Clynton Ronald Dale

I did not know Clynt for as long as some. But I was lucky enough to know him for the past 5 or so years as Mel’s partner, and for some of that time he was still in decent health.

But from the very beginning he welcomed me in.
That was just the sort of man he was.

From early on we had banter. Proper banter. The kind that happens when two men size each other up a little and then settle into the rhythm of talking about the thing’s men tend to talk about. Stupid things and Sport 🙂 That was usually where it started.

Clynt for me was a true man’s man.

We would talk about the footy and the Swans, although he once quietly confided in me that if the Tassie Devils ever did make it into the AFL, the Swans might suddenly find themselves without one loyal supporter. I have kept that quiet until now.

But sport was usually just the doorway to something else. Because Clynt had a gift.

He could tell a story and he told a few to me.

Stories of King Island and the farm. Of growing up in a place where life was hard work but full of freedom. Of being a young bloke working the land. And one particular story about a raging bull blocking the lane down to the settlement farm that sounded like something straight out of an Australian yarn. When he told it, you could almost see the whole thing unfold. He spoke about those days with pride. The farm, the work, the people, the place he loved.

He would talk about becoming a chippy, about working with his hands and the life he built through honest work, whether it be bracing the formwork or even picking up building defects on the house I rented.

Clynt lived a working man’s life, and he carried that identity with him always.

Then there were the stories of flying. Of trips to Birdsville. Of mates, beers and the sort of adventures that only seem to grow better with time and retelling.
I came to realise through the course of his life, the Old Clynt had found a little mischief as a younger man in a larrikin kind of way. Maybe even a raconteur. Someone who had lived a life worth talking about and knew exactly how-to bring people along with him when he told it.
But what stood out to me most in the years I knew him was the love he had for his family.

He spoke about Brett, Kim and Mel and the memories he held of them growing up. Sometimes not in big emotional words, but in the way he remembered things, the way he talked about moments and stories from their lives.

And his grandkids, Alex and Ashton.

Even when memory sometimes faltered, somehow, he would still remember to ask about them. When I’d take Mel even crook as she was at times to see him, it was something I noticed more than once. The pride and love he carried for them was always there.

His oldest grand-daughter Yasmin too; even though I don’t know her well myself; the same applied. The pride and love he carried for them all were always there.

Family mattered deeply to him even if it didn’t always use words to express it.

I too saw the love he had for Lyn. A love built across a lifetime together.

And I think it is important to say something here about the care that surrounded him in these later years.

As Clynt’s health declined, Lyn carried the responsibility of caring for him for many years with quiet strength and devotion. And when the time came that circumstances meant they could no longer live together, Mel stepped in. Being here in Sydney meant that Mel became the centre of his life in that final year. She took on that responsibility in the way only a daughter can. With grace, patience and a deep sense of duty and love for her dad. It was something I witnessed first-hand, and it spoke volumes about the bond between them.

In the time I knew Clynt I also had the chance to share simple moments with him that I will always remember.

Christmas gatherings with the family.

Watching him engage with my kids. Even turning up to watch my son play soccer.

And of course, the constant question about when we might head to the pub for a beer.

One of the things I will always treasure was spending what turned out to be his last Father’s Days. My own dad was there as well. Three men from different generations and different paths in life sitting together over a beer talking about their generation and the lives they had lived.

Towards the end, yes things became harder, and he fought through those days with determination.

The last time I saw him in hospital we were watching cricket together. The game on the television was actually from years before, but that did not matter.

He could still tell a cover drive from a sweep.
He still knew where mid-on was.
And he could still call LBW.

Even then, when he was not feeling his best, he still found a way to take the mickey out of me, usually about my handy skills or lack of them.

And we laughed.

Because that was Clynt.

I did not know him for as long as some but from where I stood I saw a decent man. A loving father and grandfather. A husband who cared deeply for his wife. A man who had lived a working man’s life full of stories, humour and character.

7 Responses

Neshaat says:

March 3, 2026 at 8:34 pm

Dear Clynt (as i new you), i remember the first time i met my best friend’s dad (you!) in the early 1990’s. You looked so stern to me but then you made a smart alec remark and your smile revealed the resting stern face was a mask for a wicked sense of humour. You always live in my anecdotes of my childhood – i have spent so many happy hours at your home – the cul de sac, the pool, the cabonossi at christmas time and let’s not forget your generous gift of me having some flying hours – you were so immediately supportive when i said i wanted to be a pilot! Which i failed to become 🙂 Thank you for creating some truly happy childhood memories for me.

