This is the Eulogy I delivered at the funeral service of my mother, Helen Virginia Richardson - nee Cassidy.
Helen Richardson
Born 4 March 1915 - Died 19 June 2007
The last time I stood in this spot I said goodbye to Pauline. After I returned to my seat, Mum whispered, “Did you have to take so long? Father looked as if it was getting all too much!” Well Ma - I’ll try to do it a little quicker this time - but no promises.
Today I do not intend eulogising in the traditional sense but to tell a story - a love story.
Like all such tales, it is not of wine and roses, but of the many ups and down that life so often throws at us.
This is a story that attempts to explain my relationship with my Mum. However it relates just as much to Johnny and Dave. Guys, I’m sure Mum would want you to be a part of this so would you mind coming up here and being with me?
How far back should I go in telling you of Helen Virginia Richardson, nee Cassidy. Probably to before she was born. To when her great-grandfather was the Episcopalian Bishop of Chicago and her grandfather a young Minister. Unfortunately her grandfather’s marriage broke up and he was banished by his father, with his young daughter Florence, to Australia.
He soon found himself ministering to the needs of miners in the goldfields of Western Australia. If you have ever been to Kalgoorlie you would understand that it was certainly not the best place for a single dad to raise a young daughter.
Skip forward a number of years by which time grandfather had died and young Florence had found her way to Brisbane, where she was befriended by a well known family, the Rothwells, who ran a men’s clothing store in the city. She lived happily with them for some time until she met, fell in love with, and married Bill - William Patrick Cassidy - a handsome young banker.
The Cassidys were transferred to various Commonwealth Bank branches around the state. In the meantime, they had five children, Florence, commonly known as Pat and later Sister Pius (or Pi to me and to all who followed), Helen, Reg, Joan and Faris.
In spite of the fact that she was the granddaughter of a Bishop and daughter of a Minister of another church, Florence became a staunch Catholic and helped raise her family in that faith.
Florence was not a strong woman and needed a lot of support as the family grew and Bill’s responsibilities as a banker occupied more of his time.
Upon leaving school, Pat joined the Sisters of St Joseph which meant that she had little family contact. This left Helen in the position of being her mother’s carer and surrogate mother to her siblings. She told me that she was often called home from school to tend her mother. This became such a common thing that she fell badly behind in her schoolwork, to the extent that she was unable to complete Scholarship (year 8 I think it may have been in those days) and, at age 13, she had a nervous breakdown.
To try and get her back into order, she was sent to live for a time with her paternal grandmother on her farm outside Dalby. These were happier days and she soon recovered.
Move forward again in time and Helen had become a young woman whose caring ways lead her into the profession of nursing. So good was she, and so committed, that she soon became a nursing Sister, a fact that she was most proud of.
Whilst stationed in Bundaberg, she met a young man, Herb Richardson. He was ten years older than her and had lead a very sheltered life in Longreach, helping support his widowed mother. Helen and Herb fell in love, married, and after Helen, unbeknown to Herb, applied in his name and won a job as foreman motor mechanic in Brisbane, moved there and took up residence in Toombul, just three doors from her mum and dad.
It was only a short time later that she fell pregnant and, nine months later, delivered me into this world. From all accounts, those were very happy days. She told me that on one occasion she left me with Gran while she went to do some shopping in Fortitude Valley. She always loved shopping and as she gaily wandered around the stores, kept smiling at fellow shoppers and saying under her breath, “I’ll bet you don’t know what I’ve got at home.”
This was in 1942, some time after her brother Reg had joined the Royal Australian Air Force. There is a poignant story there too. Until the day he decided to enlist he had been tearing himself apart trying to decide what to do. He wanted to become a Christian Brother but also wanted to help his country - for it was at war.
I am lead to understand that at that time, the Holy Eucharist (or Communion) could come in different hues. Sometimes it would be a white and at other times a brownish wafer. Because he wanted to do God’s will, he made a pact with Him that if he was given a brown wafer at communion he would join the brothers but if it was white, he would join the Air Force. That morning, the priest picked up a brown wafer then put it down, picked up a white one and administered it to him. Reg immediately enlisted.
