All There Is: Book 4 — A Fleeting Shadow

By Rita Willsher

A Fleeting Shadow concludes Rita Willsher’s memoirs, started in the three previous volumes of All There Is.
The book reveals a challenging journey, starting with her difficulties coming to terms with the death of a loved one and continues with telling stories of other people, some of them strangers, that embraced her and helped her to recover.
Furthermore, it is also a story of quiet introspection, awakening and self-discovery and the unexpected opportunities she found along the way, opening gateways to new, exciting and different worlds.
Most importantly it a story of hope and unwavering faith in the future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rita Willsher
• Release date: Feb 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463003152

Rita Willsher

I was born in Czechoslovakia, where I spent my first 10 years. Due to dramatic circumstances that changed my life, I subsequently moved to Israel, living there till the age of 21 when I left for Europe only to abandon it two years later to migrate to Australia, where I am happily living today. My hobbies are reading, cooking, and working in stained glass. When not busy doing maintenance around my house, I enjoy writing. I am retired, a widow, and live on the NSW Central Coast.

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All There Is — A Fleeting Shadow

Death. Grief. Healing.

The final chapter.

Book 4

by

Rita G. Willsher

Published by Stringybark Publishing

PO Box 464, Hall, ACT 2618, Australia

http://www.stringybarkpublishing.com.au

Smashwords Edition

Copyright: Rita Willsher, 2022

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Is that all there is, is that all there is?

If that's all there is, my friends, then let's keep dancing

Let's break out the booze and have a ball

If that's all there is.

From: Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller Is That All There Is? Sung by Peggy Lee

With everlasting gratitude to Stringybark Publishing for their support in making a dream into reality and to the wonderful men in my life who believed in me.

When I let go of what I am,

I become what I might be.

— Lao Tzu

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

CHAPTER ONE

The windowless funeral chapel was stiflingly hot. Silent walls, painted in a bland and inoffensive cream colour, witnessing similar scenes being replayed day after day, differing only by the colours of the funerial floral tributes, did not seek to divert attention from grief, heartbreak and sorrow.

A decision to conduct the ceremony at a local chapel for ease of attendance appeared ill-judged, with spill-over mourners, unable to find seats in the small, crowded room, standing beside open double doors at the back of the hall. Greeting a steady stream of friends and neighbours as they came in, always searching for an elusive additional chair, it was a palpable relief for me to sit down in a reserved place at the front. There I was flanked by his only daughter and his elderly sister, some two-year younger than the deceased. We locked hands. While sporting short nails, their tense grip was almost capable of piercing skin. Two of his three adult grandsons including one of their wives, sat with a solemn expression in the second row.

Not finding volunteers to help with the final arrangements, I had been expected to take full charge. Alone for a week, before the family returned from SA for the funeral, I managed to finalise most of the preparations, including writing the eulogy, their implementation having to be postponed due to Easter holidays, when nothing and no one seemed to be working, despite the fact death itself did not take holidays. I recalled a very old fantasy film (1934), remade in 1971, I had seen in my youth, called Death takes a Holiday. It caused no end of chaos, and if I remember correctly, it was even amusing in parts. The current reality, too, beheld unexpected, maddening surprises, but the debate whether they were amusing, depended on who told the story.

Music for the secular noon service was supposed to be three of his favourite tunes, but only the last one was without doubt his favourite. It came from 1967, sang by Louis Armstrong, called What a Wonderful World. The other two were my personal choice. Nat King Cole’s Unforgettable song opened the proceedings, and James Galway’s beautiful flute number The Enchanted Forest supplied the melody for the centre of the ceremony. I happen to know, the Beatles song Something, sang by Shirley Bassey and dearly loved by him, was reserved for only one person, and the pain to hear it at this particular time would break my heart anew, if there were pieces large enough left to break.

It turned out to be a mistake, to believe the promise of a quality recording to be replayed during the service, using the funeral chapel’s sound system, especially when I found it consisted only of a small wi-fi unit, that on the day, wasn’t on the side of the living. A backup ghetto blaster, tucked in the storeroom, didn’t work either.

