Remembering My Judy

Opening Reflection

Although I have already shared many of these thoughts with some of you in messages, SMS, tearful phone calls, and conversations, I wanted to gather them here more fully as a reflection on the life I shared with My Judy. Please forgive the disjointed nature and occasional lack of sequence; it has become very important to me to share these memories and reveal the depth of the moments we held so dear.

I am mindful that this reflection is long, and to some, these details of a shared life may seem mundane or even boring. But for me, these memories are the very fabric of our fifty-two years since I first met My Judy, and I feel a profound need to say them—to put them on the record as a tribute to the woman I love.

I am usually reluctant to speak in a group without first pondering deeply. To ensure I could find the right words for today, I have used modern tools to help me shape and craft this tribute. This technology has acted as a digital pen, helping me organize these decades of memories so that I can speak to you with the “considered thought” she deserves. These are my reflections and my heart, simply arranged so I can share them with you clearly.

It is now twenty-six days since Judy passed away. In this time, I continue to be awed by the love we shared, and I find myself missing her with an intensity that is difficult to put into words.

Her Later Years

In her later years, as illness limited her ability to communicate, she carried herself with a gentle composure. Though she became non-verbal, her calm presence remained. I know that during this time, I often spoke on her behalf; I realize that to some, this may have seemed like an issue or perhaps overbearing, but it was my way of ensuring she remained part of the conversation when her own voice had quieted.

She still found joy in the journeys we shared—to the Unforgettable Choir in Newcastle over seventy-five minutes away each Saturday (a wonderful initiative of Newcastle University and the Conservatorium); to the Seniors Hymn Singing at Green Point Baptist Church; and to this little church here in Yarramalong on most Sundays.

Even when she could no longer tell me where she wanted to go, she trusted my lead. Whether on a familiar road or somewhere new, she stayed relaxed—pointing out wildlife, acknowledging familiar places, and recognizing the different makes of vehicles passing by. She was fascinated by our mutual interest in heavy trucks, a pride that grew as Robert became more involved in that industry.

I remember the concern we both felt during our first trip to New Zealand when Robert called to say he was in the hospital after rolling a prime mover during testing. While the “skid pan mishap” caused some ripples with management, it became a proud moment for us when his boss later told me, “If Robert hasn’t had an accident, he isn’t doing his job properly!” It was a testament to the dedication he brought to his work, something Judy and I deeply respected.

Later, in Shepparton, Robert was demonstrating his skills as the “Stig” of truck driving, testing roll stability in those massive rigs. Seeing those “training wheels” in action to keep the trucks from flipping definitely scared the pants off Judy! I recollect Katie was there too with Lachlan, having come from Bendigo to see Robert at work. I can still see the look on Lachlan’s little face, wearing his bright frog-green hoodie, as he was hoisted up into the driver’s seat. Judy and I shared such a deep pride in both our children.

The Foundation of Our Life

Judy and I first met through our shared Christian faith in Tasmania in July 1974. This faith was the steady foundation of our lives, though it was never something we felt the need to be outspoken about; we sought to live it as a quiet witness through a humble presence of care.

Judy was training in midwifery at the Queen Victoria Hospital (QVH) alongside Gail Thorpe and Denise Watson. There was a beautiful circularity to our meeting, as the QVH was the very hospital where I had been born. Denise, of course, later became my sister-in-law and a key member of our extended family. Our family connection with the nurses there had commenced years earlier when my parents hosted many at our home in Newstead at all hours, offering a home away from home before my mum became ill.

I fondly remember those early days. I often took Judy for drives to the places of my youth, sharing my history with her one road at a time. I remember one particular evening excursion in my new Burned Orange and Tangerine Ford Falcon XB GT to Greens Beach. It was there I first cautiously held her hand, and later, at the house of friends, our first awkward stolen kiss. I later taught her to drive in that car.

Though Judy was quiet, she was a keen observer. She had a remarkable way of perceiving a person’s true character—often sensing someone’s heart from the very first encounter. Her intuition and perception became a guide for us both.

