10 July, 2020

We come to remember Jennifer Jane Bounds, to commemorate all that she gave to so many, all that she meant to those here, physically or virtually, and all those who will call her to mind this day and in the future. Much can be said of all she gave to communities large and small, but we want to remember her mostly as a friend, a mother and grandmother, and a woman of courage and faith.

Jenny was born in southwest England in 1933, in the cathedral city of Exeter, Devon, the only child of Edward and Ella Blodwen Penberthy. She was born and grew up in the small coastal town of Budleigh Salterton, where Eddy was stationed as a linesman, and she learned to swim between the tank traps placed along the beach to protect them from Nazi invasion. A vivid memory was the fresh fruit given to the local children by US combat engineers stationed at the end of the beach, many of whom would be casualties on Omaha Beach, and who lived on in her memory. Devon and Cornwall held a special place in her memory, and she would revisit them whenever discussing travelling to the UK.

She was a good student and gained a scholarship at Bishop Blackall—a grammar school in Exeter. It was there she met John Bounds—apparently John asked her to watch him play Rugby one afternoon—and then, when John achieved a place as a medical student at King’s College, followed him to London to study education at Furzedown College, University of London. She taught kindergarten in the docklands of the East End before marrying John Bounds in 1956. John and Jenny had their first two children, Christopher and Carolyn, in London as John finished his medical training. Graeme Dinning’s stories of his young life in Sydney struck a chord, and they decided to leave England behind for a new life south of the equator.

The family emigrated to Australia in 1963. It’s hard not to underestimate the determination it must have taken to uproot everything and move from South Wales to New South Wales. Family legend records that Australia House saw us coming and sent us to the bucolic pleasures of Moree after the green valleys of Bargoed; but Jenny and John must have loved it, even when the young doctor’s wife was told off by the local Chair of the CWA for wearing M & S frocks instead of the socially-acceptable skirt and blouse. When asked to bring a plate, Jenny brought cutlery as well—of course—but also her two small children. History doesn’t recall the level of disapproval, but Jenny proved herself more than adaptable to both the climate and prevailing cultural mores of the not-so-swinging sixties and came to love Australia and Australians.

After living in Moree for six months, the family moved to Penrith, where they had two more children, Simon and Claire. Jenny and John raised their four children surrounded by music and literature in the open spaces of Orchard Hills, where they lived for over forty years. Penrith was little more than a country town in those days, but Jenny made it her home and continued to miss it even after the move to Croydon. 

Many of those present and listening elsewhere will know her as a friend, for friendship was one of her many gifts. She had an enviable capacity for keeping in touch; indeed, she seems to have had friends and family on every continent and would suggest “catching up” with a cousin or acquaintance that we might have met once during our childhood. Penrith, however, was her emotional base, and she made friends for life among her contemporaries, families that became part of our history as well: Dinnings (bless you, Graham, for helping Dad in so many ways), Gledhills (Norm and Enid, never forgotten), Mullins, Chatfields, McKenzies, Woods, Rowlands, Lewises, and so many more. She could throw a good party, but was even better at organizing a function, and the Renaissance Banquet of 1979 and the Gilbert and Sullivan Dinner a couple of years later were better organised than the Logies, although where Mum found a 16^th Century recipe for eels is something only a fellow librarian could explain.

When her youngest child went to school, Jenny went back to full-time teaching, first at a primary school in Mt. Druitt, then as the teacher-librarian at York Public School in Penrith where she helped form and run the school band program. With her children grown, she showed her own commitment to lifelong learning and went back to university herself to earn a bachelor’s degree in library science. She spent the last decade of her career at St Paul’s Grammar School as the librarian, where her ability to organize and inspire meant that her library was always full of students reading, studying, and playing chess. Even after her retirement, Jenny continued to share her love of learning as a volunteer at the Book Bunker of Westmead Children’s Hospital. 

