👴 Eulogy for Grandfather (3 Examples)

Tēnā koutou katoa. Thank you for coming together here at St Michael’s to honour the life of my grandfather, Arthur James McKenzie—our Grandad Art. He was born on 15 March 1942 in Dunedin, and he left us in Christchurch at the age of 82. Those dates bookend a life that was steady, useful, and generous, the sort of life that quietly strengthens families and neighbourhoods. Grandad grew up in Dunedin and found his way early: an apprenticeship in carpentry, a craft that would become his calling. In the 1960s, he moved north to Christchurch and built more than houses; he built a future. He started McKenzie Builders with a battered ute, a few good tools, and a promise he kept for decades—do the job properly, price it fair, finish what you start. In 1967 he married Margaret, and for 57 years they were companions in the truest sense—partners in work, in humour, in the ordinary tasks that make a shared life. Together they raised Fiona and Daniel, and later welcomed us grandchildren—Liam, Sophie, and Maya—into a home that smelled of fresh timber, tomatoes ripening on the windowsill, and a Sunday roast that never failed. As his eldest grandson, I spent countless weekends with him. He taught me practical skills and a kind of quiet courage—the kind you need to admit a mistake, fix it, and carry on without drama. One summer we built a treehouse in the backyard. He laid the boards out on the lawn and handed me the tape measure. “Measure twice,” he said, “and then measure once more for luck.” When I miscut a board, I braced for a lecture. Instead he smiled—just a crease at the corner of his mouth—and showed me how to square a line, plane an edge, and make it right. No fuss, no point-scoring. Later that day, up among the branches, he knocked the final nail and gave me that quiet nod of his that meant “well done.” I learned more in that afternoon than from any textbook: about effort, patience, and the satisfaction of work done properly. Grandad had the temperament that holds a team together—steady, humble, with a dry Kiwi wit that could loosen tension like a well-timed tap on a swollen door. He was a patient teacher. Many apprentices came through McKenzie Builders; several still send messages about the man who taught them how to set a line, sharpen a chisel, and keep their word. He loved restoring old villas, bringing life back to timber others had given up on. He said you could tell the story of a house by the grain of its floorboards and the way the morning light fell across a skirting board. On weekends he’d be in the shed in Cashmere, long after he retired, sorting screws by size, putting an edge on a plane iron, working on a stubborn bit of kauri as if time itself might soften if you were patient enough. The shed was his place, but he never kept his skill to himself. After the earthquakes in 2011, when so many of us felt adrift, he spent days—then weeks—moving from neighbour to neighbour, shoring up fence posts, planing doors swollen with damp, bracing verandahs, making little temporary fixes that turned out to be lifelines. He never walked past a broken gate; he never ignored a worried face. He just put the kettle on, listened, and got on with it. His pleasures were simple and faithful. Fishing at Lake Tekapo before sunrise, a thermos of tea and a yarn about the one that got away. Tramping in Arthur’s Pass, boots muddy and spirits lifted by the first patch of sun after rain. Tomatoes and beans in the garden, staked straight and watered early. Rugby on the radio, volume set just so, a running commentary muttered in that low voice we learned to tune in to. And, occasionally, the patient resurrection of a classic wooden boat, ribs and planks coaxed back into shape until the water agreed to carry it again. Grandad lived by a handful of principles that didn’t change with the weather—hard work, integrity, keeping your word, looking out for the neighbours, and finishing what you start. He didn’t speak about these things much; he showed them. If he said he’d be there at eight, the ute pulled up at ten to. If he promised a job by Friday, you could set your watch by it. And if you were flustered, he’d sit you down for a cuppa, listen longer than you expected, and offer a sentence or two that cleared the fog. What we’ll miss most are the small markers of his presence. His calm advice over a cuppa at the kitchen table. The smell of sawdust on his jersey after a day in the shed. That quiet nod—no fanfare—when you’d finally got something right. To Nana Margaret, to Mum and Dad—Fiona and Daniel—and to my cousins Sophie and Maya: your grief is deep because your love is deep. But look how much of him is already in you. In the way a tool is cleaned and put back where it belongs. In the way you show up for a neighbour without being asked. In the way a promise, once given, is kept. Grandad would not have asked for speeches or fuss. He would have asked that we take care of each other, that we keep the kettle full, that we mend what can be mended. He would have smiled, perhaps, to know that instead of flowers we’re supporting the Volunteer Fire Brigade—the kind of practical kindness he admired. When I think of him now, I return to that treehouse. I’m up among the branches, holding a hammer too big for my hand. He is below, steadying the ladder, letting me try, letting me learn, trusting that I could do it and standing ready if I couldn’t. That, to me, is the shape of his love—a steady presence that gave confidence without crowding. We grieve today, but we also give thanks. For a life that built up rather than wore down. For hands that left beauty wherever they worked. For a gentle humour that never needed to be loud to be heard. If you want to honour him, do something the way he would have done it. Turn up on time. Keep your word. Finish the job. Help the neighbour. Make the tea. And when someone does well, offer that quiet nod that says more than any speech. Moe mai rā, Grandad Art. Your work here is finished, and it holds strong.

