Yesterday I travelled down to Tilba on the far south coast to attend a celebration of John Small’s life hosted by his friends and neighbours in the picturesque rural village.
This “celebration” was to allow the many people who knew him to commemorate his life in a less formal setting than the very orthodox setting of his internment last month. The ceremony in Canberra was organised by John’s mum and was a very traditional Anglican service which was not to the taste of several of John’s friends who had travelled up to Canberra to attend. So the Tilba event was considerably less reverent and would have suited john’s taste far more. As an avowed atheist (a person with no invisible means of support), I’m sure that John would have respected his mum’s wishes but he would have felt far more “at home” at yesterday’s event.
I was at pains to ask my friends in Tilba if the celebration was going to be restricted to John’s “other family” and friends but was assured that all were welcome.
I was tossing up till the last minute about riding but, in then end, decided on taking the car which, as it turned out, was a very wise choice. The trip down was uneventful but, due to the weekend being an unexpectedly long one, the traffic on the highway was dreadful until well after Bateman’s Bay. Nevertheless I arrived pretty much spot on starting time at 1400 and was pleased to see a big crowd filling the little hall in the town’s main street (see picture above).
Those of you that know the town will know that it is a little enclave of a large number of hippie-like people who exist in the 21st century but live in the one before it. These were the people who John called his friends and neighbours and with whom he spent the last 30 years of his life. In many respects it was like stepping into a time warp for me, but very enjoyable nonetheless.
John’s trade was that of a signwriter and it wasn’t surprising to see that his friends had papered the walls with dozens of examples of his artistic endeavours.
Many of these examples exhibited John’s wit and his penchant for poking fun at the established wisdom. One of the speakers spoke about how John had led the local campaign to have Telstra retain the old-style red phone box outside the general store rather than have it replaced with a “modern” alloy and glass one. That made perfect sense to me. What also made sense also was that John, a noted prankster, when repainting the now-saved box, re-wrote the lettering at the top of one side to say “Telaphone”. When people would point out that it was mis-spelt, he would take them around to the other side of the box where the word was spelt correctly. The box, incidentally, is still there, complete with the deliberate spelling mistake.
Many of john’s friend spoke of his humour, his championing of just causes and his involvement in the “famous” Tilba band, “The Predicaments”. Formed after he and a few friends had attended a concert by the band, “The Commitments”, John’s band entertained in around the local area AND further afield for nearly a decade, another testament to John’s eclectic tastes.
After speaking at John’s funeral service, I was asked as soon as I entered the door if I would be happy to speak again. Me, speak? No, I don’t know how to do that. As many had spoken about John’s Tilba life I was happy to speak about John’s motorcycling life, an area of his life with which most were not familiar.
Concluding my eulogy I noted that the meeting was taking place in the smaller of the two public halls in Tilba, the original one that was later superseded by the larger, newer one. “This hall is officially known in town as the Small Hall and my name is Phil Hall.” Every now and then the planets align.
The celebration concluded with two of the original members of The Predicaments singing the Hollies hit song, “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.” The crowd approved and I’m sure that John would have also.
Heading home into the gathering gloom I was hopeful of an easy run but a phone conversation with my wife yielded the information that I had already rained heavily at home. Sure enough, just north of Bateman’s Bay, the rain set in and hammered down all the way home, thank goodness I’d decided to take the car.
I pulled in, tired but happy at 1930 in time to find out that Marc Marquez had put the Honda on pole at Motegi. Life is indeed good.
Oh, and while at the celebration I had the delightful experience of spending time with two of my CRRC buddies, two original foundation members of the club, in fact (as John had been). I haven’t seen Tony and Marie since 1982, but it didn’t seem like 40 years. Apart from the fact that it appears Tony has been doing some moonlighting with ZZ Top, it was like the years hadn’t existed at all. What a joy.
Time spent at gatherings like this is precious and I’m glad that I had the opportunity of doing so.
