The priest who lived just across the way from us died last Monday. He was 96 and had been in bad health for the last few months. Born in Ireland in 1911, he came out to Australia around 1935. He was a parish priest for the next 50 years, or so, on the north coast before retiring in Kingscliff.
He was a great chap, always ready with a joke. When we first got here he was zooming around on a electric wheelchair, at breakneck speeds usually. He was also very proud of his hat that had holes from where the magpies pecked it while swooping him. He then started getting lost so they downgraded him to a walking stick. He would poke you with it and say "Watch out".
He started getting ill and heading out half dressed and falling over, so they eventually popped him in a home. Only lasted a couple of months there before dieing.
We went to his funeral yesterday. It was a great hoo-haa with all the priests from the local diocese and the bishop. It was strange going to another Catholic funeral. My mothers and her parents were all very similar; just a lot less priests and no bishop.
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