Jenny’s life was one of commitment to bringing music and education to the lives of others. This started with her own children, naturally; she worked to ensure that each of us had any number of educational opportunities and encouraged us—that’s not a sufficiently strong verb—and relentlessly challenged us to make the most of every opportunity. Music was a part of our lives, books surrounded us, and we were the beneficiaries of trips to plays, operas, concerts and ballets that other children must surely envy. Our education and well-being always came before their own comfort and enjoyment, and it’s a little sad that neither of them enjoyed the luxuries of retirement as much as they had deserved.

Throughout her time in Penrith, Jenny worked tirelessly on a truly impressive number of community projects. She helped start the Penrith Pre-school Kindergarten, was a founder and Secretary and later President of the Nepean District Music Club, a member and president of the Nepean Choral Society, and was instrumental in helping to form the Penrith Symphony Orchestra, serving for many years as president and as orchestra manager. She was a charter member of the local Zonta Club. When John and Jenny moved to The Brighton in Croydon in 2015, Jenny helped organize the choir and a book group. Her life of service to her community was recognized in 2001 with an award of the Medal of the Order of Australia.

Claire once asked Jenny where she met John and she laughed and said, “In a committee meeting, of course!” In Claire’s words: “I spend my days at the moment in committee meetings via the web, working out how to teach college students while keeping them six feet apart and wearing masks. As we saw Mum slipping away from us, and as I realized that I could not be by her side, I gained some comfort that at least I would be doing what she would have done: I’d be in a committee meeting working out how to give students the opportunity to read literature, to play and listen to music, to study history, to value art, and  to love learning in the community that is our university. Though I will always be sad that I could not be there, my work in these committee meetings is a testament to her, as she worked with others to make life better for everyone. And somewhere in heaven, I’m pretty sure Mum and Dad are both in a committee organizing some heavenly choir.”

Jenny’s many years as orchestral manager of the Penrith Symphony involved many logistical challenges. The needs of each program is different and finding that extra oboist, or last minute French horn player or Percussionist who can actually bring their own gong was Jenny’s great gift. She was a wonderful negotiator: persuasive, encouraging, fun yet firm, and frugal! —never spending more than necessary and cleverly managing to find the very best musicians and conductors available.  She made countless phone calls, made hundreds of round trips in the trailer carrying timpani, organised hundreds of advertisements, applied for scores of grants and together with the family, folded thousands of flyers and programs. It may well be that the funeral booklet you share today is one of the few that Jenny, John and one or more of the four us didn’t staple! But always it was about the joy of the music and of seeing the audience’s enjoyment and above all, the community it created amongst the local musicians and the music loving patrons and the orchestra committee. The bible verse from Messiah in today’s booklet seemed a perfect choice as we remember both Jenny and John singing with love and energy, even to those of us in this world who might be rather restricted in that respect! 

Jenny was a woman of faith and tradition and believed deeply in the importance of parish communities. She was fortunate to find the St Paul’s Burwood community in the last few years of her life: she loved it and was loved in return. A good hymn, Welsh by preference, could set Jenny up for the week.

Being an only child and married to another only child, family was everything to Jenny. The time around the dinner table on a Sunday when we were growing up always made her happy. It was a table that welcomed guests, girlfriends and boyfriends and she became happier as each new member of the family arrived to sit and talk and eat around the dining room table. 

Each of her children has an anecdote that testifies to the deep, abiding and practical love she gave us. Jenny came to say goodnight to Claire on the evening before she started high school. She gave her some really important and heartfelt advice: “Join in. You’ll get so much more out of life!” Joining in was as essential to her as breathing. 

Simon’s memories are of someone with amazing reserves of energy, always doing something, going somewhere and collaborating to achieve a goal. She had a finger on the pulse of what needed to be done to keep the household together, being successful at work and ensuring that the west of Sydney had cultural opportunities as close as possible to what was available in Sydney, without the travel.

Jenny was never too busy in the community not to give time to others. For years, Jenny would leave work and drive to Pendle Hill to visit her mother’s nursing home, a marathon of loyal love that we find amazing. When I was struggling as a single parent in a difficult new role as an assistant principal, she decided to come out of retirement as relieving librarian to ensure I had lunch and someone to lean on during difficult days. Needless to say, for months after she left, the boys would ask me, “how’s your mum doing?”.

