Richard Grant was one of the founders of the
Helpers of God’s precious Infants in Melbourne.
He died on the 1st April 2025.We have posted 3 Eulogies from his funeral in Holy Week.
The first from close friend Dave Forster; and the second two from family Cecelia & Tom.
Dave Forster
I first met Richard Grant in 1953 when we both attended St Patricks Jesuit College in East Melbourne, where we park our cars for the monthly Helpers Mass and procession. Richard was a cheery, popular guy, good at sports but so casual and laid back. In those days most boys secondary schools had army cadet units, which were compulsory for senior boys. St Pats unit paraded each Wednesday after school, all spic and span in our pressed and polished uniforms – except for Richard. No matter what they threatened the officers could not get Richard spic and span, eventually they gave up trying. Richard was in the class one year behind me and one day at lunch recess Richard and I has a tussle over who would get the cricket ball (and bowl next). We were caught wrestling on the ground and each received six ‘cuts’ with the strap for our misbehaviour. I never forgot that but Richard could not remember the occasion as he got the ‘cuts’ pretty often.
I left St Pats in 1957 and did not see Richard again until 1974 when I stumbled into him at a meeting of Right to Life Victoria being held in Melbourne. I was wondering whether to join RTLV and meeting Richard again was all I needed. Soon, I was president of Geelong Branch of RTLV so we had regular contact. Richard was president of the Political Action Committee and he led by example. He never shirked any confrontation with abortion supporters or feministas, even when by himself. He related lots of anecdotes to me but my memory fails on the details. The only one I can remember is: one time he was on foot trying to cross a busy Melbourne road and a large car blocked his way so he simply opened the rear door of the car, scrambled across the back seat and exited the other rear door. Nothing stopped Richard.
In 1993 The Helpers of God’s Precious Infants started under the name ‘Abortion Alternatives’. We ‘picketed’ the Fertility Control Clinic one day each week from 7.30 am to 2 pm. On those days Richard would join us during his lunch hour, riding his bike up from the CBD. Gradually as we attracted more volunteers we extended to more days per week and finished at 10 am each day, after those seeking abortions had entered. At this time Richard decided to take an early retirement package so he could join us every day. Not many do that. To cover more ‘clinics’ Richard and I decided to stand outside a different ‘clinic’ each day: Prahran on Mondays, South Yarra on Tuesdays, Richmond on Wednesdays and Thursdays and FCC on Fridays. I remember an incident at South Yarra abortuary when a guy pulled a knife on Richard. Quite wisely Richard did not stop to argue. The guy merely wrecked our signs, thank God.
Gradually this became untenable so The Helpers concentrated its attention on the Fertility Control Clinic. Richard was there every day. There are innumerable incidents which could be recounted: disputes with ‘clinic’ staff, especially the director, tussles with security guards, confrontations with those seeking abortions and, more often, those bringing them in, negotiations with police and Melbourne City Council staff and Richard took on all. He was a very effective communicator and the number of letters he wrote in support of Helpers activities, particularly to senior police, were vital in enabling the Helpers to continue outside the FCC.
Richard was particularly vital in the court case resulting from the shooting of a security ‘guard’ in the FCC. Richard first recognised the gunman as one who had approached us outside the FCC some months previously. This guy was discontented with the Helpers approach and wanted more aggressive action. He wrote a letter to Richard saying we were ‘useless’. Richard remembered the letter after the shooting but could not find it anywhere. Only several months later did Beverly happen to search the pockets of one of Richard’s jackets hanging behind the bedroom door. That letter was vital in clearing the Helpers of all suspicion that we were involved in the shooting, as the media and usual suspects were spruiking.
Richard followed up his presence on the streets with endless follow up action in the case of many ‘turnarounds’. At the start when the Helpers bank account was in single figures, Richard would help them out of his own pocket, even to the extent of providing a large loan so one family could purchase a house. They paid it back over the years and have kept up contact with Richard and family to the extent that, among several other similar families, they visited Richard in his last days in Hospital, including the thirty year old who was saved from abortion.
Richard was far more interested in people than things. I used to laugh at the depth of papers scattered over the floor of all his cars. He related the time when he had the whole family of eleven crammed into their old and dented Kingswood station wagon, including several children in the luggage area at the rear. They were pulled up at a random vehicle check in Melbourne and Richard relates that several police were walking around the vehicle, scratching their heads and consulting with each other. They ended up waving the car through.
Richard loved to talk and his series of strokes must have really frustrated him. He could hear all these conversations going on around him but was unable to contribute. Even in his last days in the hospital this was evident. The Good Lord must have been letting him do his Purgatory on Earth. Let’s hope so. If love is the measure which God uses for our admittance to his presence, I don’t think Richard will be long in getting there. He was one of the most loving people I have ever known.
Cecelia
I’m Cecilia and I’m child number 7.
Musings of a 5 year old grandson:
My Day with Silly Poppa:
· My Poppa is silly. But my baby sister thinks he is the best thing in the whole world.
