Summer’s End — Hard Times

I’ll Be Seeing My Little Brother Soon

David Rawlings and Gillian Welch singing,” Hard Times”, Costa Hall, Geelong. March 1st, 2026. (Photos permitted).

Singing “Hard times ain’t gonna rule my mind
Hard times ain’t gonna rule my mind, Bessie
Hard times ain’t gonna rule my mind no more

Said it’s a mean old world, heavy in need
And that big machine is just picking up speed
And we’re supping on tears, and we’re supping on wine
We all get to heaven in our own sweet time
So come all you Asheville boys and turn up your old-time noise
And kick ‘til the dust comes up from the cracks in the floor

Singing, “Hard times ain’t gonna rule my mind, brother
Hard times ain’t gonna rule my mind
Hard times ain’t gonna rule my mind no more”

(Gillian Welch, Hard Times, 2011)

I spoke with John’s two siblings on February 5^th, the seventh anniversary of his death. David had rung to inform me that Lynn was in hospital; in a town near the border of NSW. A near 800km return trip from where I live in the south west of our home state, Victoria. I immediately rang Lynn; the situation was dire and they were expecting to move her in the following days to Melbourne for surgery. I’ll be seeing my little brother soon, she flatly remarked. Being the oldest of the three siblings, she wasn’t talking about the youngest David, she was referring to John. I could hear the vulnerability of an exhausted body and spirit.

I first met Lynn in September 1990, at her 40^th. I retain a vivid picture of walking down the dark side driveway towards an illuminated garage decorated with party paraphernalia. The game of pool paused momentarily. Her friends retrieved their cans from the crate sized speaker boxes that flanked the wide entrance. As one, they squinted into the night to see who was approaching. Oh, John’s here, sang the women excitedly; everyone loved him.

John and I had hooked up three months earlier. Lynn was living locally in Brunswick for work. She was a barmaid, and John would stop by the pub on a Tuesday on the way home for a couple of pints with his sister. Lynn moved around a bit, though she was back living and working in Brunswick when it was my turn to reach 40, in 2006.

My sister and I still laugh about my wee party that night. Lynn’s partner, Mandy, was hilarious, her dancing the highlight. John, Lynn, Mandy and I shared many laughs over their years, and typically over too many beers. John and I both felt Mandy’s absence when she and Lynn split later that same year.

By 2010 Lynne had moved to Phillip Island in the southern part of the state. I only know that because we went down there for her 60th. Physical distance had thinned the opportunities for visits. It was where John and Lynn had their last beer together in January, 2018, a few months after his MND diagnosis. Lynn remained there until circumstances lead her back to the family home in the foothills of the Alpine region about five years ago.

Being in the north east of the state, the town blisters in Summer. When John and I weren’t interstate camping over the annual Xmas Summer holidays, we would head that way for a few days between Boxing Day and New Year. We probably got 4 or 5 of these in before Jean died in 2002. Lynn spent every Xmas with their mother and the times that we were able to make the trip were full of anticipatory laughter between brother and sister.

The annual five day Boxing Day Test was the background hum; with coverage on TV inside, and the radio, outside. The iconic cricket match would dominate the lazy pace of the week. The family banter was light and the mood carefree.

The portable card table would reappear in the back yard each morning, ready for the commencement of the day’s play. Covering its surface waited an unfinished jigsaw, Jean and Lynn’s challenge for the week. They would hover over it while remaining attuned to the cricket commentary.

John and I would be reading; he resting his elbows and book on the garden table, while I usually lay on a towel on the lawn. The mustard coloured, fringed umbrella would be pushed up into place, ready to be strategically angled every so often to maximise the shade.

Any questioning cries of — WICKET— inspired an animated dash inside to catch the replay. These playful moments punctuated the friendly repetition of family stories.

Around 11am — precisely, [thanks John], he and Lynn would lock mischievous eyes. Esky duty, was a shared performance; to elicit commentary from Jean. Their procedure, measured: tip out most of the melted ice making sure to leave enough slurry; the required base to maintain an icy temperature. Stack cans neatly to maximise beer storage. Top up with fresh ice. There is a science to it, John would smile; the crescendo of new ice hitting the plastic ice box the cue for Jean to enter the scene.

The shade’s approaching the shed, one would defensively laugh; the other supporting with, we’re just getting ready. Come midday — when the shade was over the shed — John and Lynne would bait each other; who would be game to crack the first beer? How many you up to now?, Jean would enquire on the hour. She knew the score and she loved the banter.