Tēnā koutou katoa. I’m standing here as Hemi Wiremu Thompson’s mokopuna. To me, he was simply Koro Hemi — my anchor, my storyteller, my biggest supporter. Koro was born in Gisborne on 22 November 1939, raised on the East Coast with Ngāti Porou strength in his bones, and he slipped away peacefully in Napier at 84, still teaching us, even at the end, what quiet dignity looks like. He wore many hats and none of them for show. In his early years he was a shearer — quick on the handpiece, gentle on the flock, the kind of speed that made others watch, and the kind of care that made farmers trust him. Later he planted his feet in Hawke’s Bay soil, tending apples and peaches, rows neat as his handwriting, turning seasons into kai, and kai into gatherings. If you left his place hungry, that was on you. Koro was a fluent speaker of te reo Māori, a patient guide for rangatahi, a community rugby coach who believed in two things equally: a strong tackle and a kind word. He backed kapa haka with the same pride he showed on the sideline, knowing that strength has many forms. He was the devoted husband of our Nan, Mere. Dad to Rangi, Moana, and Pita. Proud Koro to seven mokopuna who knew where the best hugs lived. He was generous, cheeky, wise, and endlessly patient — strong in the ways that made you feel safe, tender in the ways that made you feel seen. My favourite memory is simple and it glows. Dusk on the marae veranda, the day softening, Koro beside me, guitar resting on his knee. He taught me a waiata, slow and careful, then told me the whakapapa behind it — who we come from, why the words matter, how a song can hold a river, a mountain, a name. He didn’t say, this is important. He just sang, and I understood. Koro loved the small good things that make a life full. Fishing off the wharf, lines quiet in the water. A few guitar strums after dinner, the last notes hanging like steam. Carving small taonga at the table, wood shavings catching the evening light. Kūmara beds checked at first light, and early morning walks on Wainui Beach, footprints that the tide knew and kept for a moment longer. He measured his days with values, not clocks. Whānau first, always. Manaakitanga that showed up as extra chairs, extra plates, extra time. Tikanga held with humility. Giving without a ledger, without expecting it back. He could be cheeky — that eyebrow lift that meant a joke was on the way — but every laugh carried a lesson, and every lesson was kind. What we’ll miss is easy to list and hard to carry. His quiet “kia kaha” in your ear when you needed it most. The hug that lasted just long enough for you to breathe again. The way he could turn an ordinary day into a story, a walk into a wānanga, a peach into proof that the world is sweet on purpose. Koro didn’t make speeches about legacy. He planted it. In trees that still lean toward the sun. In kids who now switch to te reo without thinking. In teams who play hard and help each other up. In mokopuna who know the tune and the history. Today is a celebration of that. If you hear a guitar later, sing. If you see the kai, don’t be shy — he wouldn’t have been. We’re wearing bright colours because he filled rooms with colour, and because grief and joy can sit side by side and not argue. Koro Hemi, thank you. For the stories, the songs, the ocean mornings, for apple boxes that doubled as seats, for the smell of lanolin on your jersey, for peach juice running down our chins and you saying, “Good — that’s how you know it’s ready.” We’ll carry your “kia kaha,” your patience, your cheeky grin, and we’ll keep doing the small good things, properly. We’ll look after Nan. We’ll look after each other. Haere rā, Koro. Moe mai, moe mai, moe mai rā. And to everyone here — thank you for being part of his story. Waiata and shared kai will follow. Let’s celebrate him the way he lived: together, with full plates and full hearts.

