My Mum’s Eulogy – 15 July 2026

From a number of perspectives, it is amazing – or according to Mum, ‘ridiculous’ – that she had such a long life. Born in 1927, four and half years later, the WA Govt deemed the family to be destitute and declared Mum and her older brother Joe, Wards of the State, and placed them in St Vincent’s Foundling Home, a Catholic orphanage in Subiaco, (now Catherine McAuley Centre). At the same time, Mum’s mother Vera (Veronica) was placed in the neighbouring Good Shepherd Convent, a refuge for troubled women and troubling young girls. According to State Government records, Vera was suffering from a nervous breakdown, and I believe that she was almost certainly pregnant, and our grandfather, Joseph was described as an ‘unemployed farm hand’ who was of ‘good character’, ‘poor’ but ‘sober’. He was attempting to survive the Great Depression by rabbit trapping somewhere on the outskirts of Perth.

Mum and Joe lived in the orphanage for three years.

The single most telling memory of her time in St Vincent’s foundling home and orphanage is of frequently climbing onto a ledge from where she would look through a window in an attempt to see her mother. These exercises were in vain because she never saw her mother during this period. How confusing and painful this must have been for Mum and Joe.

Fortunately, just in time for Christmas in 1934, the family was reunited and a period of relative normality followed for the next 8 years.

In December 1943 aged just 43, Mum’s mother died. Mum had just returned to live with the family in Toodyay after spending three years as a boarder in St Joesphs College in Victoria Square, her fees paid for by her uncle Johnny Corry. Mum passed her Junior Certificate with flying colours and went on to work as a bookkeeping clerk for Dalgety’s.

In 1946, aged 19 and 22, Mum and Dad married. They parented six children and there were also two miscarriages and a still born. Theirs was a solid partnership. There were the innovative meals that they both produced: Mum’s favourite was Mexican rice and Dad’s was mutton curry. Mum sewed all of my clothes and many of my brothers’ when they were little. Then there were the jumpers that dad produced on a huge knitting machine, and the fancy dress ball costumes that they produced together, not just for Peter, Phil, Tony and me, but also for the other 7 kids that made up our sets at St Mary’s and CBC Leederville annual fancy dress balls. For many years they played tennis together and sang in a choir led by renowned WA musical educator and choral leader John Christmass OAM. And of course, there was our place at Mandurah which, with the help of Peter and Phil and a couple of rellies, Dad built and Mum fitted out with curtains that she made on her Necchi sewing machine. This was our other home – where we spent all of our school holidays and many more weekends.

Perhaps because of her very frugal childhood, Mum and Dad were always on the lookout for a bargain. One of the central elements of this thriftiness was Mum’s fortnightly grocery shopping expeditions. Carried out for many years with her close friend Doreen Beeson who would drive (Mum only got her driver’s licence when I was about 17 and my boyfriend Steve Meyrick taught her to drive) the two of them from one supermarket to another armed with a shopping list that circled the specials advertised in the West Australian by shops such as Matheson’s, Charlie Carter’s, Tom the Cheap Grocer and Freecorns.

When Mum was in her early forties the ravages of nine pregnancies left her seriously ill and culminated in her nearly losing her life to a massive haemorrhage. That she accepted this as her lot was a consequence in part of her tough no-nonsense upbringing and also sadly in keeping at the time with societal and church attitudes to women’s health. But quite fortuitously, the doctor on duty in the hospital was unusually sympathetic and insisted on a hysterectomy. Apart from saving Mum’s life, he also unknowingly unleashed in Mum a huge change in direction.

First, she completed her Leaving Certificate at night school at Perth Modern. One teacher in particular really left his mark on Mum; my brothers will recall her oft repeated refrain, ‘Mr Tomlinson said’ as an endorsement of an argument or a point she would make about an issue.

