Yesterday I buried my father. That might seem to have nothing to do with sport (and it doesn't) but this is also a personal blog so I'm publishing here what I said at his memorial service.
I wanted to say a few words today on behalf of Bob’s children – myself, my sister Sara and my brother Dominic.
Let me start by saying thank you to everyone for coming today. Bob always enjoyed a gathering of family and friends and this is one party he would have loved to be at.
When we put the notice in the paper about today, we specifically called it a celebration of dad’s life. Bob was never a fan of teary funerals so we hope that today you will remember all the laughs you shared with our dad over the years.
Of course dad would not really approve of anyone crying over his passing. I can’t really recall too many times when he allowed himself to cry. Perhaps whenever Geelong lost a Grand Final. He came from a generation of Aussie males who lived through World War 2 and all the hardships that went with it. Bob and his contemporaries were used to bearing up under difficult circumstances, not tearing up.
My wife Kellie often jokes about the Howard trait of not talking much about emotions and I guess we learnt that from dad. Yet there is a vast difference between not talking about emotions and not having them.
I grew to appreciate the sacrifices dad had made for his kids much more once I had children of my own. I made a point therefore of telling dad that I loved him whenever I saw him in recent years. It seemed to surprise him every time. Not because he didn’t feel the same way, but I think because to him it was a given that he loved his family and he felt it didn’t need to be said. Certainly based on all he did for us and how he doted on us, none of us ever doubted his affection.
He showed his love in many different ways.
Some of you may know that Bob was one of the worst backseat drivers in the history of the world. He used to hate being a passenger in any car because, he said, Australia has the worst drivers in the world. After I got my license, I am quite certain he felt the standard had actually lowered significantly.
Bob would sit, whiteknuckled in the front seat, giving helpful instructions to whichever one of us had the dubious honour of chauffeuring him around. On one famous occasion when Dom was driving him somewhere, Bob screamed ‘look out’ so loudly that Dom slammed on the brakes in anticipation of a massive collision. As the car shuddered to a halt, a tiny potato chip packet floated harmlessly across the path of the car. Nonetheless, Bob remained convinced he had helped avoid a major incident.
Yet despite his terror at being driven around by anyone else, Bob still volunteered to teach all of us as teenagers how to drive. He wanted us all to be safe on the roads. He wanted to protect his children.
Another way Bob showed his love for his children was in his intense pride in our achievements. I remember how over the moon he was when Sara told him she had made the Editorial Committee for the Monash Uni Law Review. Not only was his daughter going to become a lawyer – every parent’s dream – but she was also combining it with experience in his field of expertise. I don’t think I have ever seen him so proud.
If I did, it would have been when Dominic got his tryout with the Melbourne Football Club. Bob was forever showing me clippings about Dom’s footy career but the prospect of his son being that close to playing for an AFL team was something he clearly relished.
Bob also clearly showed his pride in my own sporting efforts in no uncertain terms, chasing down photos and video footage of me competing through his connections in the sporting media.
And what great connections he had too. He seemed to know everyone around town and had such amazing stories to tell. Who amongst us can say we’ve toured the country with a member of the royal family?
One of Bob’s great qualities, and it is probably was why he was successful as a journalist, was his ability to tell a good story. Unfortunately it is a character trait that wasn’t passed on to me, but I will share with you one of Bob’s favourite stories from his time touring the country with Prince Philip.
The Prince was a qualified pilot and, as Bob told the story, used to delight in landing the small plane that he, his entourage and the travelling media were using to fly around outback Australia.
It was the Prince’s ritual after successfully touching down to open the door of the cockpit and give the thumbs up to Bob and the other passengers, to which he invariably got a rousing round of applause.
On one occasion however the Prince’s landing was anything but smooth, with the plane hitting the deck so hard that luggage flew everywhere and the passengers thought that they’d been in a crash.
The Prince flung the door open with a big grin and gave his customary thumbs up but, instead of applause he received a chorus of load groans. At this – and here you will have to forgive my very bad impersonation of Bob impersonating the Prince – the Duke of Edinburgh said “Sorry about that chaps”.
Invariably after telling that story, Dad would let out a roar of laughter and repeat “sorry about that chaps” a couple more times. I never grew tired of hearing him tell it. I wish he was here now to do that story justice one more time.
Bob’s sense of humour was certainly one of his best features. He loved to laugh and passed that trait on to the rest of our family. Humour has always been used as a way of showing affection in our family and, the more you love someone, the more you tease them. While that is hard for some to understand, it’s what brought us together as a family.
