A couple of weeks ago one of our neighbours died. Bill lived one street away from us and he was an extraordinary guy.
Bill must have been 80 or so, and he was an immensely popular piece of our neighbourhood fabric. Every weekday morning and afternoon - rain, hail or shine - Bill would sit at his front gate with his small dog in his lap and greet everyone that walked past. His timing was based on when the young children who lived in the neighbourhood would be walking to and from their local primary school. Bill and his pooch would happily greet them, have a bit of a chat, wish them well and then see them all again later that afternoon.
Whenever Bill missed a day of saying g'day, you knew something was wrong. It happened once last year. He missed a day or two and when he re-emerged there was no dog. Sadly his dog had died. But only a week or so later Bill and a new pup were back at the front gate and the world was back to normal again.
But a month or so ago I was walking home along Bill's street. It was just after 3pm and there was a huge crowd of children with some mums and dads milling on the footpath. From a 100 metres away I couldn't work out what was going on, but my rapid pace had to slow as I weaved my way amongst prams, trikes and assorted small people.
An icecream van ("Mr Whippy" in the local parlance) was parked on the street and the kids were queuing to get an icecream. I thought to myself: "If it was my kids, I'd dodge the crowds and take them somewhere else".
I didn't think much more about it until the following morning - a Saturday - when my wife and I took our dog for a walk. There was a cardboard sign in Bill's front yard letting everyone know that Bill had passed away earlier in the week.
It became clear then. All the children I had seen the previous day queuing for an iceacream from the van were lining up out the front of Bill's house. Bill's dying wish was that every child who had walked past his house should get a free icecream. What a way to be remembered.
How will you be remembered?
Bill must have been 80 or so, and he was an immensely popular piece of our neighbourhood fabric. Every weekday morning and afternoon - rain, hail or shine - Bill would sit at his front gate with his small dog in his lap and greet everyone that walked past. His timing was based on when the young children who lived in the neighbourhood would be walking to and from their local primary school. Bill and his pooch would happily greet them, have a bit of a chat, wish them well and then see them all again later that afternoon.
Whenever Bill missed a day of saying g'day, you knew something was wrong. It happened once last year. He missed a day or two and when he re-emerged there was no dog. Sadly his dog had died. But only a week or so later Bill and a new pup were back at the front gate and the world was back to normal again.
But a month or so ago I was walking home along Bill's street. It was just after 3pm and there was a huge crowd of children with some mums and dads milling on the footpath. From a 100 metres away I couldn't work out what was going on, but my rapid pace had to slow as I weaved my way amongst prams, trikes and assorted small people.
An icecream van ("Mr Whippy" in the local parlance) was parked on the street and the kids were queuing to get an icecream. I thought to myself: "If it was my kids, I'd dodge the crowds and take them somewhere else".
I didn't think much more about it until the following morning - a Saturday - when my wife and I took our dog for a walk. There was a cardboard sign in Bill's front yard letting everyone know that Bill had passed away earlier in the week.
It became clear then. All the children I had seen the previous day queuing for an iceacream from the van were lining up out the front of Bill's house. Bill's dying wish was that every child who had walked past his house should get a free icecream. What a way to be remembered.
How will you be remembered?
