Robert Verdon, #283, When we found out Uncle Jack was dying

1993 was an odd year.

Jack, born 1910, pegged out.

He had sponsored us as ten pound Poms.

I used to mimic his gait on the farm at Pialligo.

One foot turned out as he walked the furrow.

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He would do things directly, by Jingus,

and talk about the Dandelongs and Belconnel

and yell Don’t take the side orf the car! if

you slammed the door of his Austin A60

and had come from working on the railways in Central Australia

to owning a block of shops in Kingston.

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Dad seemed at a loss.

Like me he had never been to a funeral before.

Unlike Mum.

Seventy-three and brought up an orphan.

Seven years later he was gone too.