Robot Claw

Alois Schmitz was born in March 1935 in the small town of Neiderdhünn, Germany. Despite his youth being spent during the war, his stories of growing up on a farm and playing in the forests and fields of the rural countryside were always happy ones. His family was large with many brothers and sisters who remain close to this day. There was a lot of love in the Schmitz household.

University taught dad he wanted to be a teacher, and his first job at age 23 was at a primary school in a district of Berlin. But this was short-lived, for within a year he took the bold move (in 1959) to fly from Germany to the other side of the world and become a missionary in Papua New Guinea.

He kept a diary throughout the several day trip from Germany to PNG. He wrote evocatively about the departure from his parents, the exotica of air travel and the oppressive heat he encountered when he reached the tropics. It’s an extraordinary glimpse into my father as a young man, and I can almost imagine writing the same words myself had I ventured into the unknown as he did over 60 years ago.

Foremost in his motivations even then was God. My father was a very religious man and he was sincere in his desire to spread Christianity via the missions. And at the same time it is clear he understood the challenges he faced, and humbly trusted that God was at his side.

His first stay in the tropics was five years, after which he returned to Germany for a year. This return trip took him around the world, with stops in Sydney, the USA and London. He wasn’t even thirty and he’d been to five continents in an era where few people ventured far from where they were born. The following year (1965) he returned to Papua New Guinea only this time he took the long way and traveled for months on cargo ships, visiting a sixth continent in the process. He would never reach Antarctica, but my father saw more of the globe by 30 than I likely will during my entire life.

His second tenure in PNG would be the most important for that was when he met mum. Within a few years they got married and my brother and I were born. The next time he returned to Germany (in 1972) it was with a wife and two children, and by that point he knew that his future with his family would be somewhere other than the jungles of New Guinea. The next year he moved to Australia for good.

Dad’s profession was as a primary school teacher. Although I may not have fully understood this as a child, that meant he had the same holidays as my brother and I and therefore was a big part of our lives. All through our younger and teenage years dad was always with us, always taking us places and involved with our hobbies and activities. I’ve got countless memories of him taking us on day trips to all sorts of weird and wonderful places, and occasionally longer vacations during school holidays to the mountains or a farm or ‘down to Sydney’. Our vacations may not have been fancy, but there were fun and that’s what matters.

Looking back through the lens of adulthood I think Dad was reminiscing about his childhood then the way I do now. His vacation spots were often pastoral or related to nature, and his keen interest in gardening and keeping animals (we had chickens, rabbits, mice, guinea pigs and always cats) suggest the days of his own youth. Maybe he remembered what had made him happy as a boy, and tried to impart that to Bernard and I? It worked, and I very fondly recall those days.

Dad was a selfless man. Even before I was born he had devoted 14 years of his life to mission work in Papua New Guinea (for which he was barely paid), and his volunteering continued throughout his life for as long as he was able. Most of this was church related, such as helping immigrant families, the elderly or the sick, but this was true at home too. We were not a wealthy family, but I don’t remember ever wanting for anything. What dad earned was spent on mum, Bernard and I. He was a man of simple pleasures, and I believe found joy in seeing his family happy.

He loved classical music. He loved reading. He loved beer and food. He loved gardening. He was a student of history and of religion, and a man of keen intellect. He loved walks – this is probably why I do – and often we would drive somewhere just for a hike. In his journal about his first voyage to PNG he wonders if he’ll ever get used to the heat but in time he would grow to love the hot Australian days and I remember long summers where he always seemed to be working in the garden but would drop everything to take Bernard and I for a swim somewhere. He loved games as well, particularly cards (at which he was nearly unbeatable) and boardgames. I credit my love of games to my dad, because we seemed to play games together endlessly when I was growing up.

As I grew older and more independent I used to turn to dad for advice: what should I do with myself? He always said to do what I knew was right. I was offered a lucrative scholarship after high school, and dad was the one that helped me decide it wasn’t what I truly wanted. I remember a couple of years later when I told him I was moving to America his first reaction was happiness because he knew it was what I truly wanted. Perhaps he saw a piece of himself in me then, after all he had done something very similar when he was about my age. Twenty-five years later he confided that he was nervous of my choice for one reason: he didn’t have the money to pay for my ticket if I wanted to return. Even then, with his son an adult about to ‘leave the nest’ he was still thinking of me above himself.

With his kids away to live their own lives dad and mum embraced a new phase in their lives. It was years before I was able to return to Australia but when I did I was delighted to find my parents living a carefree and happy life in retirement. They were, as we say, growing old gracefully and they were a perfect match with a very rich history behind them and two successful sons who remained close though so very far away.

Technology shortened the distance, and eventually money did as well and I was able to start visiting annually. Although I saw dad for only about two weeks every year, each time we reunited it was like we had barely been apart. As an older man dad was quiet and content. His hearing had faded and his memory sometimes too, but he always loved me being there and we had endless conversations about science and history and technology or my interests, since he was always curious about my various hobbies. As I spent time with him as an adult I increasingly saw myself in him. His even temper, his intellect, his sense of humour and his curiosity: these I inherited. As I grow older I become more like him, and I find this reassuring.

In 2015 we sent dad to Germany for an extended holiday, part of which we shared with him. This will remain one of the most treasured memories of my life, especially the time spent with relatives in Wipperfeld and for the first time meeting dad’s brothers and sisters. I’ll never forget dad standing outside the old farmhouse he was born in and pointing out toward the forest and fields describing in surprising detail his wonderful memories from 70 years earlier. Dad always had a twinkle in his eye, but at that moment he had stars.

We didn’t know at the time but during that German trip dad was sick with cancer, and within a year we received the news no family wants to hear. While his first treament was a success and gained him a few more years, ultimately the cancer returned stronger than before. Dad took the diagnosis in stride and was strong until the very end, selfless and uncomplaining. He was staying alive for us, but despite a truly herculean effort the cancer was an opponent that he couldn’t defeat forever.

Dad lost his battle on Friday. He was 85 years old.

Dad, I want you to know this entry is only a fragment of my memories of you, and they are all wonderful and they are all treasured. I have always admired and respected you, and look to you as a role model and the man I am most proud of.  I can only hope I leave the same impression on others that you have on me.

I have loved and will love you forever dad. You may be gone, but you’ll always be with me.