FRANK FITZMAURICE

Father. Builder. My hero

This was my Eulogy to Frank Fitzmaurice, grandfather of my daughter Jessica and my mate. He passed away mercifully at home in 2005 with his family - well overdue, given his latter ailments. He went with grace and dignity at the age of 87.

Frank came with my marriage to his youngest daughter Caroline Mary, who I knew for some years and married in 1982. She came to live with me in 1980 with her beautiful daughter Sarah Jane, Frank’s second grandchild. We were together for 20 years.

The first impression I had of Frank was that he accepted me, despite that I came on top of a divorce from Caroline’s first husband. I fast gleaned that Frank and Monica were devout Catholics, and I tried to learn more of what that meant. Caroline filled me in.

Cas and I had success and bought a place at Lindfield. Frank had already transmitted through Monica that he would help all his six kids equally, and in our case this meant putting in a French window at our house. He came, he did the work all in one day, it was great! We had excellent doors opening onto our new pool.

Later I moved the family to the country, and when he heard I planned to build a house, he graciously offered to help. Praise God he did! Frank was a builder by trade.

BUILDING THINGS

If Frank hadn’t been there, I would have messed up.

He came and showed me how to measure out the house footings. How to do a 3 - 4 - 5 triangular measurement and make it square. How to dig a pad, cement it, and make a brick pier on top. Then how to mark out endless numbers of them, so they were aligned.

There were road trips west, one of them without the girls - and we were done at days end so a trip to the pub was in order. Frank’s drinking days were mainly done, he was 70 and on doctor’s orders. But we drove the dirt roads to O’Connell and on the way I saw a culvert pipe.

’Hey Frank, that’d be great for Jess (then a 2 year old) to crawl through – let’s load it in the van on the way back’, I yelled.

’Nup’ he said - and that was that.

At the pub, as I had a second schooner and he nursed a shandy, I ventured the lesson. ‘I know your faith, and I’m sorry - I was wrong to suggest we steal that pipe from its random abandonment beside the road and take it home.’

Frank looked over and put me straight.

’Bugger that. I don’t want to do my back loading it into the van’, he said.

Turns out his back was injured in the war in a flogging from his jailors. I never knew this because he didn’t venture much. I found things out through his life and they always amazed me.

His kids knew some of it, but they were also learning parts as they came out. What happened in the Second World War sets the scene for people like me who are born afterwards.

PRISONER

The back injury came from when his Japanese jailor beat him with a lump of wood after he decked a guard who spat at him.

Frank was posted to Timor, and was captured then transported - the Japanese boat was sunk and he spent too much time in cold water. He told me he had another, earlier, sinking in warmer water along the way, and spent some time with sharks.

Eventually he was put to work at Mitsubishi in Nagasaki and was in the brick outhouse the morning the atomic bomb was dropped. He woke up after being knocked out, covered in bricks and staggered about, temporarily blind.

The story came out in bits. He didn’t like to talk about it when I met him, but was more released as the years went by.

In the mid 1990’s Frank and a mate were taken back to Nagasaki by a TV network for the 50^th anniversary of the bombing. We saw the documentary, and understood more.

He was taken up into the hills by an old Japanese lady, and eventually rescued by the allies. He’s never talked about what he saw amongst the death and the dying.

It’s a significant miracle he emerged unscathed and had no radiation exposure. He went on to breed six extremely healthy children, whose 13 offspring are all similarly unaffected. As are their children.

FATHER

I heard he was really busy, and away a lot when his kids were young. His loving and devoted wife Monica was and is to me the kind of wife and mum that any girl should aspire to be.

Frank had just retired when we met; and that meant still keeping his hand in. He was still finishing the retirement house at Tea Gardens which seems to have been built from ‘scoreage’, which is builder talk for what is left over on a job.

I saw his HX Holden wagon struggle up Hermington street with a stack on the roof rack, and a load in the trailer. They would add in a car load of grand children, and make it all look impossibly easy to deal with. Sure thing, take the kids, take half a ton of building materials, work all weekend. That was easy for Frank and Monica!

Cas loved her dad (and her mum) heaps, but she had trouble being ‘seen’ as the second youngest of six kids, especially since the beloved last kid was a boy. I think any ‘5th out of 6th’ is always going to feel slightly out of the loop. She had firm and supportive relationships with her older siblings.