Kia ora koutou, thank you for coming together today at the Lower Hutt Events Centre to remember and to celebrate the life of our Poppa Pete — Peter Robert Ng. I’m his first grandson, and most of what I know about curiosity and kindness began in school holidays with him in Lower Hutt. Windy weeks, messy projects, patient explanations, and a steady hand on my shoulder when things felt too hard. Poppa Pete was born on 5 July 1945 in Wellington. He passed in Lower Hutt, aged 79. Those are the bookends. What lives between them is the part that matters, and that’s why we’re here. He was the son of Cantonese immigrant grocers in Te Aro. If you ever wondered where his precision came from, imagine a small shop where a miscounted coin meant a late bill. He learned to weigh fruit with care and give change without fuss, to listen properly before answering a question, and to know his neighbours by name. He kept those habits for life. They showed up in his classroom, at family dinners, and in the way he spoke to the person behind the counter or the kid stuck on their times tables. He was the first in his family to attend university. He never boasted about that. He made it sound ordinary, like catching the right bus. “Education is a pathway,” he’d say, not a finish line. Then he spent 30 years at Hutt Valley High proving it, one lunchtime tutorial and scribbled margin note at a time. Poppa Pete met Linda — Nana, to us — and together they built 52 years of the kind of marriage you notice for its quiet warmth rather than for any big speeches. Mum and Dad — Michael and Sarah — grew up with a father who could turn fractions into little puzzles and conflict into a cup of tea. He wasn’t loud about it, but he was always there. For Nana, for you both, and for us grandkids — Ethan, Ruby, and Aiden — he was the steady centre of the room. If you knew him as a teacher, you might remember the way he’d stand at the board, draw a right-angled triangle, and then pause. He’d look around the room until the noise settled not out of fear, but out of interest. Then he’d ask a small, exact question that made everything else click into place. He was meticulous and unfailingly fair. The sort of teacher who remembered names and noticed effort, who ran weekend maths clubs for the kids who loved numbers and the kids who were scared of them, and he made room for both. He believed everyone deserved a good explanation. Out of school, he carried that same care into the community. He helped run chess tournaments, setting out clocks and score sheets with a precision that felt almost ceremonial. He volunteered in community gardens, staking beans straight, labelling seedlings neatly, and teaching newcomers why compost matters. He was an advocate for migrant families — not with a banner, but with late-night phone calls, form-filling, and a lift when someone needed to get somewhere important. He understood what it means to arrive, to feel unsure, to need a hand that is offered plainly and without conditions. He was gently funny in the way that sneaks up on you. If you asked how his day was, he’d say, “Productive enough to earn a biscuit,” and produce a tin where the best biscuits were always hidden under the plain ones. If you beat him at chess — it did happen occasionally — he’d nod, tap the clock, and say, “We’ll schedule my comeback for next week.” No grandstanding, just a twinkle and a plan. Some of my favourite memories are from blustery Saturday mornings on Wellington Harbour. We’d take model boats down to the water, wind tugging at our jackets, spray on our faces. He’d kneel at the edge, adjusting a line by a millimetre, checking the rudder twice. The boats would wobble out, catch a gust, and suddenly they were away — a small triumph against the elements. Afterwards we’d get hot pies, sit in the car with fogged-up windows, and he’d tell me stories about his students’ triumphs. Not marks. Triumphs. A kid who came to every Saturday maths club for a year and finally asked the question they’d been too shy to ask. Another who stayed after class, not for calculus, but to talk about homesickness. He treated those moments like gold. He taught me that small, steady wins are what life is really made of. He had a way with simple things done properly. Sailing, yes, and chess. But also baking sponge rolls so light you worried they might float out the window. He measured flour with care and folded the batter like it was alive. If you asked why his sponge never