Four months after Jonathan was born, Carolyn began playing eight shows a week in the orchestra of Phantom of the Opera. Jenny would come down from Penrith every Friday after work and pick Jonathan up and take him back to Orchard Hills for a weekend with Nana and Poppa. For nearly two years they looked after Jonathan every weekend and Carolyn and Allan would travel up on Sunday after the Matinee to collect him and enjoy the Sunday evening roast dinner together. 

Claire and Ben’s visits from various parts of the USA always involved odd hours and jet lag, but she never retired without having a clean kitchen for John when he would make tea in the morning. After an amazing effort to organize a dream wedding for her overseas daughter, she had the energy and kindness to take Ben’s parents to visit a sheep station in Bathurst the next day. It was never too much trouble to do things the right way.

Paula remembers her first meeting with Jenny and John. She writes: “I was nervous and she seemed terrifying. We met in a small, crowded, noisy, restaurant in Croydon. The conversation was polite and a little awkward. Jenny was reserved, listening to the exchange of conversation; she was clearly going to make me work for her approval to form a relationship with her first-born. John and Chris were observing the process with restrained amusement, which didn’t help. The night was still young, so Chris suggested we head for gelato. It was here, ironically, that relations thawed as I suggested that we all swap cups to share each other’s gelato choices. Jenny pushed her cup in my direction. I took this as a sign that we could move forward. Phew…!  This first meeting taught me Jenny’s fierce love for and protection of her children. Let any woman or man get between Jenny and her children at their own peril.  We went on to form a strong relationship founded on mutual love for her son and our combined passions for education, literature and the performing arts. We got to enjoy live music, opera and drama performances together. She always included Aidan and Liam in her family circle: there was always love to go around. She was beautiful, classy, intelligent, passionate, a force of nature, and I couldn’t have hoped for a better mother-in-law.”

Jane would agree. She remembers Jenny being always there to help, washing Olivia’s hair every Thursday for the first five years of her life—a feat that required bravery, endurance, coercion (of a very reluctant Olivia) and love, and that pretty much sums up Jenny’s approach to almost everything. In her words: “She and John were a fabulous pair—their love of family and each other was evident. She welcomed me with open arms and always had the right words at the right time, the right actions and the perfect involvement a mother-in-law should have. I was chuffed that she didn’t hold back on picking up our girls as new-borns on day one in the hospital, as she was secure in the knowledge that I trusted her immeasurably. I will miss our Thursday night dinners (of course, she always said she loved my cooking, even when it was not so great). One day, I will model my own mother-in-law and nanna roles on her execution of this gig and remember her always with admiration.”

Harley was first invited to join Maddy at the Bounds’ family Christmas celebrations in 2013. The invitation came with a caveat: the family is noisy. He remembers that: “As a newcomer, I felt uncertain of how I would fit in. I recall watching the family gather around to open presents, and after some time, Jenny handed me a gift and gave me a warm smile. Filled with curiosity, I opened it to witness a wooden peg with a “to do” sign attached. I smiled and looked at Jenny to thank her. Her thoughtfulness to include me was both charming and heart-warming, which speaks volumes of her character. I feel grateful to have gained a grandmother since that day. I also learned that the family “noise” was much more choral and harmonious than the word implied.”

For Maddy, Jenny’s warmth and wisdom were central to her role as Nana to eight grandchildren and two grand-spouses. In her words, “She always knew what was happening in everybody’s lives, and her knowledge of the family’s achievements and adventures—even across oceans—kept us all connected. Ever insightful, she understood when a word of advice or reassurance was needed and delivered it thoughtfully and sparingly. Nana was relentlessly proud of all of us.”

