oh how sweet it was to kick that footy between the posts and have him smile proudly as he signalled the goal.  

When we were little he’d also let us punch him in the stomach ‘as hard as you can’, or as my brother Steve did, ram him like a rhino. This was all good fun until the day Steve’s aim became a bit low – poor Dad’s groin was black and blue for weeks!

If I needed help or support, you were always there, and for that, I love you. In your own ways, you are both extraordinary people, not perfect by any stretch but I feel so lucky and proud to call you mum and dad.

Love for eternity,

Walter