sank he’d say, “Patience, boy. The tin tells you when it’s ready.” On weekends he’d walk the bush tracks in the Remutaka ranges, unhurried, pointing out a fern you’d missed or the way a stream makes its own path around the stubborn parts of the land. He loved the long view and the small detail at the same time. In our family, he was the quiet backbone. You could feel the room relax when he walked in. People will miss his reassuring ‘we’ll work it out’ smile — the one he used for school algebra and for life’s messier equations. They’ll miss his careful explanations that made hard things simple — not by magic, but by respect for the person listening. And we, as a family, will miss that steady presence at dinner, the way he’d sit back and let the conversation find its level before nudging it forward with one good question. He was not a saint; he wouldn’t want that said. He could be fussy about the dishwasher, and he thought a poorly sharpened pencil was a moral failing. On gardening days he had an outfit that no one could convince him to retire. But even his fussiness had a purpose: small things done properly add up. It was never about perfection. It was about care. About showing up with your best attention, whether you were marking homework, mending a model boat, or talking through a problem that had nothing to do with maths. To Nana — Linda — your partnership with him is something we all look up to. The ordinary heroics of years count for more than any single story. To Mum and Dad, to Michael and Sarah, he was proud of you in that particular way that didn’t need announcing — the packed lunches made with precision, the late-night text that said, “You’ll sort it.” To us grandkids — Ethan, Ruby, and Aiden — he left a trail to follow: be curious, be kind, count properly, and put the kettle on before you try to fix anything complicated. He believed in inclusion not as a slogan but as a habit. Make space. Listen longer. Split the last piece evenly. He believed patience isn’t passive — it’s active, it’s paying attention. He believed education is a pathway, and that pathways only matter if you walk them together, looking back now and then to check no one has been left behind. Standing here, I keep hearing his voice in the back of my mind, the same way you hear the tide in the harbour even when you’re two streets back. We’ll work it out. He said it when the weather turned on us and the boat line tangled. He said it when I failed a driving test and didn’t want to try again. He said it when we worried about things that seemed too big to name. And he was right more often than not. We do work it out, together, if we take our time and bring our best to the small tasks right in front of us. So how do we honour him now? We can show up for each other the way he did. We can take an extra minute to explain something to a person who is struggling. We can volunteer a Saturday morning and not make a song and dance about it. We can sharpen the pencil, label the seedlings, reset the chess clock, bake a sponge roll for someone who needs a soft slice and a cup of tea. We can keep learning, because he never stopped. On behalf of the family, thank you for the love you’ve shown — in the stories you’ve shared, in the old class photos you’ve dug out, in the meals left on the doorstep. If you’re thinking about how to continue his legacy in a practical way, we welcome donations to the Wellington City Mission in lieu of flowers. He would like that: help that moves, help that lands somewhere useful. Poppa Pete, you taught in classrooms, yes, but you also taught in car parks with pie wrappers on the dash, in gardens with dirt under your nails, in quiet lounges where the kettle clicked and steam rose like a small flag of truce. You taught me that a fair game is better than an easy win, that a good question is worth more than a quick answer, and that kindness is the simplest way to change the shape of a day. We will miss you. We will miss the way you made space for all of us to be a little braver, a little more exact, a little more generous. But what you built in us doesn’t vanish. It carries on in the way we show up, in the way we explain, in the way we say, without fuss, we’ll work it out. Thank you, Poppa Pete, for every careful note in a margin, for every pie on a windy day, for every quiet laugh at the right moment. Thank you for the patience you practised and passed on. Sail on, old friend. We’ll see you in the small, good things we do next.