Two Trains, a Bus and a Funeral.
We tend to think of life as being linear. That's not so. In our minds we hop back and forward through time. Often a life may branch out into multiple lives. Differing circumstance, different partners can alter the course of a life. We are not necessarily constant beings. We touch, and in return, are touched by others...

It was the perfect day for it, departure I mean. Heavy grey clouds hover ponderously over the city, like a grim of bishops deep in silent communion, the rains held in check until the business at hand is done.
8 and a half hours are laid out before me by way of two parallel lines of solid steel. That's how long it takes, from Melbourne Moss Vale. Then the coach to Albion Park and another train to Bomaderry / Nowra and they final goodbye. 13 hours in all.

Last week my uncle, Gerry Van Tussenbrook,, passed away. At my age it's easier to accept. The older you get, the better acquainted you become with death.
Even so, I am surprised at how deeply I feel now that I am on my way to his funeral. The reality has arrived, with my departure.
... ...
Last night, as I waited for sleep, I could see his room - or their room, I should say.
Gerry was married to my aunt, Francis.
They had style. Hollywood induced, but style all the same.
In my mind's eye I scan the room. They organised clutter of perfumes, hair brushes and other utensils of grooming, atomisers and such. Watching them prepare for an evening out used to enthrall me. The fact that once the construction of my Aunt's 'Beehive' was complete, she'd spray it with beer to set and hold it in place, seemed bizarre to say the least.
I thought she must be joking or teasing, but it certainly did the job.
Gerry's needs were more simple. A comb and Brillcream Dry look we're all he needed to maintain his brushed back 'flat top'. Maybe a bottle of Old Spice was employed to keep him fresh
My aunt Francis' favourite scent was Channel No 5. If Francis liked it, Gerry bought it. They were like movie stars that had decided to come visit and stay a while.
Truth was my mother, sister and I were the visitors. Extras on the set, as they played out their parts as the leading actors.
The luxury of Hollywood Regency found a nook to nestle in, if not presided over, in that modest red brick home. The sumptuous Queen Anne satin studded bed head and plush quilting dominated the room... It says it all.

Gerry had bought my aunt two Miniature French Poodles. One black, the other white. Shanny (after Chanel No 5) and Sootie, the name speaks for itself. We used to be allowed to wash, groom and comb the fleece of their warm woolly bodies and catch fleas with the combs made specifically for such things.

A heavy wave of nostalgia breaks over my reveries....

Summer days spent on old blankets sprawled over the grassy lawn, towelling off Shanny and Sootie as they squiggled with delight are now seen as heavenly moments.
The unrepentant sun would still sting our skin as we laughed and the poodles yapped, they seem to belong to another world, let alone another time.
... ...

The grass of the country side passing by my window seems pale in comparison. Bleached of life and inspiration. The land looks stressed. Wizened shrubs and cripoled bushes haunt the rolling hills and plains. Trees with blackened trunks give evidence of recent fire. The dark and heavy cloud endures, languidly poised and squatting low over the miles.
The whirring hum and clatter of the train become almost hypnotic. A hymn for the dispossed. Such is the prevailing mood, far better to retreat into memory, where I belong.
... ...

Francis and Gerry occupied the front room of my grandparents solid brick, lower middle class home. 16 John St, Ashfield. They lived there while working and saving for a deposit for their own home.
When life fell apart around my mother, Gerry was given the go ahead to build an extension onto the back of the house. One room, big enough, just, for a double bed, small dressing table and wardrobe for our mother, and bunk beds for me and my sister. There was also a TV and small sink and vanity unit. Such toys as we had were stored in cardboard boxes under the beds.
Children weren't allowed in the living room except on a Saturday morning or evenings during winter when the warmth of the coal fire was offered up for sharing.
One of my chores was the laying of the fire of a morning. Later, when deemed trustworthy enough, I was given the honour of setting a match to it... I can almost feel the warmth of it now.
... ...

The train shudders and brings me back into the now. I study it momentarily. You'd expect better. Human traffic has left it's mark. It smells stale and looks dirty and shabby. I guess no-one with a disposable income uses a train anymore so why bother trying to impress ? The sweat and other body odours of countless commuters stain and taints the air.
Inane conversation, though sporadic, is dull and uninspiring. Certainly not worth the effort of eaves dropping. Even in the slightest.
You can't open the windows to clear the air. I was better off back in the past.
... ...