In late 1975, we crossed the Bass Strait on the Empress of Australia for the two-day trip to Sydney, before driving all the way to Queensland to spend Christmas with her family. During that journey, as we moved toward the commitment of our engagement, I realized the rarity of what we had. We officially became engaged that Christmas. I still don’t really know what her family thought of me arriving in that loud orange car.

Teamwork and Struggles

During our marriage, Judy was the quiet strength that held us together.  I seemed to be particularly accident-prone. In early 1976, six months before our wedding, I had a bad car accident in Orange. Looking back, I still don’t know why Judy did not abandon our engagement then, but she stayed, and that was the mark of the woman she was. I remember how upset she was when I called her in Brisbane while she was studying Maternal and Child Health with Gail.

When we married, I had already been the primary carer for my mother, who had been diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease (ALS). This was a responsibility Judy stepped into without hesitation. We shared that care until my mother passed away in Alotau, Papua New Guinea—a family arrangement that allowed us to manage her final months.

Misfortune followed us for a while. A caravan fell on me, breaking my collarbone. Then, three years into our marriage, another accident wrote off our new XC Fairmont station wagon. It took over ten weeks for me to recover from serious facial and jaw injuries, alongside a long rehabilitation for my back.

With Judy’s encouragement, I transitioned from mechanical engineering into live TV Broadcasting. I started at the bottom with the teenagers out of school, but Judy was my partner in every achievement. She actively participated in the work that gained me respect—from climbing the Harbour Bridge for live crosses to overseeing a project we personally organized and financed within the railway tunnels at the Olympic Stadium. We managed a crew of thirty-five people, knowing any failure carried a staggering financial cost. Together, we prepared and financed the equipment for the early days of Digital TV. Any professional achievement I attained was only possible because of her full backing and her steady presence by my side.

Amidst those early years, I courted Judith with pizzas—a tradition that became a lasting symbol of our love. It remained one of her favorite foods throughout her life.

Building Together

Whether renovating our home in Parramatta for nearly forty years or working on the farm at Ravensdale, Judy delighted in the journey. She readily accepted that I had taken her away from her family in Brisbane to Sydney, where we made new friendships together.

Our Parramatta home had a “claim to fame” on the TV show DIY Rescue. While I was the scapegoat for unfinished renovations, Judy was the natural star. The producer told me our episode rated the best in the series!

Around our 25th anniversary, I bought a “proper” coffee machine for her. Judy insisted I return it because she felt we couldn’t afford it. I didn’t—only later to discover I’d overpaid by nearly a thousand dollars! Yet it marked a decades-long tradition; she would never get out of bed without a freshly brewed coffee, a ritual she kept until her last twelve months at home.

In earlier years, our children were often right there with us. We spent many nights on the roof of the old Canterbury Bankstown Hospital monitoring microwave link circuits. These family activities gave Robert the grounding and knowledge to work at adult rates from the age of fourteen. In late 1994, when he was only fourteen or fifteen, Robert was given the responsibility of manning a remote repeater site for the arrival of the HM Bark Endeavour into Sydney Harbour. Before he even had his license, it was Judy who ensured he got to these jobs.

I vividly remember David Bowers telling me that during the Olympics, a senior cameraman asked who was in control of the site, and the answer was “that snowy-haired kid over there.” That was Robert—a moment of such profound shared pride for Judy and me.

I remember a night at Razorback when a storm destroyed my equipment; Judy quickly packed the kids and the spares and drove out in the storm so we could get back on air. And we continued to laugh at the memory of Katie, aged three or four, walking up to Warwick Dean at Channel Nine and kicking him in the shins. Warwick reminded her of this years later when she worked there herself.

The Spirit of Adventure and Music

Travel was a source of delight—from our honeymoon at Golden Beach, where Judy wore that vivid yellow sun hat out on the boat her dad built, to our six-week journey through the US and Canada after 9/11.