He was stationed at Amberley were he learnt to fly and was soon promoted to Sergeant Pilot. The stories of him flying his open cockpit biplane to Brisbane and the Darling Downs, scaring the life out of family and friends by doing flypasses upside down, are quite legendary.
Anyway it was very shortly after my arrival that he was transferred to South Australia. Mum recounted to me how she had given him a very rough time just before he left as he lovingly carried me around our house with my head cupped in his hand and my body lying along his forearm.
He left for South Australia and three months later, on 3 June 1942 when I was just three and one half months, mum was sitting on the veranda feeding me and saw the telegraph boy making his way up the street. This was a much feared situation during the war as telegraph messages were often from the military telling of the death in combat of a loved one.
The telegraph boy stopped at gran and pop’s place. With a heavy heart, mum raced down to find her distraught mother gripping the message that did indeed report the tragic death in air operations of her beloved 24 year old son Reg whilst on a night exercise off Kangaroo Island. Three planes had been sent out in wild weather, one quickly returned but the others never made it.
The whole family was shattered. Mum was devastated because she and Reg had been so close. What made the situation even more tragic was that the bodies were never recovered so the families were not able to have closure such as we are having today.
About eighteen months later life took on a brighter hue when Mum found out she was again pregnant. However, shortly after, she lost the baby and again was in despair. All this time, she sought solace by drawing me closer and closer. She never again wanted the heartbreak of losing a loved one.
Fortunately, a couple of years later on, Pauline came along. Mum was over the moon, just as she was when subsequently, John, and after a long recovery or preparation period - I don’t know which - David arrived also.
By the time I was 15 or 16 and my siblings still pre-teen, I began to feel the effects of a large dose of testosterone. I was growing up and began looking at life from a different perspective. I noticed that all girls were not like sisters, there was a distinct difference, and the difference was good. As I started to change, Mum was faced with the prospect of once again losing a loved one, a thought that was by now intolerable to her. She wanted to stop the process and the only way she knew how was by word of mouth, with the result that arguments ensued, arguments that continued for many years. One sided arguments I have to say. My reaction generally was to build a barricade to wait behind until the barrage was over. Over the years it became a permanent structure.
The problem was not mine alone. It was eventually faced by all my siblings. That was the fierce but stifling love of a mother who had had a somewhat difficult life. Our respective partners were all singled out at various times for being the cause of her losses.
In retrospect, none of us were savvy enough to understand that the flare-ups were the torment of a soul grieving a loss that could not be closed.
I guess things went on that way until Dad was diagnosed with cancer and, when we found out it was terminal, Mum was devastated. Not only did she once again endure the death of a dear one, but it was that of the one who had been the rock on which her life was built, her soul mate.
Some time after Dad died - on his 75th birthday - Mum moved from Southport where she had lived for 15 years, to Greenleaves Retirement Village here at Upper Mt Gravatt. She threw herself into village life and soon became the organiser of many social activities. She quickly and easily made some very dear friends, people like Don Anderson who, with Pauline, helped dampen her grief.
Within the period of a few short years she lost her older sister Pius and younger sister Joan. However, it was Pauline’s passing in 1996 that shattered her. By then in her 80’s, she had nursed Paul night and day until the evening she died. Mum’s pain was intense. By the time her last remaining sibling, Faris, died a year later, the fire had extinguished. There were no more arguments.
Five years ago Mum moved into Abri on the Gold Coast because she was no longer able to fend for herself properly at Greenleaves. She had health problems but with the help of her very good friend Danny Russell and an acquaintance of hers, Dr Mark Spelman who diagnosed incorrect medication, she recovered from her mental trauma.
Now, about two years ago, Rob and I were looking after a caravan park in Katherine NT for friends who wanted a holiday. One evening we shared happy hour with a fellow who was travelling alone and after an hour or more of banter, he told me he wanted to help me. I had no idea what he was talking about. He said that my mother was still alive and that we had had a turbulent relationship. He said that she no longer wanted to be here but I was holding her back. She would not go until she had closure and that meant forgiveness. I told him he was mad.