Three years later she had completed a teaching degree at Churchlands Teachers College (aka Edith Cowan University). And while this is truly remarkable, our tough no-nonsense mum who couldn’t draw for nuts (Dad was our clever craftsperson and watercolourist) blew us out of the water by becoming an accomplished artist. Under the tutelage of her college lecturer, the famous WA impressionist artist Elizabeth Ford, with whom Mum made many trips to WA’s outback, our Mum produced outstanding abstract and impressionist paintings that depicted landscapes and beach scenes, industrial and mining sites, sacred images, and a wonderful composition showing five well rounded women sitting on the retaining wall outside the Scarborough Hotel at the Sunday session. Many of these grace the walls of homes including throughout WA and are proudly displayed in our homes both here and in the eastern states.

Mum faced another tough challenge when Dad passed away in 1979, aged just 55. But, not long after, one of the ways that she moved through her grief was to embark on her first overseas trip. It was just an easy little tour – to India where among her adventures, she collided with a cow while riding a bike – almost certainly her first and I am pretty sure her last time on a two wheeled vehicle. Many trips followed to the Seychelles, Europe, the UK and Ireland – including with her beloved friend Sheila Doran.

After working for many years teaching young boys at Aranmore College, Mum’s retirement years were not spent in a rocking chair. This inspirational woman continued with her art, tutored many young people, volunteered for charities including by teaching refugees, and sang in the Spirit of the Streets Choir until well into her 80s.

I’m sure that many among Mum’s family and friends will have memories that they cherish. Three come to mind that I think capture Mum’s sense of fun and love of life. When our three girls, Dom, Bron and Tess were very little, one of Mum’s favourite tricks was to chase them around the house, usually on all fours, and always with her false teeth suspended outside her mouth, shouting ‘I’m goin catch ya and I’m goin to eat ya’. And of course, they would scream in a combination of fear and delight as they ran ahead of her. Twenty plus years later, the same scenario was then played out with our grandchildren in Melbourne.

When Mum was in her early 80s, and at a family wedding, she could not handle sitting out while other guests, all much younger than her, were dancing. There was nothing subdued about the music or the dancing. It was pumping. But, this was precisely what was making her feet itch and the desire to join the crowd irresistible. She jumped to her feet, joining a huddle of younger women that were already on the floor, and danced as if she was doing an aerobics session for the next 15 minutes or more.

Just as Mum loved to dance, so too she also loved to swim.

Also in her 80s, at the end of a hot day in the Hunter Valley where Mum was holidaying with Sue and Steve, Tessa and me, she was enviously watching us cool off in the pool. Unfortunately, she had not brought her bathers. No more than five minutes passed before she had stripped to her underclothing and was in the pool.

The next day was just as hot and so we all made use of the pool again to cool off. This time Mum borrowed shorts and a T shirt, so we were deprived of the novelty of her outfit of the previous day. However, we were not disappointed. Steve was adjudicating a mock display of ‘Olympic standard’ synchronised swimming that Tessa and I were practising. Mum decided to join us by copying the routine. This involved her fearlessly duck diving to the bottom of the pool and doing a handstand. The challenge was to keep her legs straight for a few seconds and then move them in a series of three scissor kicks. Worried that she was under the water for an inordinately long period of time, I encouraged Steve to pull her up. With hair and water streaming down her face, she asked ‘did I keep straight?’. All we could do was laugh because she is so short that we could not see her legs at all beneath the water.

No doubt you will have your stories and cherished memories about Pat; Mum; or Nana. Please do not hesitate to share them. That’s a good way of honouring her memory. But perhaps an even better way is to recognise in yourself those life engaging characteristics that you may have in common with Mum and grab hold of life with the tenacity, courage, quirkiness and love that she displayed during her 99 years.

Zion

The directions on my information sheet told me to enter at the main entrance of the convent on St Heliers St and follow the signs to the Linen Room. As I made my way through the elegant grounds of the complex, past a café and other food outlets, contemporary art installations, and pop up markets, and then to my destination for the day, it dawned on me that I had a connection to the convent and its history. This was the ‘Linen Room’ of the old Abbotsford Convent in Melbourne, a huge double room with gloriously high ceilings and ornately carved mahogany wood work.

In its heyday the Linen Room would have been a less joyous space serving a less genteel or romantic function. It was an industrial laundry – Victoria’s biggest – run by the Good Shepherd sisters, with the labour provided by its female inmates – juvenile delinquents placed there via court orders by the police, or young unwed pregnant women sent there by their parents in an attempt to avoid moral opprobrium.

