Mum’s Eulogy

Delivered at her ‘Celebration of Life’ Mass | Tuesday 7th January 2025 | St Paul the Apostle’s Catholic Church, Winston Hills

I am nearly 100 – she often told us.

Betty Edwards went to the baptismal font as Betty but left the St Mary’s church as Elizabeth Valerie Catherine. Betty was a cow’s name the priest told my grandmother. But Elizabeth Spooner was forever after Betty.

She was born at Burwood, the 5th of 6 surviving children of Eva and Thomas Spooner - a local lad who ended up a master plumber - and grew up in a series of houses in Homebush, Strathfield and Burwood. She went to school at St Mary’s Concord and did the Intermediate Certificate. She later worked at a haberdashery and at GJ Coles at Five Dock where she was assiduously courted by her future husband. Her brother had introduced her to Jack Edwards, who had joined the and been posted to New Guinea. They married soon after he was demobilised and first lived at Croydon with two of her sisters (Phyllis and Nell) and their families. In those days this area was called the western suburbs but later she and her soul mate took their first three children further west – to Merrylands to a new house with plumbing by her father.

She met her lifelong friend Betty Crammond (later Davies) whilst a shop assistant.  The two Bettys, the one a brunette and the other a blond, were close for the rest of their lives, as were their husbands. Weekend jaunts, holidays together and marathon conversations all through their lives.  In the 21st century, Mum - aka Black Betty – would drive up to Leonay, to collect white Betty and set off along the Northern Road in search of a good meal and some good bulk sherry to take home.

She was courageous and independent. Maybe that started with larks like hanging off the back of the ice truck as it did its rounds but it continued through braving thunder storms, which she feared nearly as much as her mother lest her children end up with the same fear. In many practical things like learning to drive and finding her way around the city she rose to the challenge. She’d rather have been a dreamy passenger with her favourite driver. She continued to drive up until a couple of years ago. Most recently she was set on acquiring a fold up electric scooter so that she could the more easily go out with anyone willing to take her. She wanted to go out almost to the end. She ordered one and waited for the scooter to be delivered but it still has not arrived.

She was tolerant and accepting. Open to all, able to relate to anyone. Everyone I know was impressed by her warmth and she engendered inclusion of all she met. All were welcome at home. All were welcome at her table.  She was widely consulted on births, deaths, relationships and family history. Some named her the oracle. I later discovered she kept exhaustive lists.

Grilled flounder was her safe dish in my early memories of dining at a restaurant but later became a much more adventurous. A good meal should be finished with a dessert and portions carefully managed to allow for it. She was a good cook, who over the years, was open to new dishes and taught me a lot of about cooking. However, Dad never was able to convince her to serve him a rare steak. I once saw her whip a medium rare piece of meat off his plated and return it a minute or so later properly done. You could see the lights in Dad’s eyes dim a little. Dad often joked that she could not bake scones but boy, she could make a sponge cake. When parish or school fetes came around, she would set about making large numbers of fresh cream sponges. Woe betide us if we did not go quietly and not bang doors lest the sponges fall flat. They never did.

Her faith, along with Dad was at the centre of her life.  She worked quietly for both Granville church and school. After the nest had emptied, she took up lay ministry, visiting those confined to home or in need and taking communion to them. She was a very devout Catholic but always tolerant of others however challenging that might be. When she could no longer manage to get to daily mass at Winston Hills she would search the web for a suitable congregation to join. She had a critical appreciation of sermons and would seek out a streamed service with a good preacher.

Protective and sometimes fiercely so. She stood up for us as kids and as adults. Sometimes we might be threatened with the wooden spoon or that she would tell our father but mostly it was a stern look or wagging the bent finger. The crooked finger, the scold and the letters.

Mum was like a good book. Always a new chapter and so, so many footnotes. Some of us could get lost in the footnotes but she always came back to the thread leaving no one behind. Everyone wanted to hear the new chapter or re-runs. Though a marathon conversationalist, she sometimes took pity on me and produced short versions if I protested but only if I promised to hear the long version next time.

The book has now closed and I had not finished reading it.

Order of Service