The first time I met David he was cleaning his gun. I’d been seeing Elizabeth for a while, and it was time for the fateful first meeting with the parents. Of course, I was young and immature and had teased Elizabeth about being a ‘westie’ a lot over our developing relationship.
I met her mum at the door, and then I was invited into the kitchen, and there was David, sitting at the table, cleaning a rifle. It was like a scene from some American teen romantic comedy, except, of course, it was in Penrith.
Recently, David passed away, and Penrith seems poorer for it. I think it took us all a bit by surprise; for so long – as long as I had known him – he seemed indestructible. And then, when the end came, it happened so suddenly, and none of us seemed like we could believe it. And now there’s a gap in our lives – a gap that will only get bigger as we realise how much we all relied on him. When I want to ask him something about business or finance or politics or gardening or doing stuff around the house, he won’t be there. When I want to tell him about a book that I read that I thought he might like, he won’t be there. When I want to ask his advice – that, more than anything – is when I’ll miss him.
For years, I’ve been encouraging him to write his memoirs. Since he closed down his business a year or so ago, I figured it might keep him busy. There’s a bit of a vested interest, too – I think it would make a fascinating story. In some ways, it’s not particularly exceptional – it’s a typically Australian story (at least the parts I know about) – but in every way that matters, it’s entirely exceptional. David, along with Margaret, has done so much – studying, running his own businesses, winning awards, being part of his community. Literally and figuratively helping to build a church. Building boats. Travelling. Trying new ideas. Embracing new opportunities. And, perhaps most importantly, raising a family. Not in a hallmark kind of way, but in a way that recognised the successes and challenges that everybody faces if they’re brave enough to live life with a full heart.
And he did it with such good humour. And enthusiasm. His most common mannerism seemed to clapping his hands and saying, ‘C’mon, let’s get on with it.’ I liked that – as much as it annoyed the rest of his family. To me, it was all about enthusiasm. It was saying, ‘We’re done here, and let’s get on with the next challenge.’ I respected that enthusiasm. That’s how I’m going to remember him – clapping his hands and saying ‘C’mon’ as, in typically David fashion, he’s the first one out the door, moving on to the next challenge.