On the verge of going home with an offer to bring my own small footprint stereo home Wi-Fi system, the funeral director in charge, discovered another ancient boom box in an unused portion of the office. Forgotten behind stacked up ring binders overflowing with documents of all the mortals that passed this way before, it was pressed to serve the living, and a relief to find it could play the supplied disk, since the ceremony was about to start.

With no working speakers, the boom box was placed in the front of the room on a chair in a corner, almost hidden by the attractive casket/coffin (I was never quite sure which was which) recommended by Karen, one of the funeral directors. She even consented to open the establishment on Easter Saturday morning to book the funeral, though they did not normally operate during public holidays. I so wished people wouldn’t die during holidays either.

The handsome, wooden but plain casket cost a king’s ransom. A cardboard box, better suited for protection of our environment, was not offered as an option, but the impressive floral tribute looked almost as good as promised by the colourful brochure. Seeing the final selection of large yellow and white spray spilling over the top of the casket, flanked by a large portrait of the departed, taken in his middle age, when he was at his most handsome and distinguished, displaying greying hair and the warmest of smiles, brought again bitter tears. With pitiful, inferior reproduction, music was hard to hear, but I wasn’t sure if anyone else was aware of it or indeed cared.

Recommended by the funeral director, and selected solely for his pleasing, deep voice, the celebrant started the service by reading the eulogy:

"Trevor Willsher was born in 1927 in Bedford, England, some eighty-five miles due north of London. He was the third of four children, having an older brother Bert, a sister Miff, and a younger sister Kathy. As a boy he had a newspaper run before school, and he was a bright student at school. At the age of seventeen he became an apprentice toolmaker at Brookhirst Igranic in Bedford. He used his skills well and as a qualified toolmaker and later model maker, he engaged in producing steel models for experimental purposes in a wind tunnel. He was subsequently employed in various companies manufacturing press tools, dies and fixtures, and other machine manufacture.

"As a young boy during the WWII, he was a member of the Auxiliary Fire services, and served as a messenger boy, assisting the Home Guards, as some of you would have seen in the TV series Dad’s Army. He served his British military service from 1945 to 1948 in the elite 4th Battalion parachute regiment and also saw some service in Palestine.

"Trevor watched the entire coronation procession of Queen Elizabeth II from the sideline as a member of the St. John’s Ambulance, and as the first aid person at work, he occasionally had to deal with serious injuries, all of which formed lasting compassion for his fellow co-workers and the wider community. While he was on duty, the whole neighbourhood watched the processions at his home, on one of the first televisions in the street, bought as a result of a lottery win. In his sport achievements he played sixteen rugby union seasons for Bedford Lions.

"In 1959 Trevor, his then wife Joyce and daughter Linda, aged ten, together with older brother Bert and his family, decided to migrate to Australia. The times here were tough and the family spent a long time in Cabramatta Migrant Hostel, as there were not many opportunities to buy a house, but work was plentiful and Trevor continued to work in his trade. His brother and his family however decided to return to England and Trevor with his family reluctantly followed their example.

"In 1964 Trevor was still living in Bedford, working for Cornelius Company, as a machine shop foreman, designing and producing tools for a company making refrigerated soft drink dispensing units. While testing the end products, the lads got together to test if beer could also be dispensed, and had many happy days testing the units. Unfortunately, because of the refrigeration, English beer never had a proper head on it, and in any case, it was far too cold for the average English taste!

"The idea of cold beer however, invoked the right effect, and Trevor with his family returned that year to Australia and settled in Para Hills, then a brand-new suburb in the north of Adelaide. His younger sister Kathy migrated from United Kingdom to Adelaide with husband Jim, and children David, Helen and Richard in the previous year, and provided the necessary support to re-establish themselves in the Para Hills community.

"Trevor then started working for the South Australian Highways Department. He also became a JP, a local government councillor for the City of Elizabeth and was one of the instigators and founders of the Para Hills Social Club. The required and expected busy social life took a toll on the marriage and Trevor and his wife agreed to a divorce. Trevor relocated to Sydney in 1969 and began working for W.J. Handel and Co., as a workshop foreman responsible for twenty-five personnel.

