Western Walkabout: Interesting Neighbors
…Various ladies pursued Hank at Parkwood but for one reason or another he avoided their embrace. There was a controlling Dutch divorcee, Grace, whom he used to refer to as Attila the Hen,..
Richard Harris pays tribute to a good neighbor and friend.
New neighbors are always so interesting? Sounds like an ancient Chinese curse – may you live with interesting neighbors.
I’ve lived at my present address for more than 30 years and in that time all the original residents have left or passed on and I have come to know numerous new neighbors, though none as interesting as the first. His name was Hank Vandervalk, and he died several years ago from lung cancer.
Hank was a bachelor, a retired forester who had worked for many years in Papua-New Guinea. He had a passion for classical music. Once when I invited him to a performance of the WA Symphony Orchestra at the Concert Hall, in Perth, he wore a dinner jacket, white shirt and black tie.
The day my wife died, I went to sit with him at his house. He was playing something appropriate, Orpheus’ lament for Eurydice. I said I had been hemorrhaging money on medical bills and had learnt that my HBF cover did not include funeral costs. “Don’t worry,” said Hank. “I can help you with that.”
It wasn’t necessary, of course, but it was one of those lovely gestures that friends and neighbors make from time to time.
I once asked Hank why he had never married. He replied that in the territories, he was always camping out with his men – indigenous people – and being under canvas was no life for a woman.
He had once advertised in a European newspaper for a partner. Nothing happened for a month until the Post Office delivered a huge carton of responses from European women, many of them of German ethnicity, who all wanted to come and live with him. Some of the responses were desperately moving, even heart-breaking. To sort out Ms Right from this colossal response was so overwhelming a task that he simply gave up. His boys used the letters to roll their cigarettes – paper was a precious commodity there, and the letters were all written on light airmail paper.
Various ladies pursued Hank at Parkwood but for one reason or another he avoided their embrace. There was a controlling Dutch divorcee, Grace, whom he used to refer to as Attila the Hen, and various others whose names escape me, apart from on called Marion, who had a boyfriend living in her garage, apparently in case Centre Link paid her a surprise visit, checking on her pensioner status.
When Hank got his lung cancer he declined chemotherapy and stayed at home with palliative care from Silver Chain and a consanguineous female. He left his house to a nephew, who sold it and used the proceeds to buy a boat.
I still miss Hank. He was a good friend and an interesting neighbor.
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