1932-2019
Father
Mother
Siblings
Clifford George, Ronald Edward, Kenneth William, June Elsie, Gordon Bruce.
Married
Dorothy Elaine Paul
Children
John Charles, Leah Elizabeth, Jacqueline Patricia, Donna Marie, ‘name withheld by request’ and William Bradley
Strud’s Life
Strud was born in Tullamore, he lived with his parents at various sites around Tullamore, often in a tent following his father’s work of contract timber clearing and tank sinking until they purchased ‘Slapdown’, Fifield in the late 1930’s early 40’s which was to become their family home.
He was a man of integrity and loved to laugh. He was respected by his family, peers and the community.
Strud started school at the age of 7 and despite leaving school at 14 had an immense natural ability with machinery and working the land. He could make complex calculations to sink dams purely in his head, he ran multiple farming operations, and he would develop new designs for farming implements. He was a true Son of the Soil.
Strud enjoyed his sport – football and cricket, an ace on the tennis courts and fields. He met his wife Elaine at a cricket match! He always encouraged his children to play sport, be good sports and supported them to do so.
Strud followed his father’s footsteps – working the land, taking on contracting work, managing stock – for the rest of his life.
Strud purchased ‘Merrimee’, Tullamore on Yambora Road in 1951. In 1955 he married Dorothy Elaine Paul and made ‘Merrimee’ their family home where they bought up their six children. A typical farming family where the children learned the vagaries of a working farm and grew in that knowledge as did Strud with his family. A very happy and secure life. We were lucky as children of this family, a home rich in laughter and respect.
Strud always felt the urge to move further north to Queensland as did his forebears, moving from the south of England in the mid 1800’s and then from Kingower, Victoria in 1927 to Tullamore. Strud and his family moved to Toobeah in Southern Queensland in the late 70’s. He continued to clear country, work the land, sink tanks and increased the productivity of his land.
Strud and Elaine moved to Meringandan in their retirement and enjoyed the peace of a scenic block near a park.
Strud is grandfather to 12 grandchildren who loved and respected him. As of 2020 he had 7 great grandchildren who worshipped him as well.
Strud loved Queensland however he also loved his family and roots in Tullamore – he returned, upon his death, to the bosom of his family.
Dad’s Eulogy as written and delivered by his eldest grand son, Peter John Burnheim –
The morning air was crisp despite it being deep into the spring, and the last hours of darkness were eerily silent as the man confidently but cautiously mounted his truck. The silence was broken as the diesel engine coughed to life; the rig seemingly aware of the urgency of the task at hand. The truck made its way through the back roads of TuIlamore and Fifield, snaking its way South to Forbes. The man lingered at each crossroad, wary of any unknown vehicles and hoping to remain out of the sight of all, particularly the authorities, his every sense heightened as he held his nerve through the execution of his elegantly planned journey.
A bootlegger you may think? But you would be wrong – this man was carting grain, not grog- defying the illogical decision of the Wheat Board to impose a quota system for sales in Parkes to sell his load on the black market. He beamed as he presented the huge roll of cash to his young family later that day, the largest amount of money that he had ever held.
But if you did assume this man was a bootlegger, you may not be far from the truth. Years later, on hearing word that the Toobeah pub was short of booze due to a QLD licensing issue, he again loaded up his truck, although somewhat more cautiously to make allowance for the precious cargo of beer. North from “Merrimee” he headed on his thunder run, no doubt with the words of Slim Dusty’s ‘A pub with no beer’ echoing through his mind as he delivered his loot to the pub in that very predicament. You can only imagine the dry arguments and parched throats that were saved as the hero of the day opened the central shoot to deliver the lager.
These stories are but a few that articulate the larrikin streak that belies the true character of that man – a bona fide ‘Son of the Soil’, a man of integrity, a man of strong virtue, a man with a deep sense of family. The man we honour today.
Norman John Strudwick- best known to all as Strud. Eldest son of Jack and Thelma.
Eldest brother to Georgie, Ronnie, Kenny, Juney and Brucey.
Beloved husband of Dorothy Elaine Paul, who I like to call “Pud”, Loving father of John, Leah, Jacqueline, Donna, Kylie and Brad,
Grandfather and Great-Grandfather to a rather large bunch of ratbags.
Strud’s life is littered with ironies:
Despite only receiving schooling until 14 years of age – He had an immense natural ability with machinery and working the land. He could make complex calculations to dig dams purely in his head, he ran multiple farming operations, and he would develop new designs for farming implements that would ultimately be patented by someone else.
Strud’s life is littered with ironies:
Despite being the salt of the earth; a hard man, living life in an unforgiving land, Strud still demonstrated his willingness to cry, whether it be for a surprise party or a daughter’s wedding.
Strud’s life is littered with ironies:
Despite putting his baptismal faith to the side for the love of his life – he had strong Christian values that he held firm regardless of the circumstance. His demonstration of Christian values and commitment from the beginning until the very end is what can only be described as a love story for the ages.
Just last night, Pud told of the time when she and Strud were preparing for their vows. The circumstances dictated that they had to have a series of sessions with the priest in Trundle, and not to waste the opportunity they routinely went to the pictures afterwards, savouring a few more hours together. As the date drew near, the Priest asked Strud earnestly, “Have you been enjoying our weekly sessions as much as I have?”, to which Strud had to answer genuinely “Well I really enjoy the pictures!”.