The convent closed in 1972, and around that time, my Mum’s cousin Naomi lived there. A social worker by profession, Naomi was also a Good Shepherd sister. While she spent much of her working life in the order’s convent in Leederville Western Australia, she also spent some time at Abbotsford.

I seem to recall that this was also the location of a dramatic standoff staged by a number of young inmates who climbed onto the roof, either as a protest against their incarceration or just as an act of gleeful rebellion. I have vague memories of TV news footage of police cars and ambulances assembled in the grounds trying to encourage the young women back to safety. I was a young woman myself at the time and the incident reverberated not just because of Naomi’s association with the place. She had earlier given me the opportunity to spend a couple of days at the Leederville convent getting some insights into social work and what the Good Shepherd sisters did with young women. The two days were enough to put me off social work for life.

Just a few years ago I sought out Naomi’s assistance to provide me with some documented evidence of my maternal grandmother’s stay at the Leederville convent from 1931 to 1934. I know she stayed there because the state government child welfare records attest to this fact. My mum Pat and her brother Joey– aged 4 and 5 respectively – were made wards of the state in 1931 ‘under a Court Committal Warrant issued in Perth’ and placed in St Vincent’s Foundling Home for the next three years.

Immediately next door was the Good Shepherd Convent, where their mother Vera had been placed having suffered a nervous breakdown, which the child welfare records suggested had ‘affected her slightly mentally’. This was the great depression. My grandfather, destitute and ravaged by alcohol, had gone off rabbit shooting, a common way to scrape together a living.

Aside from their economic woes, in 1928 my grandmother had also suffered the loss of a third child called Joan – aged three and a half months, to ‘Marasmus Asthenia’ or malnutrition. They were living in Belka – not much more than a rail siding – in the Wheatbelt region of Western Australia.

Sadly, search of the records at Leederville and at the head office in Abbotsford failed to find anything about my grandmother’s time under the Good Shepherd sisters’ care. My mum believes that Vera gave birth to a fourth child while staying in the convent. While there are no records of this, it is very likely that the child was informally adopted out, the shame carefully hidden by my grandmother’s better-off siblings and the Good shepherd sisters.

Today, I was one of about 150 people gathered at the convent to participate in a singing workshop with Clare Bowditch, a popular singer with a solid following in Melbourne.

Ranging in age from their late twenties through to their sixties (my age), most of the people were from Melbourne, and I suspect the more hip parts of the city. Attire was casual and dominated by colourful summery outfits that you would see in Brunswick St boutiques. A handful of men were among the crowd, mostly in their 40s or older.

He was sitting by himself near the wall, eyes down, nervously fiddling with his smart phone. Perhaps about 16 or 17, with warm brown skin and finely sculpted Asian features, he was a stand out among the buzz of conversations that filled the room.

A lone visitor to Melbourne, I wondered whether I should say hello to this boy-man. As he lifted his head and looked out into the crowd I decided that I would approach him. Immediately, he stood, and his beautiful face lit up with a gorgeous smile. ‘I’m Zion’, he said, and without missing a beat we were talking.

As a guess, I thought perhaps he was Vietnamese. ‘No’, he said, ‘I’m a bit Chinese, a bit Indian and I’ve got some European somewhere’, as his voice trailed off.

He was just a few weeks into year 11 and vocal studies was one of his subjects. This was enough to establish a link because Dom, my eldest daughter had done exactly the same in her HSC just over 20 years earlier. Then our second point of contact was revealed when he told me that he was at Footscray City College. Dom’s first born, Joe had just started there and, as a fresh 7th grader, was having a few struggles settling in. Zion offered to speak to the year 7 coordinator to look out for Joe. I was very touched by his readiness to do this.

Coming to the choral workshop, which was promoted as an opportunity for people who have had little or no singing experience to ‘have a go’, was a big deal for Zion. His Mum suggested that he do so as a way of gaining some performance experience. He told me that he was worried about how he will go with his music studies, nervous because, by contrast with others in his class, he had only just begun to learn singing. But, so far, his assessment marks had been about the same as theirs. He was reassured by this; proud of it. Being at the workshop was clearly an important part of his efforts to build his confidence.

