Johno and Gaffa Tape

By Tim Darby. Freemantle, Western Australia

My dad believed anything could be fixed with enough gaffer tape and two-minute Araldite. And he was right — sort of. Us five kids were always breaking stuff. Whenever the sound of shattering china rang out or the shruuunk! of a teddy’s leg tearing off, Mum would say, “Oh well. Just put it on your dad’s desk. He’ll fix it when he gets home.” Sure enough, the next day the object would reappear like a Frankenstein-meets-The-Mummy teddy, glue squishing out from under gaffer-tape bandages.

At the time, I didn’t think much of it. But Johno was working full-time, studying full-time, and trying to be a dad. Imagine getting home after a twelve-hour shift to a pile of broken crap on your desk. No wonder he went for rough-and-ready solutions! It wasn’t until I was older that I realised how many fix-it skills he actually had  — when he had the time.

There was never a suggestion he couldn’t fix something. The family was on the bones of its arse, so repairs were non-negotiable. But beyond that, Johno loved problem-solving, innovating, and reusing whatever was at hand.

Like the time my brother got flung across the room by one of his toys after Johno repaired the fuse — with a nail. Or when he pierced my ear himself — he was a doctor by then — to ensure “correct aseptic procedure,” but forgot to prepare an earring and used a paperclip. It rusted and got infected, of course.

He was big on making do and avoiding waste. Aesthetics came a distant second. I’d turn up to kindy with a Quasimodo backpack patched with Araldite and twitching wire, or gaffer-glossed shorts. Then again, I came from the same genetic soup. Fixing, scrounging, and inventing were as natural as eating the red Smarties last.

Like all kids, I went through a phase of wanting to fit in — with new sneakers and baseball caps like everyone else. But as I got older, I started to value Johno’s resourcefulness. What once looked like tight-fisted meanness was really a deep respect for the environmental impact of waste. I became more aware of the myth of material-based happiness, and Johno became an inspiration again.

I’d catch myself “doing a Johno” — using PVC pipe to stop wire crimping off a spool, or heating a brass housing to wrangle a steel pipe into place. I’d laugh and think, That’s exactly what he would’ve done. I even started sending him photos of my Johno-isms.

What once looked like tight-fisted meanness was really a deep respect for the environmental impact of waste.

He approached medical issues the same way he tackled bike mechanics or faulty toasters. Before we moved to a tropical island near Nauru, he got some tips from his dentist and patched my teeth himself. I once dropped in after splitting my foot at the beach. He was covering at an unfamiliar surgery and couldn’t find the right cleaning tools — so he used the green scourer meant for the hand basin. Innovate! Make do!

When prostate surgery left him incontinent, he sewed his own pads from perforated bread bags and old towels. Later, chemo gave him a burst intestine and colostomy bag. He built a composting system using the bag contents and coffee grounds. Then he decided he wanted a cardboard coffin to avoid wasting timber. I sourced boxes, bought a bucket of glue, and we laminated one together.

Often, once he’d thought a project through, he considered it complete — more interested in process than product. As his health declined, so did his energy. When he declared the coffin finished, I was unconvinced but dutifully took it to the crematorium. The fellas there explained, very kindly, that while coffins glide along slowly in ceremonies, at the furnace they’re catapulted in to minimise heat loss. They were worried Johno’s recycled box would split open and spill him on the floor. I explained, just as patiently, that my dad had made this coffin, and he was going to be cremated in it. We compromised: I reinforced it with bits of wood and builder’s plastic. As a sculptor, I’d probably call it “a mixed media installation.”

Johno’s health kept slipping, but his make-use-of-everything ethos never did. He’d come around for smoko, fold newspaper origami pots for seedlings, and tear up cardboard and egg cartons for the compost. When he needed help walking, he used a wheely thing my sister had scored from an op shop years ago.

He died last August in hospital, with the help of the VAD team, in a time and manner of his choosing, surrounded by his kids. He said he was sad he wouldn’t see us anymore, but relieved the discomfort was over. We held him as he died. We cried and held each other.

The hospital staff were wonderful. They told us to stay as long as we liked. After all, there was a 24-hour window to harvest his corneas with minimal deterioration. Yep. Scrounger and recycler to the last, Johno had arranged to donate the only part of him still fully functional — his corneas. Always the innovator, he was the first person in WA to use VAD and donate tissue, clearing a path for others.

I’ll miss you, Johno. But I’ll be reminded of you every time I fix something with gaffer tape and Araldite.