Neil Vivian “Viv” McMillan
17 February, 1929 – September 29, 2018
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Eulogy read by his daughter Wendy at a celebration of his life at Eat Your Greens, Eugowra, on Friday October 5.
Firstly, I’d like to thank all the family and friends who are here with us today to celebrate the life of the head of our family, Neil Vivian McMillan.
In the week leading up to his peaceful and dignified passing on Saturday 29th September, our family has cried together, in unison with many of the wonderful, caring staff at Eugowra MPS, as we prepared to say goodbye to him.
Dad, born on 17th February, 1929, was the last surviving member of the 6 children of Neil Graham & Kathleen McMillan, nee Byrnes, of “Marara,” Eugowra.
Bob, the eldest of their children and was born in 1918, followed by Jean, Joyce, Harold, Dad and lastly, Stewart, born in 1931.
Now, we will record in our family tree that Dad, in fact, shares the same date of death as Joyce.
“Marara,” situated on the Mandagery Creek, is three miles from Eugowra, along the Waugan Road.
In Dad’s youth, Harold drove a sulky and chauffeured his younger brothers, Viv and Stewart, into Eugowra to attend school. When older, they rode a pony.
Unlike today, “Marara” provided many of the family’s daily needs – milk, meat, bread, butter, vegetables and fruit, as well as a secure roof over their heads.
As such, many of the hardships suffered by town dwellers during the Depression, by-passed the family living at “Marara.”
As Dad grew, his mother’s childless sister, Irene O’Hare, fondly called “Aunty Bubs,” took him under her wing, spoiling him rotten in the process, and indulging him with experiences very different to farm life.
Consequently, Dad was educated in several places where Aunty Bubs lived, including Forbes, Goulburn and Bega.
Bubs and her sister, Pearl, were publicans during the 1930s & ‘40s, so Dad was familiar with the hurly-burly associated with life in a pub of that era. Every Sunday, Dad helped his Aunties hand-wash the beer glasses.
A final rinse in boiling hot water was done to remove any remaining traces of detergent, for, as any publican knows, detergent left on a glass rapidly kills the head on a beer!
A beer with no head, was almost as bad for business, as a pub with no beer, so Dad learned very quickly to be fastidious.
This habit of cleanliness and order remained with him all his life, and was evident not only in his home, workshop and garden but in his personal space too.
As a 14 year old, he also developed entrepreneurial skills, when, standing outside the pub, he sold cigarettes to the punters at closing time, following the frenetic completion of the ‘6 o’clock swill’.
With the money he earned from this lucrative, but illicit little side-line, he opened his first account with the Bank of New South Wales, now Westpac, in Forbes, and remained a loyal customer of that branch for the rest of his life. We’re not sure if his Aunties condoned his initiative!
On leaving school, in 1945, Dad enrolled at East Sydney Technical College to train as a woolclasser. He boarded with the Fletcher family at Bondi and while living in Sydney, kicked up his heels in the big smoke with Jim and Peter Charlton, amongst others.
Dad had fond memories of this energetic time in his life, and the friends he made, when he worked in large and busy woolsheds, such as Gurley Station at Moree.
However, Dad was never going to become either a woolclasser, nor a publican, for that matter, as the farm was his real love.
This love continued throughout all of his life, even after he retired from full-time farming. Like Banjo’s Clancy of the Overflow, Viv McMillan would never spend his working life in a ‘dingy little office, where a stingy ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall.’
Dad’s father passed away in 1949, so the brothers, Bob, Harold and Viv formed a partnership to run “Marara” and Dad returned to the farm.
Dad also began his serious courting days at that time, which ended when he met, at a dance in Canowindra, the lively and beautiful, Joan Hodge.
On 6th September, 1952, they were married in her home town of Canowindra and afterwards made their home at “Marara.”
Viv was 23 years old and Joan 25. In time, three children were born - me, followed by Catherine, then Neil.
Dad never wore a wedding ring throughout the 66 years and 23 days of their marriage.
Apart from the safety aspects of a farmer not wearing rings, he didn’t need tangible proof to show the world that Joan Hodge was his wife and that he loved her above all others.
Of course, as happens in any marriage, they shared moments of irritation, had squabbles and disagreements but at the end of each day, Dad was always devoted and dedicated to Mum.
Indeed, the strength of their marriage was evident to me, when I often heard them at night having quiet, private and lengthy discussions in their bed together.
In those years of his life spent farming, Dad grew wheat, barley and oats and made some of the best lucerne hay in the district. He also ran his Dorset Horn stud for many years. Another great love of his life was his herd of Murray Grey breeders.
After returning from a holiday in Tasmania with Mum in 1989, Dad made the sudden decision to retire from active farming, so “Marara” was sold.
However, a life spent on the golf course, or the bowling green, had no appeal to him, so he threw his heart and mind into establishing the beautiful garden that now surrounds their home in Eugowra.