Life continued in pretty much the same vein for the next couple of years. Mum continued to hang in but her quality of life was worsening. Then, one day as I sat by her chair looking at this very frail old lady who could no longer hurt a soul, a large lump welled in my throat. Slowly I climbed my personal barricade and moved away from it. “Loves you Ma!” I said. It didn’t take long for a reaction. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked straight back into mine and replied, “Loves you too darling!”
That was it. I had formally declared PEACE. We both knew she could now go and join the huge band of family and friends who had gone before her.
As she quickly declined,the family began gathering around to say goodbye, but then she pulled back. She had apparently decided there was one last matter outstanding. The next time we flew up to see her, she was having difficulty with speech. We stayed a week and on the second last day before we had to return to Sydney, she whispered to me, “I’m sorry. So sorry.”
Mum died about two weeks later, quietly and peacefully. It was the morning of 19 June. She was 92.
Dave received a phone call from Abri at about half past midnight to tell him that her breathing had become irregular and they thought it was nearly time. He made me so proud when he told me he sat with her for four hours and prayed the rosary with her, something he hadn’t done for many years. She couldn’t speak but made signs that indicated she knew what was going on. He was trying really hard to remember all the words and got most of them right. However, when he said during the Our Father, “but deliver us into evil” she became somewhat agitated. Changing it to “unto evil” didn’t help the situation at all. It was only after he realised it should have been “but deliver us from evil” that she finally settled down.
At about 4.00am the nurses suggested to Dave that he go home and have some sleep as Mum appeared to have made some improvement. He did so but at around 8.05am he received a call to say that she had just passed away.
Mum lived a long and very fruitful life. She made friends easily and outlived many of them. She was much loved, which was indicated vividly to Dave as he went back to sit awhile with her after she had died. Quite a few of the Abri staff, many with tears in their eyes, knocked on her door, came in and whispered, “Just wanted to come in to say goodbye!”
Notwithstanding that she did not have much of an education at school, very few would have realised it. She was very literate and wrote beautifully. I think that I took after her in that she was also a bountiful writer, some might even say verbose, particularly when she wanted to explain to me some of the weaker points of my personality!!
I should recount a story from my very early days when I think the Sisters of St Joseph had a bit of fun at her expense. I didn’t like writing and was able to con her into doing my homework compositions. She did so dutifully until one day when she really did not have the time and I had to write my own. Imagine my delight when I got my homework pad back with the comment, “A marked improvement!”
Mum was a great organizer and spent quite a few years as President of the St Columbans Christian Brothers College Parents and Friends Association.
Even when she was unable to look after herself, Mum would insist that the girls at Abri dress her as she deemed fit, in matching attire and with jewellery and makeup to complement the clothes of the day. She was indeed a very elegant lady.
And then, of course, as a nurse - sorry Mum - Sister, she was a wonderful healer. I remain constantly amazed that once a month until about six years ago, Mum and her fellow nurses from Bundaberg hospital met for lunch and a chat. They did it for nigh on 65 years.
Well, that’s it then.
That’s something that for many years I have wanted to stand here and say. Father Kevin Aspinall, a much loved and long time parish priest here at St Bernards until his untimely death some years ago used to say it each Sunday. He would deliver his sometimes lengthy sermons then taunt us all with a “Well, that’s it then”. Generally speaking it wasn’t. He often continued on and on. Well can I remember two or even three, “Well, that’s it then”s.
Anyway, that’s my story - my love story.
Mum will be cremated and in a few weeks will join Dad and Paul in the Columbarium just outside the side door.
In closing, can I ask you to spend a moment reading the little poem that Pi sent her grieving mum following Reg’s death. It says in just a few lines what I could never have said.
Loves you Ma!!
Cross Bearer Peter
Symbols Reader Robyn
Pall Brian, John & David
Flowers Jason
Cross Ben
Prayer Book Adam
Candle Shane & Steven
1st Reader Lisa
2nd Reader Kylie
Intercessions Toni
Gifts Shane & Fi
Sprinkling holy water Brian, John, David & any others
Coffin bearers Peter, Jason, Shane, Steven, Ben, Adam
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