Peter Charles Whiteley, 1928-2017
Peter Charles Whiteley passed away peacefully on September 2, 2017 – the Father’s Day weekend – aged 88 years. The much loved husband of Dawn, father and father-in-law to Sharon, Gail and Brian and their partners, and cherished grandfather and great-grandfather was farewelled at a service on Monday, September 11, in the Chapel of the Western Districts Memorial Gardens. Granddaughter Bethany Simons wrote a poem as a tribute to ‘Pop’ and read it at the funeral. With the family’s permission, we publish it here.
MEMORIES OF POP
Tall and dark and handsome Dancing round the floor Walked a young girl home one night... From two came plenty more
A large and sprawling family Because of Nan and Pop A legacy that lives on through And may it never stop
We carry genes and memories To pass on down the years It’s often just the little things That move us all to tears, like:
Sleeves rolled and collar open Singlets hanging on the line A hankie in the pocket Wrist watch set to his own time
Chocolates in the top drawer And money in a tin Raffle tickets, meat trays Talking of a win
King of daily routine He lived a simple life Saleyards, club and mealtimes Searching for his “special” knife
Cursing mongrel dogs And racing out the door to shoot Napping on the day bed Sleeping in the ute
Reading through the paper A cuppa by his side Watching stars and drinking port Outside or by the fire
Work boots, cap and jumper Car rego always due Dinner on the table Teeth out so he could chew!
Sitting up there on his tractor Or the header for the oats That little orange Datsun Turning onto Peachville Road
Peter, Peter pumpkin eater Pumpkin farmer you might say He’d throw the seeds and watch them grow Then give them all away
Black fella, they called him That dark skin and country blood He was true blue, dinkum Aussie Always right there for a bud
Man of few words, he was Though he’d often spin a yarn With legs crossed he’d tell stories Of the old days or the farm
Knowing “What you should do” Yet never being told Tough as nails on one hand Then slowly growing old
Paraffin oil for thick dark hair That turned as white as snow He lived to 88, my Pop But I never thought he’d go
The sheep are lost without him The paddocks aren’t the same The ute it sits in one place The tank it needs some rain
No longer here to potter Slash the grass and feed the birds We’ll miss his steady presence That deep voice and those choice words:
“Whatchya doin’, Charlie Brown?” “How’re ya goin’, little mate?” “G’day” and “holy smokes” “Unreal” and “any rate”
“I’ll go to town directly Have a middy with me mates Alright then, see ya’s after See you when the weather breaks”