Rookwood
Yesterday we buried Tony Callus, M.’s uncle’s partner of 50 years. From Malta, where he’d been born, grew up, and worked some years as a naval engineer fitting out submarines, he emigrated to Australia and made a living operating heavy equipment, with a little house renovation work and fine carpentry on the side. When he died, he was 75 old. Tony had had a bypass just a few months ago and had been recovering nicely. But he’d always been very proud of his physical fitness, having spent many years as an amateur bodybuilder. Even before his operation, he could out-lift much younger men. He continued to work out, albeit with lighter weights (and no bench-presses), just more reps. He also continued to work around the home he and Don had made together up in the Northern suburbs, where he had done considerable work to improve their domicile, structurally and decoratively, as well as a magnificent garden, with many flowering and fruiting plants and trees (although the cockatoos got more benefit of the latter than did Don and Tony). Tony was working on scraping and painting the trim when his heart failed him, evidence of just how game he was to keep going, to stay active and strong.

Don, of course, is deeply sad. As often happens, even though family and friends remain from both sides, having lost his partner, he is bereft of the one true stay he had in life. Both men had recently joined the Anglican Church as parishioners, if that’s the right term, and Don is comforted by his faith, and Tony’s, which is to be reverenced. Their minister is young, enthusiastic, and caring, and I’m sure he will continue to inspire Don’s Christianity. I’ve never participated in an Anglican ceremony of any kind, but thought Tony’s service was well done.

We’re all going to miss Tony, as gracious and warm a man as any I’ve known. We will endeavour to ensure that Don is not left to himself any more than he’d prefer. (And I expect to be up on a ladder scraping paint before too long, if not also running the lawn mower and learning to prune trees.)

After the burial, which we attended at Rookwood Cemetery, out near Lidcombe, M. & I accompanied her older brother, Mark, eight years her senior, in seeking out the graves of their mother’s family, which, after some little pacing thorugh the lanes, we eventually discovered. Strangely, Mark was able to leave a token at each, M. & I having purchased Remembrance Day poppies on our way to the train that morning; strangely, I say, because I have never before purchased one of these tokens previously.

We had a nice dinner with Mark afterward at our favorite Lebanese restaurant, which I’m also glad of, since we don’t often get to spend time with Mark by himself, outside the context of his family. I’m enjoying getting to know him, and will head out to Narabeen this weekend to watch his youngest children participate in a day of Track & Field.