Francis And Gerry desperately wanted children of their own. They 'worked hard at it' as Gerry would say. With a gleam in his eye that I was too young to understand, he'd wink and add 'but there is nothing wrong with a bit of hard work, eh, Stevie '
It took them 11 years in all.

But their struggle was our joy. Our mother was prone to nervous collapse and often obliged to take a long stay in various hospitals and sanitariums.
During these times Gerry would polish up his Ford Capri, check the oil and tires and with Francis by his side and my sister Stella and me tucked safely in back, we'd journey off to such. places as Mount Kosiosko. I suppose that Gerry being an immigrant from Europe - Rotterdam to be specific - lent a different kind of flavour to our expeditions. He made it feel authentic, especially among the chalets, bars and restaurants found around Smithers Hole, Thredbo and other trust spots among the Snowy Mountains.
Dressed in his polo neck jumpers and windbreakers he somehow looked more at home in the snow than a lot of others that made the annual pilgrimage. Fondue and mulled wine were nothing out of the ordinary to him. Australia in the mid sixties was still very parochial.

We'd be taken on mystery tours to The African Lion Safari or the Kiama Blow Hole which held an odd fascination for him. The trip that I remember most was the long drive down to Nowra. I was very young, and I can't say for sure if we visited friends or relatives of Gerry's, but I do vividly recall how 4 or 5 German Shepards came bounding down to greet the car. It was both an exciting and terrifying experience. Gerry told a story of how the house had once caught fire and the dogs had dragged the unconscious family to safety.
Weather it was a ploy to steady my nerves or a true story I never thought to ask in later years. But I choose to believe it and cherish the telling.

During these excursions around the country side, the sound track for our amusement or contemplation was by way of Gerry's pride and joy, his brand new, state of art, 8 track cassette player. He tended to shy away from Top 40 Hits format stations like 2SM or 2UE which was my preferred option... Francis liked The Beatles, Gerry preferred instrumentals. Looking back, I think his taste was guided or decided by the naked or scantily clad women on the covers rather than the music itself. He loved novelty or gimmicky kinds of bands, nameless all, but with busty but slim ladies implying This Could Be Yours, if you play this kind of stuff. mother of the groom dresses for summer
Sex sells.
Also, though his English was excellent, he perhaps the found lyrics harder to understand. His favourite colours? Nipple pink and aresole brown. He told us often enough. There's an insight in itself.
... ...

Looking out my window I see that finally the clouds have surrendered their cargo. It started out a half hearted and listless mist but now. as the train gathers momentum, so the rain gathers substance. Watery fingers streaming as they scrabble across my window appear to be clutching for a hold. I study my image, now made dense enough to surrender up some real detail, and consider the changes time has wrought upon me. There is real body in my reflection. Is that really me?
11.00 am and they are serving a tired attempt at Devonshire Tea, catering in vain, for the equally tired remnants of a passing generation.
I look washed out. 'My dreams just fading down to he railway line' I can hear Mick Jagger singing in my mind...
... ...

Gerry was fond of gadgetry. Slicers dicers - if it was electric and whirred and blended, he wanted one. Sometimes he'd come along with us to the Royal Easter Show and be intrigued by the 'stay sharp knives' that would saw through tin cans, chunks of wood etc. Magnetised things that spun and shone and glass cutters that could turn a wine bottle into goblet being displayed by speakers at various stalls would be studied and ctitersized. If there was a decent looking bird assisting, his interest would increase manifold. He was a dedicated husband, but had an eye for beauty.

No harm in that.

He bought home a tape recorder at one time. He'd sit there, in the kitchen, patiently entici g Stella or me to speak into the mike and then play it back to us.
'Here is 20 cents if you say somehing' he'd offer. I remember being horrified at the sound of my own voice. Even so, it fascinated me.

He was a fan the mechanical, of anything motorised. Sometimes he'd take me into the city where there was an enormous slot car racing track. I'd watch as he'd take part in speeding the cars around and around, always with the promise that when I was old enough, I d be allowed to have a turn. He bought a train set, built it up and again the promise, I'd get a turn when u was d enough. He was a big kid.
He found a hobby club one day and built a battery powered motorised boat. He painted it Gunship grey and sometimes he'd take me to a 'secret place' (a shed on someone's back yard, but no less exciting for it) and steer it around by remote control in one of the 2 or 3 pools provided for such purpose . They also had a smaller Scalextric set for those more inclined toward car racing. There was even a miniature steam engine and railway.

