The Soul of the Better Living Foundation

Some people are lucky enough to have a true mentor in their life. I was one of them.

For over thirty years, that mentor was my father, Ray.

The sad part is that I can no longer sit down and have this conversation with him. The part I will always be grateful for is the time we did have together.

Dad was the true definition of leading by example. He never set out to make a name for himself. He simply wanted to help the people around him. Recognition was never something he chased—in fact, he usually avoided it unless it was forced upon him.

One question I've never been able to answer is whether he ever stopped to think about the things he did, or whether helping people simply came naturally to him. The older I've become, and the more I've reflected on his life, the more I believe it all came straight from the heart.

He wasn't a wealthy man. We were a single-income family with six people under one roof. Money wasn't something we had an abundance of. Yet somehow, he always found time, energy and whatever resources he could spare to help someone else.

Looking back, I realise it wasn't the big moments that defined him.

It was the hundreds of little ones.

From a young age, I watched him volunteer with our local Auskick program before becoming a junior cricket coach and later the junior coordinator at our local cricket club. At the time, I simply thought that's what dads did.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

As I entered my teenage years, I started noticing the small things that I had previously overlooked. Those memories didn't mean much to me back then, but over the last few years they've become some of the biggest influences on the person I'm trying to become.

After serving as junior coordinator, Dad became president of the cricket club.

What started as one or two evenings each week quickly became three or four nights, plus every Saturday. He cleaned the clubrooms, stocked the bar, organised food, ran the canteen, bought supplies and somehow still managed to run his own horticultural business, working for councils and VicRoads.

Looking back, you could say he just liked to keep busy.

But it was never about being busy.

It was about helping.

One memory has stayed with me all these years.

Our cricket club was based at the local high school, and the oval was terrible. It was full of holes and genuinely unsafe.

Dad decided something had to change.

He went to the local council office day after day, refusing to give up until someone would meet with him. Eventually he convinced the local minister to come and inspect the ground.

Now, when I say the minister was a big man, I mean literally. He was a former AFL footballer and stood well over two metres tall.

Within minutes of walking onto the oval, he stepped into one of the potholes and almost fell over.

As luck would have it, the local newspaper happened to be in the car park covering the visit. Thankfully, after a bit of persuasion, those photos never made it into print.

That winter, the oval was completely resurfaced.

Most people would probably remember that as a great achievement.

I remember it because it showed me what persistence looks like when you're fighting for something that isn't for yourself.

Then there were the moments nobody else ever saw.

One day, a mother arrived at the club to register her oldest son for cricket. She had five children but could only afford to sign up one.

Dad convinced her to register all five.

He quietly charged her the family rate—which just happened to be exactly the same price she was already planning to pay for one child.

No announcement.

No applause.

Just five kids who got the chance to play.

He would regularly make sure families doing it tough had food and drinks from the canteen, sometimes after games, sometimes before games if he suspected they'd skipped breakfast.

He never embarrassed anyone.

He simply made sure they were looked after.

Years later, he became president and a committee member of the league itself.

One decision always stood out to me.

Whenever possible, he pushed for the league grand final to be hosted by one of the poorest clubs in the competition. They had two grounds, making them capable of hosting the event, but more importantly he knew what the extra income would mean.

The money generated from one grand final weekend through the bar and canteen could be close to what that club might normally make for the rest of the season.

To everyone else it was just choosing a venue.

To Dad, it was giving another club a fighting chance.

His generosity didn't stop at community sport.

It followed him into business.

Dad wasn't what most people would call a great businessman.

We discovered that after he passed away.

What he was, however, was a man with a heart bigger than his bank account.

He gave jobs to people who others had written off.

People who had been injured.

People who were told they were too old.

People who had fallen on hard times.

People who simply couldn't get another chance.

The biggest surprise came after he was gone.

We discovered he often paid people the wage they needed to feed their families and pay their bills, rather than the wage the contract could comfortably support.

In some cases, his employees were earning more than he was on the job itself.

Financially, that probably wasn't smart.

Morally, it told you everything you needed to know about the man.

At the time, none of these moments seemed extraordinary.

They were just Dad being Dad.

Only after losing him did I begin to understand what I had been watching all those years.

The Better Living Foundation wasn't built around a business model.

It wasn't built around recycled timber.

It wasn't even built around home modifications.

It was built around a way of thinking.

That if you have the ability to make someone's life a little easier, then you should.

Not because you'll receive recognition.

Not because someone is watching.

But because it's the right thing to do.

This Foundation is my way of honouring my father.

Not by trying to become him—that would be impossible—but by carrying forward the values he lived every single day.

I don't know if Dad ever truly understood the impact he had on the lives of so many people.

I hope that one day, through the Better Living Foundation, we'll be able to create that same quiet impact.

One family.

One home.

One act of kindness at a time.