Life for the Fitzy kids wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t too tough either. Monica kept them insulated from the gritty side of going broke and having a dad who was forced to work out around Dubbo, building fibro project houses – one a week. He worked like a man possessed. His son Tony carries on the tradition. They were tough as nails.

Frank was delightfully old fashioned. He wouldn’t let anyone swear in front of his women. He decked a guy at the pub for doing that. One time he and Tony came home from the pub; got changed, and went back. For a stoush.

Life was home, family, church, and school. The kids were all raised through the Catholic system and all have stories to tell about how tough that was. I still don’t ‘get’ why the Marist Brothers and the nuns were so tough – or cruel, depending on your outlook.

“They used to flog me every morning because I never did my homework” Frank told me of his school days around Strathfield. When I reacted to that, and said how bad they were, he bounced straight back: “Oh no, they were good blokes, I used to play football with them after school”.

AND THEN:

I did the unspeakable, and exited the family. No one has done that, which is a big strength 

of the Fitzmaurice’s. At least, none of the other 5 siblings lost a partner - the core of the family 

is together, and they stay together.

We would gather every Christmas and Easter, and be a big family. Mon cooked a big roast, 

and always made sure I didn’t get peas because I hate them. She never forgot.

I really missed it when I left, and probably unrealistically I pined for some kind of inclusion. 

It came eventually, Mon wrote to me, and I bumped into a bunch of Fitzys - especially Frank 

and Mon - at a Chinese restaurant. They were gracious, and Frank was warm to me. 

As if nothing had happened. It lifted my heart, and I left smiling.

The next time I saw Frank was at his funeral. 

Father Kevin rightly said that Frank was sentimental. He got the following poem out of his 

wallet before he died, and gave it to his first born, Tony.

When I come to the end of the road

And the sun has set for me

I want no rites in a gloom filled room

Why cry for a soul set free

Miss me a little – but not for long

And not with your head bowed low

Remember the love that we once shared

Miss me – but let me go

After, I walked alone and slowly to the front of the Tea Gardens Catholic Church as the 

crowd filed out behind the family. There was a photo of Frank taken just weeks earlier at Anzac Day. 

He was in the top frame, looking proud and happy and frail, wearing his medals. 

In the bottom frame he is sitting in an MG sportscar before the little Tea Gardens march. 

He is smiling beatifically. He made it. My tears smudged the glass.

Footnote

I got a lot of joy and comfort from my daughter’s relationship with her grand dad. 

Jess and Nathan visited him, prayed over him, and were there on Anzac day. 

Their connection reached out and was part of me.

Mentoring the boy

My upbringing was thin on male role models. The married Reverend with whom my mum was having a long affair was occasionally interested in what I did and thought, once when I was 14 he took me to lunch at Buckingham's Steak House in Elizabeth Street Surry Hills to talk about my future direction.

It might have been my tendency to gravitate towards older single males like Eddie Van Der Madden, the projection genious and associate of Roger Foley. Eddie lived in a horrible boarding house on the high end of the corner of Liverpool and Bourke street, East Sydney. His room was crammed with apparatus he had scrounged - like old projectors, and fish tank pumps on little glass chambers through which he would project light. I'd met Eddie at The Arts factory where I would hang with hippies who were wide on acid. I'd walk through clouds of hash smoke.

Like most creative types, Eddie was troubled and not recognised. His survival was centred on that squalid room, with the half eaten cans of baked beans, dust and relentless noise from the street - this is before the tunnel took the trucks out of Darlinghurst.

Sometimes when I knocked and knocked in the afternoon, he would stumble out of his manky bed, dressed in his Y fronts and a smelly shirt, and let me in, muttering, returning to bed to talk reluctantly to this long haired friendly kid who just asked too many questions.

I think the Reverend was worried.

Eddie was nothing more than sweet and helpful. So was Sid, who built me an oscillator effect from an old wooden boxed TV set. He wired a mic inside, and the black and white TV would produce an oscillating wave pattern in time with the music. It was an early entrant in my own 'lightshow' inventory.

I met Sid via the fabulous experiment that was Guriganya school in Paddington, where I served time after being ejected from Vaucluse Boys High. Sid was unlike most of the parents there because he didn't smoke dope and his child (aged about 6) was relatively normal. They lived a few blocks from me, and I would go down and hang and talk about his TV repair skills. Sid was very quiet and introverted, so I think he appreciated my gentle insistence. Then his wife Lorna became hostile towards me, either because she resented my intrusion, or suspected something sinister of Sid.