· Poppa comes to my house to look after me and my sisters and when he walks in the door he picks up the first thing he sees and puts in on his head.
· My silly Poppa sees a toy rabbit but calls it a frog while doing a dance.
· My silly Poppa brings us lollipops. My mum says its only a special treat. But it must always be a special treat day when Poppa visits. That’s why we call him Lollipoppa.
Richard, Dicky, Poppa, Silly Poppa, Lollipoppa, Dad. One of Dad’s greatest gifts was indeed being silly. He truly didn’t care an inch what anyone thought. He gifted the world with silliness, and a kind of fearlessness that showed up in his willingness to have a laugh at himself, and give everyone else a reason to laugh at the same time. None knew this better than Richard’s 21 grandchildren.
Dad’s fearlessness extended well beyond the silly, dad didn’t have an ego about how he looked, what clothes he wore, what car he drove, he was totally un self-focused, and so he could and would talk to anybody, and he was always in service to others. Dad was tireless in his efforts campaigning for human life, believing with every cell in his being that every person was of equal value, from the very smallest and most vulnerable unborn baby, to the forgotten and lonely neighbour, the Vinnies voucher recipient, the refugee, the homeless man who would sit at our kitchen table for Sunday lunch, the tourist that had some faint connection to someone he knew, but it was enough for dad to insist on taking them on a road trip to the Twelve Apostles.
I experienced dad’s boundless love and generosity most acutely with his emergency babysitting, if he caught the slightest whisper of need, Dad would literally drop everything and come running, over the westgate in his beat up car. Dad was a regular feature at all of our homes before he had his first stroke. I didn’t realise how much I have missed Dad’s weekly visits until I paused to write these words, his jovial but extremely loose babysitting, newspaper scattered all over the house, jam on doorknobs, arriving with a tape measure if he caught a whiff of a house renovation idea – I do wonder if dad actually knew how to read a tape measure at all – and always finishing with a red wine and a pun.
I will share a story that reflects some of dad’s most memorable qualities of generosity, eccentricity, sociability, fearlessness, rebelliousness, and a little bit of the Irishman that always lived in him.
When Lydia and I were 11, and Tom was 7, we went on an exciting voyage across the open seas – to Tasmania. Mum wisely decided to fly, as the Spirit of Tasmania was known to be rough as it crossed the Bass Strait.
After our memorable road trip for a week around Tasmania, we boarded for the return trip from Devonport to Station Pier, Port Melbourne. It was a rough ride, as Lydia and Tom will both tell you, they were green with sea sickness all night. As always, dad was a magnet for meeting people, and while aboard the ship that night, he met an Irish family who had somehow boarded without a ticket. They were a family of stowaways. I cannot remember how many children they had, it felt like half a dozen, but what I do remember is that by the evenings end, we had a cabin full of heads and limbs scattered across the bunks and the floor of our very tiny cabin, with pillows and blankets scattered everywhere. Lydia and I were made to share a cabin bed, while dad and Tom bunkered in together for the night. Meanwhile, the family of Irish stowaways got the other two bunk beds and the entire floor of the tiny cabin, so there was no room to even walk had we wanted to leave the cabin.
Lydia was on high alert, feeling green, and whispering to me to pay attention to the bald head on the floor, and the flaming red hair that extended out beneath the white doona, and not seeing any face attached to it in the dark of the night, we were convinced this Irish woman was some sort of Banshee and was actually wearing a wig, and not really who she said she was. Upon later reflection, realised the family’s youngest child, a baby, was most likely the bald head that had captured our imagination so vividly that night, but the story of the wild red hair unattached to its head is what has stayed with us to this day.
Dad, meanwhile, was just delighted to be helping a big Irish family travel to safety, perhaps he was even channeling something of his own family history, his Irish father arrived by boat aged 16 with his parents and 6 siblings.
For us kids, it was pretty standard to find ourselves in these somewhat bizarre encounters whenever we were with dad. Our childhood home was something of a halfway house for anyone in need of a good meal and a little love, Mum and Dad would never turn anyone away.
The stowaways had been offered a lifeline by dad, and in the way only Richard could, Dad had conjured up a plan to get them off the ship safely in the morning, by giving them a place to sleep for the night, and hiding them in our car as we disembarked the ship.
Well, mum, who had flown back into Melbourne the night before, knew nothing of what had occurred. And as she came to greet us at Station Pier, she watched dad drive off the ship with a woman in the passenger seat beside him with flaming red hair, and mum did not bat an eyelid.
I smile to myself when I try to imagine what mum’s first thoughts must have been, and how well trained she was at her poker face given the uncanny situations that seemed to follow Richard everywhere. Of course, mum wouldn’t have seen the two extra kids hiding at our feet, hidden by blankets. And, was there one in the boot? I can’t remember. All I know is espionage got a look in that day, and Dad, Lydia, Tom and myself were all conspirators.
