Mum and I were going shopping in the city. When I opened the door to her I knew the shit had really hit the fan and that this whole mess could easily get a lot worse. She had died her hair pink. Not like a pink granny rinse, but a bright punk-style pink. Not her whole head, just streaks. My Mum is a “must have Sheridan sheets” kind of lady, stylish in her creams, blacks and beiges.
Suddenly I am the adult asking why she did that to her hair at the same time lying that it looks okay. She is fragile and said it was her hairdresser’s idea. She said it was how she used to do her hair before she met Dad. When you are married for 34 years, your identity merges with the other person. When they are suddenly not there I guess it’s easy to wonder who you are without them.
When I was growing up, males dominated my family. There were actually more women, but the men ruled every family function. A “typical Cook male” as we call them is loud, opinionated and dominating. Dad, his father and his brother Robert were all big, tall and strong. Typical Aussie blokes - they say it like it is, always think they are right and would never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
Dad’s friends would describe him as larger than life, and always the life of the party. Dad loved his work, travelling, good food and good red wine. Wherever Dad was, the room seemed to orbit around him. As a child I learnt to shout if I wanted to get a word in. Dad was generous. If people visited our house he would offer them their first drink and then tell them they could have what ever else they wanted, but they had to help themselves. Similarly, if you went to a Chinese restaurant with our family, there was no holding back, first in best dressed. Dad would tell my friends, order whatever you want as long as you eat it, and if you see something on the table that you want to eat, grab it. Our family brought life to the definition of ‘dig in’.
When we were trying to organise the funeral it was so strange. All of a sudden it was just a bunch of women trying to make decisions. The underlying hierarchy and behaviour patterns that had ruled our family for so long had shifted. We drifted anchorless, looking at each other to dominate and take over Dad’s role.
Dad’s funeral was… umm… it is impossible to pick a word. Let’s just say it was average. Everyone was in shock, tired and over it. Poppa’s funeral had been a weeklong party, a real celebration of his life. This wasn’t. It was an unexpected death. Probably about 500 people came to the funeral and people spilled out from the chapel into the foyer, but it was sad - it certainly wasn’t much of a party.
Dad’s brother Robert, who lives in Cairns, didn’t come to Dad’s funeral. We were desperate for a man to arrive to tell us what to do. We were desperate to be told simple things like where we were going for dinner that night. We were sheep that needed to be herded. He had cancer and a trip booked to Borneo. Robert and Dad were the best of friends and at the time we couldn’t understand why he didn’t come. I might be wrong but I think he was so shocked and distressed by Dad’s death that he just couldn’t deal with it, physically or emotionally. Coming home to Adelaide would have made it far too real for him and he wasn’t ready for that.
Dad’s name is Bill by the way. Bill Cook. It’s actually William Leslie Cook, WL Cook, but everyone called him Bill. He wasn’t really a ‘William’ or a ‘Leslie’, he was definitely Bill, if that makes any sense.
Written on 09 Jul 2004
Over 7 years since incident
Tags:
family, strong, funeral
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