The predictable routine ensured that we could factor in some respite. Sometime around mid-late 90s, Lynne needed to drive a 100km round trip to pick Mandy up from the Wangaratta train station. Make sure you go straight there and come straight back, was Jean’s instruction. Oops, Lynn took umbrage, and I accepted her invitation to join her for the ride. John’s knowing expression as we left is etched in my memory; we would be gone for hours. There’s a few country pubs to pass — or not — along that route.

It seems John’s company, a sense of humour and an esky of prawns that Mandy had in her possession soon smoothed Jean and Lynn’s rustled feathers.

Any skeletons whose wounds were carved deep into bone were always left for night time conversation, after Jean had retired for the evening. Despite her bedside radio being on all night, her bedroom door remained ajar — for the cats. There was a shared respect and love of Jean.

Lynn was transported to Melbourne and underwent high risk surgery on Saturday, February 14^th. Further post operative complications meant that by Wednesday 18^th it was apparent that she was dying. Despite this recognition in conversation initiated by the surgeon, contradictions within the system meant that appropriate and timely care for Lynn kept being delayed. It became necessary to support her and David by advocating for a more compassionate approach.

On Monday, February 23^rd, I rose early for a repeat return trip to Melbourne. As I prepared to leave the house around 6.30am, I noticed the feather on John’s hat. He had moved it to standing position — Go gently, be firm, it’s a fine balance.

At the hospital by 9am, a new nurse tending Lynn listened to my concerns and promptly sent an urgent message to the nurse in charge, palliative team and doctors. She knew Lynn’s levels of pain were extreme. Returning to the room, she spotted the palliative team on their rounds, went out and got them.

Go gently, be firm, it’s a fine balance.

After addressing my determined list of questions seeking clarification and explanation, highlighting the apparent inconsistencies between departments, the palliative team escalated Lynn’s case to department directors. When they left, Lynn took my hand, I love you because you are my friend. She was otherwise incoherent.

I left Lynn when she fell asleep, after a heart wrenching, excruciating change of the bandage, sheets and sponge bath. I kept reassuring her during the ordeal, cupping her face in my hands and whispering repeatedly that she was safe. The two nurses tended her as gently and swiftly as they could. It was 11.30am. I sent David a message. He and his son were running late in traffic, due to arrive at the hospital within 30 minutes of my departure. It is a seven hour return trip from the family home they shared with Lynn.

David rang at 1.30pm, while I was on the train to Geelong. Lynn’s transfer had been finalised and she was due to leave Melbourne at 3.30pm. She would arrive at their small hometown hospital six hours later.

I arrived home at 3.10pm. The bedroom blind was swinging, an invitation to meditate.

On Sunday, March 1^st, I woke at 4am. As with many of us, it is routine for me to stir in the hours when the veil is thinnest. I put on a meditation, thoughts went to Lynn. David had rung me Saturday afternoon to report she was close. When I woke a couple of hours later, Gillian Welch and David Rawling’s, Hard Times, was playing in my head.

Checking my phone, I noticed a message from David, Lynn passed on about four o’clock this morning. I felt an immense relief for Lynne and equal measures of sadness and gratitude — a fine balance.

Early afternoon, post meditation, I picked up the rods; I could feel John’s energy. Yes, Lynn had arrived safely, and yes, he had connected with her.

Sunday evening I attended the final concert of the Australian tour of Gillian Welch and David Rawlings. The photo that heads this post is from that concert, Gillian singing the above mentioned song.

Monday, March 2nd, a writing day. At 8.30am, David rang to inform me that Lynn’s body had been transferred to the Coroner in Melbourne.

Summer’s end — Hard Times — A Fine Balance.

A Fine Balance (For Lynn)

Dawn draws the stillness of night into day

as his wisdom flows from quill to crown.

Our silences speak in humming rhythms;

vibrational frequencies of light.

A tender touch is the ethereal feather

that transmutes time and space.

Gentle is the heart of discernment;

intuition and insight, procuring protection.

Portals of transformation upon the wings of angels,

to the eternal; a homecoming.

The feather standing on John's hat, Feb 23rd, 2026; John and Lynn sharing a beer in January, 2018

With love and gratitude, my learning continues.

Lynn, you landed safely. Enjoy your homecoming. Bless You. Thank you for 35 years of friendship. I love you.

John and team, thank you for the guidance. I love you.

And so it is.