Those days were pure gold.
... .....

I have to do a eulogy for Gerry, I guess that's what all this is about. The thought of attending his funeral service saddens me deeply.
I watch as the landscape flashes by the window. It us like a two way mirror. I get the feel that I'm looking at my own potential ghost staring blankly back at me. Will other people see that image after I'm gone? Will they devine my image as they sit there in turn, staring at the emptiness outside? Their thoughts punctuated by a sometimes sad little town, or a sometimes happy little town....

Coffins, I find, all to often look way too small to fit a whole lifetime into. They never do justice to the body within.
The people in life always seem so much larger than the shiny little wooden boxes allow. Too small to be laid to rest in.

...... ......

Someone is tunelessly whistling behind me. Whistling creeps me out, the same way clowns do for some people. Especially when a young person or a child does it. Whistling belongs to the old. It is their sole province - at least to my mind.
Those with nothing left in life to sing about whistle. Tuneless and pointless. It's worse than the mournful call of the train as it hurtles through time and space.
... ...
What can I say about Gerry? He was a cool guy, a good guy? He had good taste in cars and a glad eye for women? There was so much more. He excelled in his work. He could see into people.
What can I say about the man who saw me as more than a long haired freak as I grew older?When others disowned me, he bought me my very first guitar and set me, inadvertently, on my way to becoming a musician.
My whole life and career could be owed to that one generous gesture.
No matter how much I shunned my family when I hit those tragically disenchanted moods that plague the youth, he still have a positive word, always a couple of twenty dollar bills in the breast pocket of his polyester shirt, whenever I'd deem fit to visit because of some family obligation.

How can I convey the pride and delight he took in his aquarium? The care and dedication to breeding tropical fish?
For a scarce few years he was like a father to me.
How can I explain how filled was his heart when finally their 'hard work' finally produced their one and only child, Kim? From that moment on his world evolved solely around her. His life was dedicated to her. She was the center of his universe. And what a tribute to their mutual love! Kim was and is, a true beauty.
Yes, they both treasured her, they were extremely protective, doting even - but who could blame them? I am as happy for them now as I was then. Funny there was no jealousy on my part. I am the oldest of my family now - bar my aunt Francis. I remember far more of Gerry than any of my siblings, but I know all our lives were enriched by his generosity and humour.
He wasn't perfect - but he was smart and mischievous and a dangerous co-conspirator on cracker night. He could silently slow bowl a double burger up close behind you and make you jump six foot in the air when it exploded. It was hysterical to watch and terrifying if you were the unsuspecting target.
He launched a jumping jack one time, and it chased my grandmother all over until it burnt itself out. His child like humour and cheeky as hell grin was all that saved him on occasions like this.

But families grow and drift apart.
You don't care less, you just don't often find the time or place to express it.
The last time I saw him was my mother's funeral. He was close to her and deeply saddened at her passing.
He'd found a moment to grab my arm and lead me aside for a private moment.
'If you need anything... You know, don't be afraid to ask. If there's anything I can do...'
I think those two simple sentences say all is needed to explain the man.

........ .........

I look out the window. On a train there is little else to do. Nothing has changed. The country out side appears to be on a tape loop being endlessly recycled to show the passing of time.
Driving the message home.
There is nothing new. Nothing really changes.
I am an uncle now. Several times over. I hope some of my nieces and nephews think as kindly of me. I had a good role model.
Things come and go. People come and go. Endlessly recycled, we loop through our existence until finally the tape snaps. And then it ends.
... ...
Post Script.
it was a lovely service. I said my piece. People were full of kindness. It was genuine. Kim told a story about playing poker machines with Gerry, her dad. He'd stake her and let her keep her winnings, and if he won he'd give her half. At the pub, after the wake, I walked past one of those crane like drop and grab machines. It was full of Minions.
'Okay, Gerry' I said to myself, 'show me what you're made of. If I win I'll give it to Kim and say its from you. '
No lie, I had a single dollar coin. I dropped it in the slot, worked the gears, lined it up a dropped. Yep. I got it first go and the first time ever in my life I picked up the prize. It was the size of a brick!
I walked over to Kim and said 'This is for you. Your father really wanted you to have it'
My taxi arrived a minute later and my 12 hour journey home had begun. I felt I'd done all that was needed and could do no more.