Ok, I thought. I had better not outstay my welcome. So, I left my bag on top of a stack of plastic chairs that were clustered behind and next to where we had been standing and made my way to the Ladies’ toilet. When I returned a few minutes later, Clare had appeared, and people were picking up cushions or grabbing chairs and moving into the workshop space. I retrieved my bag and took a chair. As I did so, Zion followed me, positioning his chair next to mine at the back of the crowd.

As is usual in a choral setting, Clare took us through a series of warm up exercises that involved walking around the room, moving our bodies in silly ways and making silly noises. Zion was fine with that. Returning to the safety of our chairs, we nodded to each other and he added a smile of delight and relief.

Then Clare introduced our first song, the simple but powerful ‘Wade in the Water’. Zion’s voice was tentative, barely audible, taking a while to find the correct notes. As the morning progressed, however, I could hear him more clearly. The notes spot on, the timbre round and warm. The second song, Katy Perry’s ‘Roar’, was a little more complex. Clare introduced a couple of alternative harmonies. Most of the people stayed with the safety of the melody but Zion chose one of the harmonies, singing them confidently, beautifully. I gently touched him on the arm, smiled and gave him a thumbs-up.

At lunch time we went our separate ways, so when we returned to the afternoon session of the workshop, I was a bit surprised that he again chose the safety of our spot at the back of the crowd.

The preparatory notes sent to us before the workshop included advice about bringing something special to wear at the performance for family and friends. In opening the afternoon session, Clare gave us a few tips about managing performance nerves and making the most of life. I found the life lessons a little tiresome, a bit too borrowed from the ‘wellness’ school. Then she reminded us about the dressing up advice for our performance later in the afternoon. ‘Have you got your suit?’, I jokingly asked Zion. I think I shouldn’t have said that. ‘No, I’ve got casual pants and a shirt’. ‘Great’, I said. We both chuckled but there was something in his tone which suggested that I may have momentarily shaken his confidence, and I instantly regretted it.

A third song – not my favourite – and then a fourth song were introduced: Crowded House’s ballad ‘Fall at Your Feet’. Clare suggested that we all move closer to the front. I dragged my chair a little way forward, not wanting to move too far from the comfort of my spot in the back corner. However, Zion left his chair, and made his way into the thick of the crowd and found a place on the floor among the cushion sitters. Yes, I thought, that’s a good thing.

At about 4.00 o clock, the workshop finished, and we were given half an hour to get a bit tizzed up and to rest before a final dress rehearsal and our performance.

My preparations took about 10 minutes at the most. So, I returned to the reception area where people were chatting, having a cuppa and one of the scrumptious treats on offer, or sorting out their outfits.

Then through the crowd I spotted Zion. He was sitting on the other side of the room in the same place he had been early in the morning. He now had another chair in front of him and on it was assembled a panoply of gorgeous cosmetics – foundation, blush, eye shadow, eye liner and mascara – which he was applying with great poise and grace. I glanced at him fleetingly, careful not to let him see me doing so but he was in a bubble of self-absorbed concentration, so I doubt he was aware of me, or anybody else in the room. Nor would it seem that they were they looking at him either. Just before 5.00 o’clock, a middle-aged woman with two little children in tow made her way to Zion and embraced him, and I immediately wondered whether this was his mum and sister and brother.

Newly named Los Valientes – the brave ones – our 150-voice choir performed our four songs; we were loud, a bit rough on the edges but entertaining, and the audience, sitting on chairs or on the floor or hugging the walls just a few metres away, rewarded us with enthusiastic cheering and applause – the type that reflects unconditional love and support.

Afterwards I made my way back through the noisy exuberant crowd of singers and their fans gathered in the reception area. I found Zion with his family. He was triumphant – beaming – as he introduced me to his Mum who said that she was so proud of his performance that she had cried, and with that Zion and I hugged each other. I wished him good luck with his singing and with school and his career.

Just for a moment, all was right in the world. What a joyous experience.

March 2018