It’s true that cousins are our first friends — especially in the country — and this was my happy experience growing up in Kapunda. I’m Michael Randall. As a kid, I was called Mick, Mickey, and sometimes Aunty Claire called me Mickle. I’m proud to say that Des was my uncle.

I recall being eight and playing at Dutton Park with my cousins — Paul, now known as Boogly — and Chris, who defied medical science by subsisting only on vegemite sandwiches. We made cubby houses, poked sticks into trapdoor spider holes, and kicked the footy, pretending to be Paul Bagshaw, Rick Davies, and Kenny Whelan.

Late on afternoons like this, the most ear-piercing and astonishing whistle would ring out. It sailed over the caravan park, through the gumtrees, and down to the oval. I’m sure it penetrated the trotting track and dusty golf course too. It was even louder and more startling than Nuri oval’s air raid siren. Funny, really — the Barossa Valley Germans setting off an air‑raid siren.

Where did this whistle originate? It was 5pm and, despite being half a mile away, we distinctly heard Uncle Des whistling us home for dinner. This was parenting. Kapunda, 1975. So, we instantly forgot the trapdoor spiders and scampered up to Clare Road for chops and three veg. On Skippy plates. Chris, the records show, opted for a vegemite sandwich.

The most memorable car of my childhood was Uncle Des’s Holden Brougham. It was elegant and exotic. It was a striking sedan, and everybody loved it. It was a 1970 V8. Nobody else I knew then had one and nobody has since. Uncle Des parked it under the carport. It was his pride and joy.

One Christmas, Carolyn, Paul, and I got new bikes. Dragsters. These were magnificent. Off we went — trainer wheels on, wobbling about the back yard and dirt road.

Uncle Des said, ‘Now, be careful around the car with those bikes. I don’t want any scratches on it.’

Ouff. Watch out!

Soon after, wheeling my dragster past that Brougham I thought, ‘What if I become possessed by a demon and deliberately run my bike into a fender?’ Eight-year-old me shivered. Fifty-nine-year-old me still shivers. I could’ve spared myself much adult grief if I’d driven my actual cars with as much care as when I pushed past that Brougham on my blue Malvern Star with the sissy bar.

Across the decades, seeing Uncle Des at the footy club or in Puffa’s he’d greet me with a smile and a “How are you, pal?’ He was always interested in us. He often called me ‘pal.’ These are memories I deeply cherish.

He was a hugely positive influence, and I’m deeply grateful for that. He was funny and kind but also firm as required — especially around his car. He helped make my childhood joyful and ensured that Kapunda will always be home.

To the entire O’Keefe family, you are especially in my thoughts today. I wish you strength.

Cousins really are our first friends. And in families like ours, uncles and aunties become our second parents. Uncle Des — larger‑than‑life, charismatic, and treasured — was exactly that.

Thanks for listening and thank you for letting me share these memories.