So, Dad died. Nearly 85 years after he was born. It's the correct order in which to do it. Life's like that, if you're lucky. His last twelve months weren't that pleasant. He wasn't in a lot of pain, except maybe with his shoulders which were probably rugby related. Within my memory he'd lived for nine years in New Zealand's northland on a small sheep farm up to the mid 70's, then two years in south Queensland while the el nino weather cycle broke his bank, and then a further twenty years in central NSW in maybe a dozen locations as he weathered the end of two marriages, and had countless heart attacks and litres of tawny port. Y2K saw a new beginning in Victoria's east Gippsland, his own bungalow on a farm, an unmatched view of the pleiades, and a Sherpa.
Five years later and the pristine snowy Mountain air was filled with bushfire haze forcing him to decamp to south Sydney where he resided happily until twelve months ago. I think his final frail year was spent without feeling he had a place of his own, compounded by a heart that was trying to stop, and a mind progressively insulted by small emboli. The staff at Newcastle's John Hunter hospital ensured he passed away peacefully without pain, and he then swapped his backless white gown for his best suit. All's good then.
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