Example 1: Daughter for her mum, warm celebration of life, about 4 minutes
582 words · about 4 min spoken
My name is Tessa, and I'm Judy Brennan's daughter. Thank you all for being here today—for Mum, and for each other. It's hard to sum up a whole life, but I’ll try to do her justice, because she always expected us to do our homework properly.
Mum was a talker. She could strike up a conversation with anyone, anywhere. The supermarket checkout, the petrol station, the bus stop. By the end, she’d know their kids’ names, and probably their birthdays too. She was a teacher through and through, whether you wanted a lesson or not. If you ever made the mistake of saying ‘less’ when you meant ‘fewer,’ you’d get a grammar correction and, somehow, a cup of tea in your hand before you knew it.
She grew up on a dairy farm outside Warrnambool, the eldest of five. Responsibility came early. She carried that steady, no-nonsense kindness right into her classroom in Geelong, where she taught Grade 2 for thirty-four years. She married Dad—Kevin—in 1971, and together they raised me, Liam, and Sam in our creaky old weatherboard on Pakington Street. Dad passed away in 2015, but Mum kept going, one cup of tea at a time.
Some of you will remember her blue-and-white Geelong Cats scarf, which she wore to every home game for forty years. She refused to wash it during finals—she said it was bad luck. She loved her morning cryptic crossword, always in pen. Even when she couldn’t finish it, she’d never use pencil—she believed in committing to your answers. When things went wrong, her answer was always, ‘Put the kettle on, we’ll sort it out.’
I remember being fifteen, hiding a failed maths exam. Mum found the report, sat on my bed, and just said, ‘Right. Put the kettle on.’ Every Tuesday night that term, we sat at the kitchen table doing fractions with a packet of biscuits. She’d break them into halves and quarters, and I’d have to eat the answers. I passed, and probably gained a kilo or two. That was Mum—patient, practical, and always ready to turn a problem into a tea break.
She didn’t slow down with age. At seventy-two, she decided she’d never properly seen snow, so she booked a coach trip to Mount Buller with a busload of strangers. She came home with a bruised hip and three new best friends. That was Mum—always up for an adventure, always collecting people wherever she went.
She kept a tin of emergency lollies in her handbag for forty years. Crying kids in the supermarket, sometimes even crying adults—everyone got a sweet and a kind word. Grown men still stopped her in the street to say, ‘Hello, Mrs Brennan.’ She had a way of making you feel seen, and safe, even if only for a moment.
She taught me that you don’t always have to fix someone’s problems. Sometimes you just need to sit with them, and put the kettle on. That’s the lesson she left us all with.
Thank you to my brothers, Liam and Sam, for being here. To Aunty Bernadette, who drove up from Warrnambool this morning. And to the palliative care nurses, especially Rosa, who did the crossword with Mum every day, even when she pretended she didn’t need any help.
As we leave, we’ll play her favourite song, ‘Dancing Queen.’ I know she’d want you to sing along. Mum, the kettle’s on. We’ll sort it out, just like you taught us. Thank you for everything. We love you.
What the writer told Toastful to get this speech
- Speaker
- Tessa, daughter
- Personality
- Mum was a talker. She chatted to everyone: the woman at the checkout, the man at the petrol station, strangers at the bus stop, and by the end she knew their kids' names. She was a teacher right down to her bones. She'd correct your grammar halfway through your sentence, then make you a cup of tea.
- Life story
- She grew up on a dairy farm outside Warrnambool, the eldest of five, and taught Grade 2 in Geelong for 34 years. She married Dad, Kevin, in 1971, and they raised me and my brothers, Liam and Sam, in a weatherboard house on Pakington Street. Dad died in 2015.
- What they loved
- The Geelong Cats. She wore the same faded blue-and-white scarf to every home game for forty years and wouldn't let anyone wash it during finals. The cryptic crossword every morning, always in pen. Her answer to every problem was 'Put the kettle on, we'll sort it out.'
- Stories
- When I was 15 I failed my maths exam and hid the report. She found it, sat on the end of my bed and said, 'Right. Put the kettle on.' Every Tuesday night that term we did fractions at the kitchen table with a packet of biscuits: she broke them into halves and quarters, and I had to eat the answers. I passed. And at 72 she decided she'd never properly seen snow, so she booked a coach trip to Mount Buller with a busload of strangers. She came home with a bruised hip and three new best friends.
- A lighter moment
- She kept a tin of emergency lollies in her handbag for forty years and handed them out to crying kids in the supermarket, and sometimes to crying adults.
- Legacy
- Grown men still stopped her in the street to say, 'Hello, Mrs Brennan.' She taught me that you don't always have to fix someone's problem. You just sit with them and put the kettle on.
- Acknowledgements
- My brothers, Liam and Sam. Her sister, Aunty Bernadette, who drove up from Warrnambool this morning. The palliative care nurses, especially Rosa, who did the crossword with her every day.
- Quote or faith
- Her favourite song, 'Dancing Queen' by ABBA. We'll play it as we leave, and she'd want you to sing along.
- Goodbye
- Mum, the kettle's on. We'll sort it out, just like you taught us. Thank you for everything.