1. Anonymous says:
  
  March 4, 2026 at 6:55 pm
  
  Thank you my dear friend, I’m sorry your so far away in London to attend, but am so happy for all our happy years and
  Memories shared and continue to ❤️
  love you, Mel xx
  
Nathan says:

March 4, 2026 at 9:06 pm

I did not know Clynt for as long as some. But I was lucky enough to know him for the past 5 or so years as Mel’s partner, and for some of that time he was still in decent health.

But from the very beginning he welcomed me in.
That was just the sort of man he was.

From early on we had banter. Proper banter. The kind that happens when two men size each other up a little and then settle into the rhythm of talking about the thing’s men tend to talk about. Stupid things and Sport 🙂 That was usually where it started.

Clynt for me was a true man’s man.

We would talk about the footy and the Swans, although he once quietly confided in me that if the Tassie Devils ever did make it into the AFL, the Swans might suddenly find themselves without one loyal supporter. I have kept that quiet until now.

But sport was usually just the doorway to something else. Because Clynt had a gift.

He could tell a story and he told a few to me.

Stories of King Island and the farm. Of growing up in a place where life was hard work but full of freedom. Of being a young bloke working the land. And one particular story about a raging bull blocking the lane down to the settlement farm that sounded like something straight out of an Australian yarn. When he told it, you could almost see the whole thing unfold. He spoke about those days with pride. The farm, the work, the people, the place he loved.

He would talk about becoming a chippy, about working with his hands and the life he built through honest work, whether it be bracing the formwork or even picking up building defects on the house I rented.

Clynt lived a working man’s life, and he carried that identity with him always.

Then there were the stories of flying. Of trips to Birdsville. Of mates, beers and the sort of adventures that only seem to grow better with time and retelling.
I came to realise through the course of his life, the Old Clynt had found a little mischief as a younger man in a larrikin kind of way. Maybe even a raconteur. Someone who had lived a life worth talking about and knew exactly how-to bring people along with him when he told it.
But what stood out to me most in the years I knew him was the love he had for his family.

He spoke about Brett, Kim and Mel and the memories he held of them growing up. Sometimes not in big emotional words, but in the way he remembered things, the way he talked about moments and stories from their lives.

And his grandkids, Alex and Ashton.

Even when memory sometimes faltered, somehow, he would still remember to ask about them. When I’d take Mel even crook as she was at times to see him, it was something I noticed more than once. The pride and love he carried for them was always there.

His oldest grand-daughter Yasmin too; even though I don’t know her well myself; the same applied. The pride and love he carried for them all were always there.

Family mattered deeply to him even if it didn’t always use words to express it.

I too saw the love he had for Lyn. A love built across a lifetime together.

And I think it is important to say something here about the care that surrounded him in these later years.

As Clynt’s health declined, Lyn carried the responsibility of caring for him for many years with quiet strength and devotion. And when the time came that circumstances meant they could no longer live together, Mel stepped in. Being here in Sydney meant that Mel became the centre of his life in that final year. She took on that responsibility in the way only a daughter can. With grace, patience and a deep sense of duty and love for her dad. It was something I witnessed first-hand, and it spoke volumes about the bond between them.

In the time I knew Clynt I also had the chance to share simple moments with him that I will always remember.

Christmas gatherings with the family.

Watching him engage with my kids. Even turning up to watch my son play soccer.

And of course, the constant question about when we might head to the pub for a beer.

One of the things I will always treasure was spending what turned out to be his last Father’s Days. My own dad was there as well. Three men from different generations and different paths in life sitting together over a beer talking about their generation and the lives they had lived.

Towards the end, yes things became harder, and he fought through those days with determination.

The last time I saw him in hospital we were watching cricket together. The game on the television was actually from years before, but that did not matter.

He could still tell a cover drive from a sweep.
He still knew where mid-on was.
And he could still call LBW.

Even then, when he was not feeling his best, he still found a way to take the mickey out of me, usually about my handy skills or lack of them.

And we laughed.

Because that was Clynt.

I did not know him for as long as some but from where I stood I saw a decent man. A loving father and grandfather. A husband who cared deeply for his wife. A man who had lived a working man’s life full of stories, humour and character.

1. Anonymous says:
  
  March 5, 2026 at 9:53 am
  
  Thank you for those lovely words, can feel his presence through those memories shared.
  
2. Anonymous says:
  
  March 6, 2026 at 4:19 pm
  
  You sums it up very well Nathan he will be daily missed any he sure did love his family 💕
  
Lee-Anne Anthony Caitlin and Robert 🙏🏻💞🌹 says:

March 6, 2026 at 4:09 pm

I first meet you when Kim started family day care I remember the excitement of all the children when they knew grandad was coming for a visit it was an absolutely pleasure knowing you and you will be dearly missed may you rest in peace always in their hearts 💕

zimerovertover says:

May 19, 2026 at 2:39 pm

Glad to be one of the visitants on this awing website : D.

Clynton Ronald Dale

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