Later I would pester Michael Elvins, who headed a new hippy collective called Omnibus. It grew from the Aquarius Festival at Nimbin, where we all went in Paul Close's rock and roll Ford F350 truck. Three of us locked in the back on matresses - that was a wild ride, pitch black and rolling. Only 12 hours there, and 12 back.

Michael was gay and moved into the row of buildings on Glebe Point Road that a strange property developer gifted to the collective. I would help him putty coloured perspex into the broken window frames, and sweep and clear up for our opening concert.

Our coffee shop at the front had old carpet and parachutes, reminiscent of the Arts Factory. But the era had passed, and we didn't get the hippies or the heads. We just got angry local youth, and had to talk them down while they scared everyone away.

So mine was a journey of displacement, wandering the wilderness looking for men to inspire me and teach me how the world turned, since my own dad was both incapable and removed from my life. I'd decided when I was around six years old that he was not a popular or liked man,because people would avoid us in the street.

Kids know things.

I went to work part time for the lovely Robert Nicholls at Strand Hire, looking after the lighting equipment. He was gay and would invite me home for dinner with his circle of screaming queens. When one tried to lay hands on me, he rounded and defended me. No one ever tried anything else - how naive and fortunate was I?

Through Rob I met Roger Barratt - also gay - who was my greatest mentor, right through to 1980. He taught me so much, about life, lights, and business.

I married Caroline, and gravitated towards Frank Fitzmaurice, her dad. He was a builder, and helped me learn to build.  I have a blog about him here as well.

Even now, in my mid fifties, I tend to lean in and listen to the older guys. My most recent father in law was/is Don Nielsen, probably the nicest man I know. He was a structural engineer and loved nothing better than to come to Wahroonga and gently advise me on how to best engineer the footings and frame for one of the decks I built there from hardwood and Merbau.

Don is still up there, and still the well loved dad of my ex, which complicates things a titch.

That's the story of men who help boys. Maybe this will help anyone with a boy child better understand what is wired in their little minds.

Death. And what happens next?

Sunday morning in bed with a pot of tea and the newspapers. Puppies curled up together on the manky blanky out on the couch. My mind churns, stimulated by the stream of newspaper articles, short and long.

This one keeps coming back to me. It's about a mum with kids aged in her mid thirties and the husband dies leaving her wallowing without direction.

She says they just didn't accept he could die, so they didn't talk about what would happen if he did. Afterwards she tore the house apart looking for the letter, directions, wishes for their kids - anything. And he hadn't done it.

This theme has bothered me forever - the guy who dies and leaves chaos and misery in his wake. The guy who lives dangerously, acknowledges his addiction / habits / choices and doesn't change anything. The 'heart attack waiting to happen', as one girl told me this week about her lover who eats a tub of ice cream and nips out for a fag - but never sees a doctor.

On the other end of the rope is the hypochondriac, a label I applied to my deceased dad. He passed away at his use by date, but his endless health warnings drove me nuts. Like, burned toast gives you cancer. I think life itself is dangerous, and it is always terminal for all of us.

None of my wives had a Will when we married but they all did a week later. As soon as I married Caroline in 1980 I bought term life insurance, and I've had a policy ever since. Not one of the annuity products that the drippy AMP guy tried to sell you at your Uncle's recommendation. Are you old enough to remember the pitch for these? 'A weekly contribution and then when you are at retirement age you get ten million peso's'.

These days we have superannuation. Unless we are self employed or a muso, in which case we have either the old age pension or selling weed to look forward to.

Do me a favour. Write a fucking will! I've put a template at the bottom. I'm not a lawyer, but you don't need one to write a will. Keep it simple!

Back to the story. How can someone who is suffering a potentially life threatening illness, not Have The Discussion? Jody Thomson says if she went through it again, she'd look for someone to help instigate the discussion with her husband. It seems if you read between the lines that she probably did want to discuss the possibility with him, but maybe his determination to survive blinded her.

Should I be hit my a meteor, or be shot in a dark alley, there's a set of instructions, a will, and a life insurance policy in my office drawer. There is always one, and there always will be, Because I'm not selfish enough to check out and leave my descendants suffering more pain than they deserve.

Now let's talk about suicide. No, not now. Another time.

LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF

you
[Name of Testator]

I, [Name of Testator], a resident of NSW, being of sound and disposing mind and memory and over the age of eighteen (18) years, and not being actuated by any duress, menace, fraud, mistake, or undue influence, do hereby make, publish and declare the following to be my Last Will and Testament, revoking all previous will and codicils made by me.

I.  MARRIAGE AND CHILDREN

I declare that I am married to / or partner with (delete as applicable and insert name of spouse/partner here) and all references in this Will to my husband (change through will to reflect circumstances) are references to him.

I have the following children:

Name. Date of birth.

II.  EXECUTOR:  I appoint my spouse as Executor of my Last Will and Testament. If my spouse is unable or unwilling to serve, then I appoint the Public Trustee (NSW)  as alternate Executor.

My Executor shall be authorized to carry out all provisions of this Will and pay my just debts, obligations and funeral expenses, except mortgage notes secured by real estate, as soon as practical.

III.  SIMULTANEOUS DEATH OF SPOUSE:  If my husband shall die simultaneously with me, I direct that I shall be deemed to have survived my husband, and that the provisions of my Will shall be construed on such presumption.

IV.  SIMULTANEOUS DEATH OF BENEFICIARY:  If any beneficiary of this Will, other than my husband, shall die within 30 days of my death or prior to the distribution of my estate, I hereby declare that I shall be deemed to have survived such person.

V.  BEQUESTS:

I will give the persons named below, if he or she survives me, the Property described below:

VI.   ALL REMAINING PROPERTY; RESIDUARY CLAUSE:  I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my children per share, but if any child predeceases me, then his or her share will pass, per share, to his or her lineal descendants, natural or adopted, if any, who survive me; but if there are none, I direct that the share of any child of mine who shall have died leaving no issue shall be divided among my surviving children in equal shares.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I, [Testator], hereby set my hand to this last Will, on each page of which I have placed my initials, on this

________ day of ---- 20-- at NSW.



_______________________________________ [Signature]

Name

Address

WITNESSES

The foregoing instrument, consisting of x  pages, including this page, was signed in our presence by (Name of Testator)

______________________________________ [Signature of Witness #1]

______________________________________ [Printed name of Witness #1]

______________________________________ [Address of Witness #1]

______________________________________



______________________________________ [Signature of Witness #2]

______________________________________ [Printed name of Witness #2]

______________________________________ [Address of Witness #2]

______________________________________

Son returns to The Village

I came home. Who would have thought? My dad lived in Balmain and he dragged me there on custody visits. Old busses over old bridges - Pyrmont and Glebe Island.

Old buildings and new smells. Colgate Palmolive belching out soap, the container wharves lit like day and crane beeping all night.

A container farm opposite dad's place at Vincent street, threatening to explode and kill everyone.

The smaller container wharf at Mort Bay, with crazy truck routes up Church street - still so narrow that one car at a time can only pass. One day a truck turned hard onto Darling street, and dropped a 20' container on top of a car, killing the driver instantly.

With the sixties lazily becoming the 70's, my dad and I grew further apart. He had his new wife and his local issues to keep him angry. He couldn't break into the circles he coveted, he didn't have the humility to listen. His was a world of ideas and action, in that I am similar, but he demanded an audience. I've earned one, and if I don't listen I get cut down to size.

Balmain didn't feature on my list of places to live. Dad moved a decade ago, until then he would call me and rant about his neighbor, or his council, or his letters to the labor party that went unanswered. I had a disassociation with his suburb. I had a disconnect from him. He is now dead.

So I came home, by accident. I had to move - and Balmain seemed like a good idea. 

My second day, after unpacking and organising myself into my solitary small house, I walked the streets and looked for the downside. The nights were quiet in my street! Erin from across the road introduced herself. So did the other near neighbors.

I don't need the car.

I can walk anywhere.

My puppies meet a lot of dogs - Balmain has a massive K9 population.

And then there is The Oval.

One block away from me is Birchgrove Oval.

This is the view from the hill nearest to my place. It has a picket fence, outside of which is an off leash dog zone. Along the harbor walk is a little beach, and a jetty.

The two playing fields get used all the time - Rugby League and Soccer are on in the cool months.

Friday night parents sit on the hill as their kids practice soccer. Sunday night older guys play an informal game, as the girls sit on the hill and drink wine with dogs running crazy.

At first I couldn't figure out why the happiness level in Balmain was so markedly higher than up at North Turramurra, the tiny village nearest my former home.

Then I realised - people are really happy to live in Balmain.