Dad used to get his fair share of stick from the rest of us too.
He took great pride in his appearance, shaving fastidiously every single day and even up until his passing was regularly the best turned-out resident at Karana – always appearing at meals in a tie and jacket. However at home with us when we were kids, his choice of fashionable was questionable to say the least. We used to love teasing him about what we called his “deckchair shorts”. They were casual shorts which due to their garish striped pattern looked as if they had been cut from the cloth normally seen only on deck chairs on British beaches.
Bob held onto these hideous shorts for years, much to our dismay, and seemed to wear them virtually every day on our summer holidays. Probably because he enjoyed the constant jokes about them as much as we did.
We also loved to tease him about his height – or lack of it. Given my brother and I are both over six foot and dad was most definitely not, the standard joke was that we must have had a tall milkman back in Germany. He used to feign outrage before laughing along with us.
Dad’s army story about a commando course he helped run quickly morphed into a standard family joke about him being the world’s shortest commando. We imagined him not having to duck down to crawl under barbed wire or to avoid enemy fire.
Bob knew that we were very much laughing with him and his willingness to laugh at himself is a lesson which he taught us all.
But his family weren’t the only ones who enjoyed dad’s sense of humour.
When we were cleaning out Bob’s apartment on the weekend, I came across a large farewell card given to dad when he retired by his colleagues. Virtually every comment on the card mentioned his sense of humour.
Two comments that I particularly thought reflected Bob and are perhaps relevant today were as follows:
“We will miss that wicked laugh, the glint in the eye, the punting tips, the tie dangling out of the pocket in the mornings and above all your fantastic sense of humour.”
And this, from his friend Lin, who went to the effort of composing an “Ode to Dobbie”:
“An era ends, it’s sad to say
When Dobbie Howard leaves today;
That wicked wit, that lethal charm –
He’s always ready with open arms
To help his colleagues when in doubt,
With headings, names, ideas for a rout.
We’ll miss his smile, his little ways
But hope to see him in town on Fridays.”
And I have no doubt that they did indeed see dad for a few Friday drinks over the years as well.
At this point it’s probably worth addressing one of the images you will be seeing of Bob on the big screen. It is a caricature of him holding a top hat in one hand and a drink in the other given to him upon his retirement. We all thought it appalling, but Bob absolutely adored it so we felt bound to include it today.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what I’ll remember most about dad.
As a young kid, I used to love riding on his shoulders. He used to joke that it was the weight of me up there along with his walking far earlier than other children that had worn down his legs and made him so short.
I’ll remember sitting next to him as he howled with laughter watching his favourite TV shows – usually British comedies with people like Sid James and Benny Hill. I must admit, I heard the Benny Hill theme song in my head when I used to think of him trying to charm the nurses at Karana.
I’ll always remember Saturday afternoons in Autumn and Winter listening to the footy on the radio with him in the back yard or traveling with him to see Geelong play. The trips down to Kardinia Park were always special. The jokes he’d make about a road called Droop Street we’d always drive past on the way out of Melbourne. More jokes about the smells from the sewerage farm outside Werribee. Standing next to him on the terraces at Kardinia Park. Walking to the Lord of the Isles pub after the game to endlessly rehash who played well and who didn’t. Then the long trip home in the dark which would be over too soon.
But perhaps my most vivid memory of him will always be the tenderness he showed his wife, our mum, on the day she passed away. Stroking her hair and talking to her gently even though she was unconscious as she lay in the hospital. That memory came flooding back to me recently as I sat doing the same for him on the night before he died.
When we met with Bev, our celebrant, to talk about today, she asked Sara and I “what would Bob have said about his life”? I’m not even sure what I said at the time as I hadn’t really thought about it but, on reflection, I think if Bob would have been in the room he would have said this.
He would have started by offering Bev a drink. Probably a glass of his favourite ‘bubbles’. He always liked to make guests feel welcome and he was never one to leave anyone’s glass dry.
Then he would have laughed at getting out on cricket’s ‘devil’s number’ of 87 (or 13 years before 100).
He also would have said he’d liked to have seen a couple more premierships for Geelong.
Finally he would have said he had a good life, had a lot of laughs, met some great friends and had a family that loved him. He’d wish he was here today to have a drink with you all and share some stories about all the good times. He’d also ask that all of you think of him with a big grin on his face the next time you raise a glass in celebration. I know I certainly will.
We’ll miss you dad but we’ll always love you.
Thank you.