We stood in Resolution Park in Anchorage, looking at the statue of Captain Cook, and visited the Ulu Factory, Earthquake Park, and Lake Hood. We took the Rocky Mountaineer, being upgraded to Gold Class for an unforgettable journey. In New York, we walked from Broadway to Times Square and chatted with a police officer. In Florida, we visited the “flame tunnels” at the Kennedy Space Centre and drove to Key West.

A cherished memory was reconnecting with Ashley and Pauline. After weeks of American food, Pauline’s Aussie roast chicken felt like home. Ashley must have driven well over an hour each way four times to support us during our stay in Beverly Hills.

Judy’s love of music was eclectic: traditional hymns, cowboy-style choruses, Roy Orbison, and The Beach Boys. I remember the pianist at David Jones who would play “Sleepy Shores” for her whenever we visited.

During the pandemic, we camped on Fraser Island for ten days—a trip Robert kept extending because she was enjoying it so much. We crossed the Nullarbor in a camper van and spent weeks in the Victorian High Country. I remember her dancing with Katie in the kitchen at Merewether during a recent visit—a radiant, fleeting moment of joy.

Our Life in the Valley

Judith once remarked she hoped to leave Parramatta “in a box,” but her heart found joy again in our farm at Ravensdale. While at times it was not easy, the pleasure we gained never diminished. But for the financial generosity of Robert, we would not have made it through.

From November 2023 until September 2024, Judy attended the Wesley Senior Social Hub in Tuggerah on most Wednesdays. It was a three-hour round trip, but it was a meaningful outlet for her and a rare opportunity for me to catch up.

The Years of Care

Judy often remarked that we “rub along well together.” In all our years, we never really disagreed; we simply worked things out as a team. Caring for her was a profound privilege. She was always a wonderful cook—her pavlovas, Banana Caramel slice, and Dark Chocolate Cherry slice were legendary. I even succeeded in baking her mum’s Boiled Fruit Cake under her supervision near the end.

I remember driving an hour in the high country to a trout farm for fresh fish she delighted in, and as coffee became harder for her, the special milkshakes lovingly prepared by our local café, Angels Sussuri.

I remember the recent bush dance where I wore her Akubra, wanting her to feel part of it. She was annoyed with me for not dancing with her—one of her last attempts at a verbal exchange and a tender reminder of how deeply she valued our intimate moments.

Final Reflections

During those final weeks in the hospital, I visited every day. The staff noted she seemed a little more at ease when I was present. One of my deepest aches was that I just wished I could cradle her in my arms, but her constant restlessness made this difficult.

One of the hardest days of my life was agreeing that she should receive palliative care, fortunately with Katie by my side. A treasured memory will be assisting the nurse to shower her for the last time, and that our two children, three grandchildren, and Thor, our very recently acquired rescue Samoyed, were present when she peacefully passed.

In that moment, we knew she was no longer there; only the shell of her earthly home remained. Playing on the streaming music was the Bob Dylan song “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” and I knew she was no longer suffering.

Speaking of Judy now, I realize how much our lives meant. Some may look at our life as ordinary—a series of roads travelled. But today, I see the immense value in that simplicity. Our connection of fifty-two years, from the moment I first met My Judy, was steady, rare, and deeply special. It was a life of deep intimacy—a quiet, private world where we understood each other without words.

I realize now that while I was the one out in the field, it was Judy’s quiet, unwavering belief in me that built the foundation for everything I achieved. I remember speaking at Katie and Dean’s wedding; as I stumbled through my words, Judy’s presence was my anchor. She has been my anchor for over half a century.

I want to thank the friends who stepped in during her final days—specifically John, Lesley, and Roger, who went in my place on the trip to Cairns that we had planned six months ago, so that I could remain by Judy’s side.

I absolutely appreciate every kindness shown to me. Crafting this tribute has been the hardest task I have faced. I have sobbed and cried uncontrollably, but I needed to say it.

A Message of Thanks

I want to express my heartfelt thanks to everyone here (at the service). Your presence—whether here or on the livestream—means more than I can put into words. For those on the livestream, please acknowledge your presence for the recording.

Thank you for honouring My Judy, for standing with us, and for helping make her farewell a true reflection of the beautiful person she was.