A glimpse of John Taylor

A eulogy from Louise Hogan at John Taylor's funeral.

We feel very privileged today to speak about our friend John, but also as representatives of past and present staff and students of Alexandra Secondary College. The other day when Helen Anderson and I went to visit John in hospital, he told us that he was worried that people would be upset today talking about him and he didn’t want that, and that they would feel as if they had to say nice things about him when all he was really was, was a “grumpy old bastard”. So we thought the best way to get around this was to tell some stories that are vintage John, and some stories that he wanted to be told (and some that he didn’t).

I first met John in 1985 when I enrolled in a short computer course at the secondary college at night. It was 10 weeks long, 1 night per week. I knew absolutely nothing about computers and so asked endless questions. At Week 9 John had had enough and he asked me “Why do you keeping asking the same bloody stupid questions week after week ?” I said, “Because I am bloody stupid at this and I don’t want to be.” It must have been the right response because he just sat down with me and taught me what I wanted to know. I got home sometime after midnight.

Over the past few days, when we have been talking about John, it seems everyone has a similar story to tell about his patience with those of us who just take a bit longer for things to sink in or who needed to have something fixed. He would growl and grumble, but he always found time.

And then about 6 months later, in early 1986, our paths crossed again. John, his mate Peter Lewis and I all began a Deakin University Graduate Diploma of Computing course and we had to attend an introductory session at Shepparton. I made my own way there with my 3-week-old baby Kate – who incidentally John taught last year in Year 12 Information Management and Processing.

Now Kate is not a ‘computer girl’ by any stretch of the imagination, and she kept telling me how hopeless she was as the subject. So about this time last year, I asked him how she was going with the subject. He said OK, and that she was pretty smart and worked hard, but asked lots of stupid bloody questions, but he thought that was probably genetic !

Anyway, back to 1986 and Shepparton. It was stinking hot, and after trying unsuccessfully to settle down this fretful baby, I arrived at the introductory computer session. I struggled in the door with a baby capsule in one arm, a nappy bag under the other one, a box of disks and course materials jammed all over the place. I was hot, bothered and stressed – and then I spotted John.

He rolled his eyes at the sight of me and waited until I got settled into a chair, and then with that wicked grin, leaned over and whispered to me that I was in the wrong room because the nursing mother’s meeting was in the next room, knowing full well that I was doing the course just like him. I knew then that this was the beginning of a great friendship because anyone who could make me laugh when I was in such a state was destined to be a good mate – and he was.

John told me over his last few days how proud he was of his girls – Helen, Emma and Laura – and he spoke often of the wonderful life he had had with his extended family and friends – this sense of family was most important to him. He worried about how they would cope without him, and he didn’t want them to be sad. He admired their ‘resilience’ (as he called it) in the face of this terrible ordeal, and yet he didn’t realise that it was his courage in facing his illness that gave them this inner strength.

He lamented the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to do all the things he planned to do when he hit the magic 54 years and 11 months, even though he packed more into his life than most of us have or will. So I guess his message to us all – because he would want us to all learn from this experience – is to never take your eye off life nor neglect your health, be the person you want to be, don’t be a passenger in life, and cherish and use the opportunities that life offers.

John didn’t want to die; he wanted to stay here with us all. He told me this so many times. But if he was here today, just sitting over there with Helen and the girls, he would be shaking his head at me, telling me to ‘cut out the crap’ and get on with it.

I think over the last few weeks, it finally started to dawn on John just how much he meant to us all, and he found this completely overwhelming – such was the humbleness of the man. John has left footprints on this earth, on many lives and hearts, and we will miss him more than he could have possibly imagined.