Nice Work

Dad died a few days after a nasty bicycle accident outside of Melbourne in October 2023. He would have been 81 years old earlier this month. I was thinking about him on his birthday.

As a dutiful son to his mother, Dad did most of the shopping and housework for Nonna because she had bad legs. As a dutiful son to his father, he drove Nonno to Mass every Sunday at St Francis’ in the city.

During the working week, Dad drove Nonno to Essendon train station every day and collected him from there every night. For pick-up times after work, Nonno would call him without putting a coin in the public phone. Nonno would let the phone ring three times, hang up, then repeat the process. Hearing the arranged signal, Dad would go and pick Nonno up.

He was like that.

While completing his commerce degree at Melbourne University, Dad took racing bets on commission for a bookie. He’d slip betting cards under the office doors of all the university lecturers on Thursday night and collect them on Saturday morning.

After university, he and his brother built an Australia-wide accounting and financial planning practice. And in the 1980s, they encouraged their doctor clients to invest in films including The Man from Snowy River, The Man from Snowy River II, Phar Lap, and Roadgames.

My sisters and I used to joke that Dad loved his grandchildren more than his children.

He would take them bloody bicycle riding, play “Marco Polo” in the pool with them until he resembled a five-foot-nine-inch prune, and organise spa picnics for their dinner on Sunday nights.

Dad loved Mum the longest. They were together for 57 years. Married for 55 years. And he made her breakfast in bed every morning without fail and told her how much he loved her every day without fail.

When Dad drove me home from work, he’d often talk about Mum. He’d say, “She’s the smartest person I know. Who else gets on the Dean’s Honours List at Melbourne University, the best university in the country?”

He celebrated and shared the achievements of my sisters as well. He used to tell me how lucky he and I were to have such strong and intelligent women in our lives.

Dad didn’t talk much about himself. He showed us himself instead.

On weekends, he and I would often have a spa. We’d listen to Sinatra and talk about Essendon Football Club and work.

“How many people did you get permanent residency for this week?” he’d ask.

“Six,” I said the last time we caught up.

“Nice work.”

I thought about him dying in the ICU and not being able to say goodbye.

He didn’t need to.