Stephanie remembers that, “Once when Nana was visiting, I had some friends over and we wanted to start a fire to roast marshmallows. In a group of middle school students, several of whom prided themselves on having taken classes to teach us how to start fires and things, none of us could get it properly started. And then we heard someone speaking up on the deck, and we looked up. There was Nana, calling down suggestions, before giving up on our insufficient abilities and speeding down the stairs, and starting the fire herself. Nana was brilliant at a lot of things, and I remember her fondly for all of them. But every now and then, particularly any time I need to start a fire, I think of Nana’s eagerness as she walked towards the fire pit with a nearly pyromanic aplomb, and I have to smile.” For the four of us, Steph’s story rings true, recalling Jenny’s religious dedication to the incinerator in the days before air pollution was invented, and the annual calls from Don Hensley of the Orchard Hills Fire Brigade, asking Dad when Mum was intending to burn off the paddocks.

Nick says, “I viewed Nana as being a stricter presence than Poppa. She was the adult that you most feared to discover your wrong-doing, and, no surprise, the one most likely to do so. However, that paints an unfair picture as I remember the deep kindness and love that Nana showed us every day. Nana was always doing all she could to provide comfort to the jet-lagged Haegs just arrived from America. She would listen proudly to her grandchildren in musical endeavours (even my mistake-riddled piano performances) and was always encouraging. She would rush to our aid whenever anything went awry.”

She was sharp. It’s no wonder that Olivia thinks that “The prospect of getting in trouble in front of her was far scarier than anything else I could have imagined. Not because she was mean or unkind, but because of the deep respect I held for her from such an early age. Watching her congratulate and take pride in any amount of achievements by my cousins, I always wanted to show her that I too could follow in their footsteps. I remember driving to piano lessons, listening to classical music in the back seat of her car, or practising up to my twelve times tables, and being rewarded by a singular snake; most early on, learning to count by walking up and down the staircases at Little Beach multiple times a day. All things apparently not what the average three to nine-year-old would see as fun, but somehow Nana tricked me into loving every second, and Thursday afternoons with her continued to be something I looked forward to right into my late years of high school.”

Sophie says that “Nana was always much more invested in my academic and extracurricular achievements than I was. Our conversations would often be about how I was doing in classes, or at band, or swimming practice, or in my flute lessons with Aunty Caz. In primary school and early high school, these conversations with Nana were a motivating factor behind my participation in my extracurricular activities, because her disapproving stare when I failed to be as concerned about these activities as her was unbearable. As I got older and found activities I was passionate about, it was Nana’s enthusiasm in these subjects which motivated me to want to do better, and to share my achievements with her. Nana always made sure I knew how proud of me she was when I told her about a good mark on an assessment and was always interested in attending any of my performances or exhibitions.”

Jenny came to all of Jonathan and James’ concerts without fail, right from primary school to university. James says that “she was always incredibly supportive of all my musical endeavours. I also can’t read Winnie the Pooh without nana’s voice in my head, reading all the characters.” We all remember her laughing at the funny bits and nearly falling off the bed.

In a life of 86 years, Jenny Bounds did more than enough to live long in the memories of many who met her; and the good works she did will live on in the communities she served. Our privilege today is to remember her before God, offering the eucharist in thanksgiving that she now is at peace We know that she has gone to be with her loved and loving husband of 60 years, in that place where death has no dominion.

Perhaps I can leave the last words to her grandson Dominic:

Even after all this time, certain moments stand out in the memory: the arrivals at Orchard Hills with Nana always waiting to greet us, the long conversations over dinner, the concerts featuring everything from Beethoven to Mussorgsky, the borrowed books, the summer afternoons by the pool, the discussions of the dam and its comparison to the primordial soup, the sad departures in the evening, and so many more beyond counting. Jenny Bounds loved conversation and passed her love of a good chat to her children, and from there to the rest of the family – as anyone who has ever spoken to us will know well enough by now.

I look back on our rambling phone conversations on Monday nights and Friday evenings, and to my mind, they haven’t ended; perhaps this is a testament to what a magnificently engaging human being Nana was, or perhaps the echoes have yet to fade. 

Either way, she will never be forgotten.

May she rest in peace and love.

Jennifer Jane Bounds (10 December 1933—3 July 2020)