Young John tells of the time in his youth when they lived at Barrakadan. John had lined up to meet his girlfriend at a B&S Ball at St Mary’s in Goondiwindi, some 120k’s away. But as luck would have it, the rain set in, trapping John whose 2WD would be no match for the 13k journey along the black soil road to the certainty of the bitumen. As you all know it can be a long time between drinks- so to speak- and John’s loss of hope was clearly evident, when up popped Strud – ‘It’s alright mate, I can jump on the Chamberlain and tow you as far as the gravel’. So off they went, John booted and spurred for his hot date. All was going perfectly, and John almost had the gravel in sight with just lk to go when Strud suddenly stopped. ‘What’s going on Dad’ he asks…… ‘I think we’re out of fuel mate’ was his reply! This left only one option…a very long 12k walk home on a very slippery road, with John some distance in front trying to control his disappointment. Once home John had to make the call to a mate to take his place. Needless to say, John never did go out with her again!
My firmest memory of Strud is the time that he was clearing scrub to the West of the homestead at Glengower North, no doubt to make room for more machinery. I sat in wonder as we rode high over the fallen timber on the dozer like a rollercoaster, yet somehow with a feeling of safety under the wing of a man in complete control.
I remember flying along the tracks down the back of Thalmera, glancing in awe at Strud’s ability to steer with his knee and change gears with his forearm – all so that he had two hands to roll a smoke. To this day I can’t smell the scent of “rollie” without seeing that image.
Over the past few days, I have been inundated with stories about how Strud taught his kids and grandkids some of life’s greatest lessons.
Mum remembers Strud telling the tale of how he, Noel Vamvos and Billy Hodge stole empty milk bottles from the back of Noel’s father’s cafe, only to run around and present them for resale at the very same store. He told the story not to show the daring of his youth, but rather his mortification of his wrongdoing and pride when he repaid the debt with his own hard-earned money.
While they were working at Bullamakanka, near Westmar, the boys decided to go roo shooting. Strud thought it best for him to take the wheel, leaving everyone else on the back with spotlight and rifles in hand. With a big mob in sight Strud was off, and to his mind he was expertly navigating the fences, potholes and scrub. But as they drew within range, he couldn’t hear the expected crack of the rifles. “Why aren’t you buggers shooting?” He yelled over his shoulder. But as he turned around all he could see was everyone crouching, rifles slung, simply holding on for dear life.
We all know that Strud hated a beer. John and Davida tell how they always admired Strud’s perfect timing and impeccable ability to smell out a beer. Their afternoons at “Molinda” were sometimes spent sitting back and enjoying a nice cold one. It never really mattered whether it was after a long day in the heat or short day in the cold, each time they had just knocked the top off a stubby, Strud would just turn up out of nowhere! ‘I’ll have one of them too mate…” he’d say. Thinking he’d worked out the routine, they tried mixing up their knock off time…sometimes long before five, sometimes much later. But despite their efforts, Strud always rocked up right on queue! In the end, they would get a beer for themselves and have one extra for Strud – knowing he’d be there at any minute.
Whether now, during this service, or in quieter times of reflection in the coming days, your minds will likely wander to the contemplation of your own mortality. And as you do, you may pause to compare Strud’s story to your own, to cast forward to think of how someone will one day talk of you. Having done so over the past few days you should take solace in the fact you are not on your own as you come to the realization that you simply cannot hold a candle to the formidable legacy left by this, a great man. A true patriarch; a man of integrity, loyalty and family; a man of action, not words. And I don’t use these descriptions lightly-these are not empty words from a roadside billboard, or a politician’s doorstop. Rather Strud’s is a reputation and legacy that was hard earned over many years of tough work and humble manner, of fair dealings and firm friendships.
It is no understatement to put that his legacy gives cause to simply say “They just don’t make men like Strud, anymore”.
You honour Strud by being here today. But you will more fully honour him by seeking to emulate his legacy in your own lives as you move forward – more doing, less musing; more grinding, less gobbing; more action, less words. Whether you have the gift of his blood in your veins, or simply the privilege of having known Strud as a mate, a mentor or a misfit-we all have the chance, and some may say the responsibility, to follow his example. And perhaps somewhat selfishly build our own legacy more in his image.
To think of Strud’s journey, now at an end, I would posit that despite the sadness and the sorrow, that by any objective measure, this is a story with every chapter fully written, this is a poem with no stanza left unread. To have experienced a life-long adventure of toil and triumph, one with many accomplices, but just a single leading lady. A family raised followed by a nest outgrown, and then the joy of his children’s children from afar. A son of the soil who joyously and tirelessly worked the land – from here in TuIlamore, to the red dirt of Southern Queensland, to the rolling hills of Moura. A final battle fought valiantly to the bitter end, but not before time for sweet goodbyes with his children. And to breathe his last with dignity, with only his bride at his side.
This is a story with more feeling of triumph than tinge of tragedy. More a time for celebration than any call for commiseration. More cause for gratitude than any sense of regret.
And so, in the words of his eldest son, John;
“Strud, We will always have that extra beer there for you”
PJB
Authored by Leah Burnheim his loving daughter.