‘‘What we do matters.’’
That, says Clark Campbell, is not being arrogant or narcissistic but, quite simply, reflects that the funeral industry provided provides service that is necessary.
The Campbell family, of Mosgiel, has been involved in the business of death for four generations, since it was founded by blacksmith Robert Campbell in 1895.
He was followed by his son Robert, grandson Robert (known as Bob) and now great-grandson Clark [Robert is his second name] at the helm of the business.
It was an industry that attracted stereotypes, and Clark Campbell was keen to dispel the often perceived image of a funeral director. He is, after all, anything but stuffy; instantly warm and engaging, coupled with an excellent sense of humour, while still with the professionalism expected of someone in such an occupation.
Having only ever lived within a two-block range of his work, he used to be a regular fixture skateboarding to Campbell and Sons in his suit. Once there, if he got a callout, he would take a work car rather than skate to it.
Death has surrounded Mr Campbell (43) for much of his life. He and his siblings grew up on-site at the family business — something that was indicative of many family funeral firms — and he did not know any different.
From answering the phone politely from a very young age, to heading immediately inside when someone came up the driveway to see his parents, staring out the window until he was allowed outside again. When it came to deceased bodies on site — ‘‘your friends let you know that it’s different’’.
His own introduction to a career in the industry was very different from the baptism of fire that his father Bob encountered as a teenager back in 1967.
That year, Robert Campbell, son of the original Robert, died suddenly and Bob — who had previously worked a little with his father on casket-making — went from being a Taieri High School pupil on the Thursday to the local undertaker on the Monday. He was just 17.
On reflection, it was a ‘‘huge’’ undertaking for a teenager who was helped out both by the community and Gillions, the Dunedin-based funeral firm, his eldest son said.
Clark reckoned any funeral director now aged under 25-ish would be ‘‘eaten alive’’. For the first five years of his own career, he did not do any funeral arrangements.
He had always been young-looking — ‘‘when I was 24, I probably looked 18’’ — and his father would be offered a cup of tea while he would be offered a glass of milk. ‘‘You need a little bit of grey hair credibility in this industry,’’ he said.
Fifty years later, Bob Campbell retired and his wife Gaynor retired after 40 years of also being heavily involved in the Gordon Rd-based business.
It had been a 365 days a year, 24 hours a day career while their children were growing up in an era when mobile phones simply did not exist.
The couple were both keen squash players and Clark remembered the calls to the local squash club and them being pulled off the court, taking a few deep breaths to lower the heart rate before answering the phone.
There were announcements made over the loudspeaker at the rugby club, saying Mr Campbell’s services were required. At other times, the car would be packed ready for a family holiday and the phone would ring. The holiday — or often other events — would be postponed.
Asked whether he resented such occasions growing up, Clark could not remember; it was just something that was ingrained in them.
Clark was not initially drawn to the funeral industry. He studied commerce at university and a diploma in business and ‘‘got out for a few years’’. While he was aware it was a longstanding family business, it was not an acute awareness. In hindsight, there was possibly some subconscious grooming in the background, he said.
After leaving the town, many of his friends ended up gravitating back to Mosgiel and Clark gravitated back to the family business. He was now joined in the business by his youngest brother Adam, his brother Jared’s wife Anna, and his own wife Megan.
Few people now made the funeral industry their only career, he said. It was ‘‘not everyone’s cup of tea’’ and the national average for a funeral director was about five or six years.
He believed the high turnover rate was due to some funeral directors ‘‘not quite getting it right’’.
A good funeral director had to have a very good understanding of themselves and self-care and self-management were needed — ‘‘help yourself before you help other people’’ — and, through maturity, healthy outlets were found to deal with the pressures of the job. It was about listening, more than talking.
While Clark’s great-grandfather and grandfather were very much community undertakers, all the change and growth in the industry happened in his parents’ generation.
His father recalled how the biggest change he witnessed was from people asking him what to do — and he would have to be assertive and lay out a plan of action — to them now coming with that plan.
There were a lot of moving parts and Clark enjoyed the different aspects to every funeral. ‘‘We all die. That’s a given. But that doesn’t mean every funeral has to be the same.