"In Sydney in the same year, on a blind date —no less— Trevor met Rita, whom he married to become his second wife, his ‘soul mate’, as he often described their life-long relationship.

"In 1972 Trevor and Rita moved to the Central Coast, and built a project home in Wyoming, where they continue to live till today. Trevor also started work for an engineering consulting company, Crooks, Michell, Peacock Stewart, in Chatswood as an inspector/expediter and site supervisor, later as a mechanical engineer, contracts engineer and quality assurance engineer.

"Among various projects he participated as an inspector on behalf of the client, was the Waverley-Woollahra Refuse Incinerator in Botany, the Moomba-Sydney Gas Pipeline, the North Head Water Pollution Control Plant at Manly, St. Martin’s Towers building in Sydney CBD and Kurri Kurri Aluminium Smelter extensions. Trevor later became a quality systems management counsellor, a Certified Quality Engineer in the American Society of Quality Control and the president of the Quality Society of Australasia.

"In 1989 Trevor, together with Rita, founded their own quality consulting company from which he retired at the age of 74. He continued to do occasional work until 2016, when cataracts operation became the excuse for knocking off work for good.

"Trevor’s social life also bears mentioning, as he continued a lifelong dedication of service to the community. He was Justice of the Peace in SA and NSW, Treasurer for the NSW Justice of the Peace Association, and the President of the NSW Justice of the Peace Association on the Central Coast.

"He was also member of the Quality Society of Australasia, and in 1977, 1983 and 1984 candidate for the federal seat of Robertson for the Australian Democrats. Trevor was also a member of the Gosford Bicentennial Community Committee, Gosford Sister City Committee, chairman of the local Neighbourhood Watch group, Treasurer of the Experiment of International Living in NSW and a local representative of the same organization on the Central Coast.

"Trevor took all his duties, be they civic or private very seriously and with utmost responsibility and his interest in community issues never declined. His life was exemplary, one of dedication beyond the call of duty with the attention to the welfare of others before his own.

"He was a devoted family man, warm, loving, wonderful and inspiring father, grandfather, and a great-grandfather, a patient, sensitive and loving husband, loyal friend and father confessor to anyone who needed a shoulder to lean on and a friend to all. He was a tower of strength in crisis, an able advisor when problems arose, and dependable when things needed to be done.

"Trevor was also a great fan of Star Trek, especially the Next Generation series, written by Gene Roddenberry. In one special episode, there was a conversation between the Android Data (fans would remember him) and Captain Picard, where Data asked, What is death?

"Captain Picard responded ‘that some humans believed, when you died, you were transformed into another kind of being, where you joined with your maker and were eternally cared for. Still other humans believed death was like the snuffing out of a flame, where all that we were, was lost to the void.’ Data then asked which of these he believed. Picard stated, he found neither alternative acceptable; that when he considered the universe and all of its wonders, he knew there must be more to it than we presently understood. We were simply not yet capable of comprehending it.

"Trevor however, found it easier to identify with a statement from a later Star Trek episode of Tasha Yar’s death which described it in a very simple way we all could understand: ‘Death is that state in which one only exists in the memory of others; which is why it is not an end. No goodbyes, just good memories.’

We are celebrating Trevor’s ‘life well lived.’ He was one of nature’s ‘true’ gentlemen and his passing will leave a great void in our lives. The family as well as friends and relatives will sorely miss him. He is survived by his wife Rita, daughter Linda, sister Kathy, son-in-law Robert, grandson Tony and his great-grandsons Christopher, Timothy and Lachlan, his second grandson Eddie, his wife Magenta, great grandsons Rory and Lincoln, and youngest grandson Andrew, and his beautiful wife Nakry, who were married last December.

No other family member wished to speak; the honour fell to Tom, an old family friend and at one time also a close neighbour. He described in moving terms how he first came to know the deceased. He outlined the many happy times they had spent together and in a touching tribute concluded, he always considered him to be a member of his own family.