He also continued with the community involvement that was second nature to him – Eugowra Show Society, Masonic Lodge, The Lions Club and later, the Eugowra Museum committee. In the community, he always gave back more than he took.
By example, Dad taught his children how to work hard, enjoy outdoor life and feed ourselves, as well as the value of team work.
During our teenage years, on weekends in school terms, and during school holidays, Neil and I alternately shared the job of milking 4 or 5 Friesian cows with an electric milking machine.
Afterwards, we separated the milk by hand, resulting in the thickest cream that could be imagined.
Joan and Lin Prior, our city-born cousins from Lakemba, who had many holidays at “Marara,” were intrigued with farm life. However, Joan was aghast that we drank milk that had come straight from a cow and refused to drink the fresh, warm milk.
Dad had no problem with that little customer complaint – unwatched, he simply decanted the unpasteurised milk into a glass bottle and chilled it. Joan, reassured by the product packaging, happily drank the contents.
Dad always butchered the meat we ate, so we children participated in the whole process that involves putting beef, lamb, pork and chicken on our table, grown on our own farm.
I always saw Dad treating his animals with respect, during, at the end of, and after their lives were over.
He believed there was no point in producing the best to sell off-farm for someone else to enjoy, so prime lamb, or succulent yearling steak was always served at our meal table.
Dad never discouraged me from being around the shearing shed as a youngster, probably because I was a fairly useful extra unpaid hand, which always appealed to him! With his woolclassing skills, he taught me how to be a good shedhand at quite a young age.
I still remember him saying: “Your legs are younger than mine, mate. How about you get up in the top box (of the Koertz press) and tramp that wool for me?”
He was the man who taught me to ride a horse, then later, a motorbike; to drench sheep, deliver lambs and calves; drive a tractor and a truck.
His body held the marks of a life lived on the land – barbed wire scars on his arms; an amputated finger tip from a cement water trough dropping unexpectedly; shoulder surgery needed later in life from a working injury he received and as such, his body slowly wore out.
Even though Dad had a volatile temper as a younger man (rightly, or wrongly, Mum blamed it on his blood pressure!) he never lashed out in a violent, destructive way. When I was about 14, I was driving our family car to the house.
Not watching the road, I ran into a cement post at the driveway entrance. When water immediately started spewing out of the radiator, I knew the car was going nowhere else for a while.
Mum and I drove a nearby ute down the paddock to inform Dad, who was ploughing at the time.
I sat apprehensively in the vehicle, while Mum walked over to tell him about the damage. I heard him cry: “WHAT!!!!!”, then he slammed the tractor door shut, and took off on another round of the paddock.
When he came back to the beginning of that loop, he was settled and accepting of the inevitable expense and inconvenience I had caused him through my negligence. He didn’t punish me, but he didn’t need to, because I knew I’d let my father down and that was the worst punishment I could have received.
As he aged and the demands of being a farmer were no longer part of his life, he mellowed and was able to relax more. Always the gentleman, with impeccable manners, Dad was private, reflective, hospitable and caring.
If there is a gene for determination, then Dad must have had a double dose of it. There are a few other ‘D’ words that come to my mind to describe my Dad – Dependable, Decent, Devoted and Dignified. On the flip side, he could be Domineering and Dogged, as a Boss sometimes is, but on the whole, his good points far outweighed any negatives he had in his character.
He was a man who always lived up to his Duty, whether that be as a husband, father, grandfather, breadwinner or as a member of a committee.
All of his family and friends have special memories of him:
For Mum, Dad has been a faithful and devoted husband for 66 years and 23 days. They have endured many ups and downs in this time but together, they have made a strong and united family who have learnt the values of love, loyalty and respect from two parents that are second to none.
For me, Dad was the man who quietly but persistently made me step out of my comfort zone many times.
Leading up to the occasion of marking the Centenary of Anzac in 2015, he put my name forward to be chosen as the presenter of the address at this important service. Despite my terror at the prospect, I delivered on the day, as he expected I would.
For Catherine, both her parents united to support her in a great moment of need in her life, without recrimination or judgement, when she faced the demands of single parent-hood at a young age.
For Neil, his father allowed him to make his own decisions as a man, re-assuring Neil that it was his right to live his own life as he wished and supporting him in that decision.
For his friends – once Pop made a friend, he was always loyal and steadfast.
Mum and Dad were and are, surrounded by a community of friends whose company they have enjoyed at balls, dances, fetes, shows and meetings over the years.
Saying goodbye is so much easier when that support is there, as it is, in spades, in the Eugowra community.
We say goodbye today to our much loved “head of the family.”
We will miss his steady hand, his dry sense of humour, his quiet chuckle, his piercing blue eyes and his heart of gold.
Rest in peace, Dad. Your work is done. You have passed the baton on.
I would like to think he’s upstairs now, and had a quiet word with the Big Boss, asking him why he had forgotten, for such a long time, to send us some rain. It seems the Boss heard him.