The death of a friend

Away back when, in 1968, I was in form 3B. For my tech school career that was the highest I managed to achieve; I'm not sure why. Well I do know actually but let me play the innocent for a moment before confessing that I was a lazy bastard. I always came second in class because I couldn't be bothered playing their game to become first. If came to the choice of doing my own thing and coming second; or doing their thing and coming first, doing my own thing won.

Anyway, in 1968 I found myself in form 3B. Occasionally, when they were a teacher short, they'd amalgamate the two forms, 3A and 3B. Thus I met Peter, smart achiever in 3A. How could I not meet a fellow geek who was sitting there on the science bench between two bunsen burners reading a copy of Electronics Australia?

We were automatically mates in the Australian sense of the word. Hours spent arguing the merits of Beam Power Tetrodes vs Power Triodes! Much the same as the arguments these days over Mac vs Windows and almost as pointless. I was in the Beam Power Tetrode camp.

We both ended up in Form 4E in 1969, which was the closest option to our interests; the electrical stream of instruction. We did such things as machine our own armatures and wind the wires to make an electric motor; something achieved in the 19th century but it was still a thrill to see our own motors work! Electronics was beyond that class but we taught ourselves.

I left school at the end of 1969; he stayed until matriculation at the end of 1971. We remained friends and I used to get Misery Guts to drop me off at the corner of Somerville Road and Severn Street, Yarraville, on Saturday mornings in 1970. When I bought my first house in 1993 it was about a hundred yards from that intersection. Many's the time I went for a walk in the 1990's through that intersection, remembering 25 or so years before.

Life goes on, and so do I. Peter met a girl and, when he felt comfortable with the relationship, I had the chance to meet her. A pretty girl and smart as two pins. That means she was smart if you're wondering. And so they were betrothed and then married, on April 13th 1974.

I was a guest at the wedding and I was placed at a table with various people, one of whom was a youth with long blonde hair, youngest brother of the bride. I'd met him maybe 4 months previously and, with the arrogance of 20 years and short hair I said 'get a haircut'. He didn't. I wasn't inclined to resent the disobedience; I'd heard him play the piano and the guitar and he was good!

My friend Peter's betrothed was a teetotaller (still is as far as I know) and she mandated that the only alcohol to be served at her wedding was champagne for the toast. I, at the time, was also a teetotaller (stop reeling in shock - it happens :-) ) so the long blonde haired youth drank my moiety of champagne along with his. I won't swear to it in a court of law but I do believe he drank another three moieties of champagne.

Need I reveal who the long blonde haired youth was?

None other than Heino, my best mate. It's a long story about how he became my best mate and you know I'm going to tell it :-)

Alas, my friend Peter is no longer in this world. He died on April 16th 2003 and I was fortunate enough (if fortunate be the word but you know what I mean) to be in Australia that week and able to be at his funeral. I'm glad I was able to be there.

For various reasons, mostly my fault and which I'll go into in future, I hadn't seen him but once in 20 years. That once was on the occasion of my fortieth birthday, when he presented me with a joke that only he and I understood; it was a tone arm made of dowel with a couple of lead sinkers as a counterweight and a large thorn as the needle. (Tone arms were used to play LP records).

I've always been ambivalent about funerals. Yes, we're there to regret the loss of someone we loved. And yet we're also there to celebrate the fact that they once existed. Let me tell you right now; anyone silly enough to weep at my departure deserves what they get. I've been to funerals of incredible dismallity and to funerals that celebrated a life.

I know which kind of funeral I prefer and which kind of funeral I want for myself.

Apart from his parents and his sister I was the person there who had known him earliest in his life. I made his father smile fondly when I remembered to him how Peter had the first remote control TV set in his street; he'd made a long pole with a claw that could grip the TV tuner knob and turn it.

My friend Peters funeral was of the kind I want for myself. We celebrated his life, nevermind the reasons he was no longer with us.

Rest in Peace, Peter.