Dad was certainly a master creator of wild and wonderful tales, a mythological kind of creature, the stories of Richard have become Grant folklore that we hope may continue to be told by the next generation of Grants. Dad, you were one of kind, ever-loving, ever-generous, ever-unique, and we love you for it. Thanks for the stories and the laughter you have provided all of us through our lives. We will miss you, Dad.
Tom
My name is Tom and Richard was my dad. Dad was born in Ballarat on January 8th 1943, the 2nd child of David and Eva Grant. When he was 8 months old his mother died and his father sent him and sister Bernadette to Brisbane where they were reared by their grandparents. At age 6 dad and Bernadette moved to St Kilda to live with their father, new mother Sheila, and eventually 7 half brothers and sisters. Dad got on well with his siblings, often playing games and sports in the backyard.
He excelled at sport and played in successful teams in football, squash and tennis, including winning the local Club Championships twice. He was also a one-eyed St.Kilda supporter and followed them every week, including watching them win their only premiership in 1966.
For school he attended Our Lady of Mount Carmel, CBC Middle Park and St Pat’s College East Melbourne. Secondary school was strict, and he often got cuts with the strap for getting up to mischief. He dreaded his parents getting the monthly school reports as they were often not very good.
At age 16 he passed matriculation but because of his young age he had to repeat year 12. He won the English Expression Prize in the second year. He started work with the public service in 1961 and studied Commerce at Melbourne University, graduating in 1966. From 1973-77 he was manager of Footscray and Glenroy offices of the Commonwealth Employment Service, and then worked as a Labour Market Economist for the rest of his working life. He decided not to take a higher up job for more money and instead took an early retirement package at age 52 to spend more time with his family and pursue special causes.
Dad strongly believed in justice and the intrinsic value and dignity of all humans, from conception to natural death. He was involved in the pro-life cause since the early 1970’s, raising large amounts of money for Right to Life by speaking at over 160 churches throughout Victoria and participating in 25 lifewalks, and was a prominent public speaker on radio and television. After retiring he attended daily vigils with the “Helpers of God’s Precious Infants” outside abortion clinics for nearly 25 years, and kept in touch with many of the families he had helped.
He was also highly involved in issues in the community and in the local newspaper he was called an “activist”. He was President of the South Melbourne Ratepayers Association, made regular home visits for St. Vincent de Paul’s Society, and was very involved in an asylum seeker support group.
He married Beverley Jones in 1967 on her 21st birthday and they were married for almost 58 years. Their first 3 years of marriage they didn’t have a car or TV, and for years he rode an old bike into the city to work. Together they reared 9 children, including 2 sets of twins. In true dad fashion, in 1971 he was the first father to be present at the birth of a child at the Mercy Hospital, when he snuck in wearing a St John’s ambulance uniform and refused to leave.
Eventually he and Beverley did get a car, and he often told the story of when we got pulled over by a policeman with all 11 of us in the station wagon. The policeman took one look at us and was bewildered, but when dad explained that we were all his kids, he let us go.
Dad and mum now have 21 grandchildren, and 2 great grandchildren, and with such a large family there were frequently joyful celebrations, baptisms, birthdays and marriages. Dad loved babysitting his grandchildren as often as possible. Poppa, as the grandkids called him, would always have the ice cream cones ready whenever they arrived, and then would serve up their choice of favourite Neopolitan flavour – chocolate, vanilla or strawberry, followed by a never ending supply of Milo.
Dad had amazing courage in speaking out about the truth and he never compromised on it. He was eccentric and loved making people laugh. He would often look at me in the rear view mirror to see if I was smiling at one of his silly jokes or puns. He was a natural born story teller. One of his greatest qualities was his ability to lighten up the mood in any situation. As his son James said, he should be the patron saint of having a jolly good ol’ time. He was super social and loved a party and tearing it up on the dance floor. He loved a red wine, and whenever he had visitors he would top up their glass of red before they’d finished their last one. He had a powerful singing voice, and would sing at the drop of a hat, with classics such as “If I were a rich man” and “Ging Gang goolie”.
He was extremely generous. Not just with money, of which he helped many, but with his time. He would always have time for anyone he bumped into on the street, much to the annoyance of whichever impatient child was with him at the time. He had a wide circle of friends, and treated everyone exactly the same, whether it was the homeless or the prime minister.
Dad wasn’t perfect however. His sneezes would cause an earthquake 3 suburbs away. Luckily he always had the one used hanky ready in his pocket. He sometimes had a fiery Irish temper, that would erupt especially when something had happened that resulted in a loss of money. But he never held a grudge against anyone, and would forgive you in a heartbeat.
Once for a school project I asked him what the happiest day of his life was. He said his wedding day, and the birth of his children, just ahead of the Saints premiership. When I asked him to describe his life in one word, his answer was “fulfilling”. And that’s true. Dad had a full life. Therefore, his life should be celebrated. Good bye dad, I will miss you, and I hope to see you again.
