Comment by KATH GANNAWAY
IN 2006 I stood at my brother Peter’s graveside in Ferntree Gully and delivered a eulogy.
Peter was killed on the Wednesday leading up to Easter, 1975. He was 25 and I was 23.
There was a reason, a couple in fact, why we gathered as a family 31 years later to say our ‘goodbyes’.
Easter was always a special time for our family. Apart from the religious aspects, it was a time to be together as a family, and always at mum and dad’s – our family home.
By then our family of seven kids included almost as many brothers and sisters-in-law, and two beautiful grandchildren, including Peter and Vicki’s two-year-old daughter Kelly – so it was always fun, and always a bit chaotic.
Peter was one of 910 people who died on Victoria’s roads that year and although he wasn’t technically an “Easter statistic”, Easter became the ‘anniversary’.
It didn’t really matter whether it fell in March or April – it was just always the Wednesday before Easter.
My parents, Mick and Mary, got the knock on the door. Poor policeman. Probably someone they knew, because everyone knew everyone in Ferntree Gully at that time.
I have no memory of it at all, and with no time to process such an enormous loss, it never really felt real. For years, it was like it never really happened.
I can’t remember. But I know it changed their lives, and all our lives.
“Your son has been killed in a truck accident.”
They would have called it an accident then – not a crash.
He was driving interstate for a transport company and like so many young truckies – married young with a family, he wanted to provide a home and get his own truck.
He drove long hours, because that’s what was demanded.
He fell asleep on an overnight back from Adelaide and crashed in the Pentland Hills near Bacchus Marsh. Not that far from home really.
Now, we have the signs ‘Fatigue kills’ … ‘Drowsy drivers die’. He would have just been wanting to get home to Vicki and Kelly, the apple of his eye.
I was working in Melbourne. Two colleagues broke the news – Bob Chalk and Bruce Mainka. I’ve never forgotten their names.
That afternoon was surreal.
Because of the Easter break, Peter’s funeral was the next day. Easter Thursday. You wouldn’t do that now.
I have no memory of it at all, and with no time to process such an enormous loss, it never really felt real. For years, it was like it never really happened.
And that, along with Kelly’s wish to say ‘goodbye’ to the dad she never knew, was one of the reasons for the late eulogy.
Life does go on with all the things that happen – more grandchildren, nieces and nephews, first days at school, weddings, 18ths and 21sts, Christmases, family holidays, and mum and dad’s passing, and, of course, Collingwood grand finals.
Through it all, you never completely stop missing that person, wishing they were here to share all the good times, and the bad.
As each milestone is celebrated, you wonder what Peter would have made of it. What would he be like now as a ‘Pa’ to Kelly’s little daughter, Ally.
So, it’s Easter again, and even though the road toll has been reduced enormously since 1975, there’s every chance that some other average family, just like ours, will get that knock on the door that will change the meaning of Easter forever.
There’s no-one someone won’t miss.