THE COMMUNITY HALL, 5 APRIL 2014
It was wonderful to see everyone, so many of whom had travelled from interstate, gathering to be part of this ceremony for David. I was overwhelmed by the numbers who kept arriving, and the chairs in the community hall quickly filled with actors and writers, film crews and financiers; my brothers, my cousins, our neighbours and friends from the mountains and dozens of contemporaries of our children, who had spent so much time hanging out at our place when they were youngsters. Such a mixed representation of his life, and of our lives together.
It’s a fantastic day. Miriam’s the MC; David’s oldest friend from his New Zealand days delivers the eulogy; friends speak or recite poems; our grandson Sam represents the next generation, giving a touching and at times humorous talk; Ethan plays his guitar and sings. There’s so much warmth and laughter, and many rich memories are stirred. Two of the actors have come dressed in their character’s wardrobe from the bikie film, Stone, that David was involved in back in the early 1970s. To the soundtrack of that same film, David’s heavy homemade casket is wheeled from the hall and up the road to the cemetery, everyone following in a long procession, holding hands and sharing more stories.
When my mother died, David was working on a film project with a prominent Indigenous actress who told him of their tradition of adopting a native animal or bird as their totem, their spirit. My mother loved currawongs, a bird with an aggressive reputation yet the most beautiful carolling song. As we lowered her casket into the ground the entire gathering evoked a chorus of currawongs calling – it was spine-tingling and I know she would have loved every moment of it.
David had chosen the majestic black cockatoos that live in the forests around our village as his totem. At certain times of the year they travel in great flocks, very high in the sky, and their cacophonous calls flood the air for days at a time. More commonly they travel in pairs or small family groups, swooping low and screeching along the way. They are huge creatures who crash clumsily into the tree branches when landing and create havoc below as they recklessly pluck, peck and discard pine and cypress cones. Frequently they hang upside down from the branches in a comical fashion, eating and calling to their friends. During the service I invite our guests to send David off with the call of the black cockatoo. It’s more a high-pitched shriek than a call, and I deliver a not-very-plausible rendition as an example.
At the graveside everyone gathers and the casket is slowly lowered into the ground with a black cockatoo chorus to see him on his way. One of the actors, true to character, lights up a joint, takes a deep drag then symbolically throws it down to David. There are half a dozen shovels so everyone has a chance to help cover the coffin as a final gesture. I’m still numb.
The party goes on for hours, with finger food, cake and cups of tea and champagne; followed later in the day by a huge barbecue with even more wine and beer. I tiptoe away quite early, exhausted, but am not surprised to hear the hangers-on still carousing at three in the morning. They’re invisible when I get up the next morning. Some have camped in the community hall out the back and I also notice tents pitched in the paddock. We don’t see them until later that day, looking a bit shabby. It certainly has been a raging send-off for my dear old bloke.