‘‘We’ve held memorials on top of a mountain, in a hangar with a line-up of favourite cars, on family farms. I’ve walked alongside the wife, young children and coffin bearers in a procession from the family home down to Broad Bay Hall on the Otago Peninsula.’’
FUNERAL directors were only there for the first two or three steps of the grief process, to guide and use their experience to help with that stage of processing loss.
‘‘Over four generations ... we’ve learnt a few things about death — but so much more about how special life is and how giving someone a great send-off can help families begin their grieving process.
‘‘A funeral might not bring a person back but it has a crucial role in supporting people through those early stages of grief, allowing family and friends to acknowledge the death and bringing a sense of understanding within a supportive environment. It’s not always easy, but it’s important,’’ he said.
It was not a cookie-cutter exercise; it had to be specific to the person who died, but that did not mean it necessarily had to come with a high price tag.
‘‘It’s about the little touches that can be incorporated into the service to make it unique. It’s about listening to people.
‘‘You’ll never be able to make a funeral a birthday.
‘‘You can get some celebratory elements in there [but] someone’s died. We’re all going to experience that, it’s a compulsory part of life.’’
When it came to the funeral director, at some point they had to be in charge, usually just before the service started, and their part finished with the burial or cremation.
But the gathering afterwards was very important. ‘‘It’s the last compulsory get-together in society, it ticks a lot of boxes,’’ he said.
He recalled the discussion about building rooms at Campbell and Sons to host refreshments on-site after the funeral. Back then, it was a big decision to make.
It got Mr Campbell thinking that prior to that, funeral-goers would adjourn back to the family home. For the bereaved, there was the added stress of having the house ready for all those visitors and, as he quipped, the rogue uncle determined to stay until the last drop in the last whisky bottle was drunk.
Although funeral directors had to be ‘‘a little half a step removed’’, there were some special relationships formed through going through an intense time with people.
One thing he had discovered over the years was some families had ‘‘rotten, rotten luck’’ — it felt like he was dealing with them every 12 months for four or five years — ‘‘there’s no other word for it than bad luck’’ — while other families had good luck in that space.
The business employed 22 full-time, part-time and casual staff and contractors. Attracting the right staff could be difficult as there was a ‘‘very, very long learning curve’’.
Mr Campbell was keen to see more regulations in the funeral industry, saying it was too easy to get into it for the risk of what could go wrong.
‘‘I know what can go wrong, it’s pretty serious stuff,’’ he said.
‘‘I would like more compliance or higher minimum standards. I don’t know why our legislation has never progressed since the early
’70s,’’ he said. There was a review of the Burial and Cremation Act at the moment.
It was a tough industry due to the extensive capital outlay involved, which was also continuous.
In April last year, Campbell and Sons merged with Central Otago-based Affinity Funerals which served the Central Otago and Lakes District. It was established by Lynley Claridge and Janice Millis 12 years ago; the two women continued to work in the business and Mr Campbell was excited about the acquisition.
The two businesses had very similar values and it was great to bring the Campbells’ lengthy experience and see what Affinity had been doing differently and what they brought to the table in terms of different perspectives.
‘‘We’ve both taught each other a lot,’’ Mr Campbell said.
It also meant the business had gone from being in a fairly small geographical area to having a very large spread; that created a lot of different dynamics and, positively, meant more unique, personable services could be crafted, whether in a community hall or on a farm.
The funeral industry, surprisingly, had a lot of similarities to farming. And farming folk were sometimes easier to deal with than urbanites, as they had a greater understanding of the cycle of life and a healthy perspective of what happens.
New Zealand reality television programme The Casketeers had been ‘‘great’’, providing education about the industry and hopefully changing the stereotype of what a funeral director was, Mr Campbell said.
Asked how he dealt with the pressures and stresses of the job, he said it was about recognising when it was ‘‘time to fill your cup through something else’’. For him, that was usually exercise.
Mr Campbell and his wife have two sons, along with nieces and nephews. The idea was to plan for their generation — ‘‘for some, or all or whoever takes that up if they want to’’ — to continue in the industry.
There were not necessarily many businesses in New Zealand at the moment that could provide that sort of opportunity. ‘‘If the next generation can pick that up, then why wouldn’t you?’’ he said.