Music played on and many of the mourners sobbed at the conclusion of the short, sombre service. Invited by the celebrant to pluck and take away a blossom from the flower tribute, they left, some to attend the subsequent wake and others to return home to their loved ones. Alas, the love of my life, my wonderful husband, soulmate and my best friend was no more. What remained, was raw agony and heartbreaking, painful memories of his last days. My anguish felt like the ultimate antithesis of life.

The wake was held at our ‘forever home’, we built together many years ago, and where we spent all our married lives. We had forty-eight glorious and happy years together and were in the process of planning our forthcoming golden wedding anniversary, when the obscene death decided to change our plans. Some time ago, Trevor confided to me, he hoped sometime in the future to die peacefully in his sleep, never to wake up. On reflection, however, it was kinder to have had at least some advanced warning of the impending, ultimate end. It forced both of us to accept the inevitable. The two months to the day from the initial diagnosis, while Trevor suffered with terminal acute myeloid leukaemia was more than sufficient to get the hint.

Our friend and neighbour Howard arranged catering for the wake. As an ex-chef, and past owner of a restaurant, he was best suited to the task. He said to me: I was looking forward to cater for Trevor’s forthcoming ninetieth birthday in October. I did not expect to cater for his wake in April. I too wished it was different.

On the fittingly gloomy, windy and very cold afternoon, we all gathered inside to stave off the chill by suitable spirits and tasty food. Some friends came from Canberra, others from various Sydney suburbs, but most of them were locals. Even an old business customer of Trevor’s turned up and he had to re-introduce himself to me, as I failed to recognise him. A great disappointment was the non-appearance of anyone from Trevor’s last workplace, even though he was with them for past twenty years. I was present at the hospital, when Trevor spoke to his boss and the shop manager by mobile from his hospital bed a few days before he died, to say good-bye. I sent both an email advising them of the time and place of his funeral, as Trevor asked me to. He would have been saddened and very disappointed if he knew.

A short slideshow with pictures featuring Trevor’s life’s highlights was replayed on a small TV monitor outside on our patio, where most of the mourners congregated. I still remember with clarity a difficulty with an obstinate television cable, that for a while refused to cooperate, but the rest of the day is a blur. Trevor’s wristwatches went to each of his three grandsons to choose from as a keepsake, and the selection was exactly as Trevor would have predicted.

When the last visitor left, it was only Linda, my stepdaughter and Kathy my sister-in-law, who stayed behind with me for few more days. Their visit helped to keep me occupied and did not interfere with the dull and heavy numbness in my head. I felt as though life sucked out all the colours out of the world and left behind a uniform, featureless, grey landscape lacking horizon, without a roadmap, points of reference, signposts, in fact lacking any roads or directions.

I recalled with deep sadness our daily morning routine how together, while drinking a mug or two of strong tea, we discussed our plans for the day. Before I came to Australia, I didn’t know how to make tea in the proper English way. The continental method, the only one I knew, produced only light tea-flavoured, almost gold-coloured hot water, served to important guests and drunk in the afternoons, served with a slice of lemon or a dash of rum. Over the years I hoped to learn how to prepare a proper pot of tea by observing in detail everything Trevor did, and begged him over and over to show me, but in effect getting him to make it as often as possible.

He used to say, I have been conned.

But your tea always tastes infinitely better than mine.

Now it was my turn, but in spite of all my efforts, my tea never tasted quite the same, missing the secret ingredient of his love.

Out of habit rather than purposeful activity, I continued in almost automatic fashion doing what I used to do before my world shattered and scattered little fragments of my being. I went for my regular, three-and-a-half-kilometre early morning stroll around the neighbourhood streets, and each step brought back painful memories.

I passed the retaining wall where you almost hit your head, as you tripped on the footpath, watching incoming cars instead of the kerb. Do you remember? Instinct and fast reaction curled you up in a ball when you fell, as army paratrooper training kicked in. You finished up