Chez Spud

It was my grandfather’s funeral earlier this week…a tough day although, truly, he went on his way surrounded by the enduring love, respect and deep admiration of all those around him. ‘They broke the mould when they made him’, said my Dad and that sums him up for me. One of a kind for sure…and one of a type that you don’t seem to ever meet never mind know anymore, except those of his generation.

He was a quiet, kindly, peaceful man…a true ‘gentleman’ in every sense of the word…with a sparkling sense of humour and never a bad word about anyone. Ever. I really can’t think of one bad thing to say about him, and I’m not making that up. I don’t think I know, or have known, anyone who I could say the same of. His old school sense of loyalty, deep faith in the goodness of humankind, his love for his family and friends and an astonishing capacity for not just hard work, but hard labour were among just a few of his very fine qualities. He loved trains, planes, Liverpool Football Club, Only Fools and Horses, Open All Hours and cars with electric windows…but, more than any of those, his garden. No visit to see him was complete without a guided tour of his garden…for ever he will be synonymous with roses and dahlias to me, both of which he grew with spectacular success.

He was born, was schooled, lived, worked and died in the same small village…and he lived in the same house for over 60 years…isn’t that something? I can’t think that can be very common anymore.  He was a farm labourer and worked on the same farm for 50 years, for 3 generations of the same family. He was a man of the land and, in the words of a neighbour, was the ‘last true countryman of the village’, she also commented on how fitting it is for a farmer to die in September…when the harvest is done and thoughts turn to the next season’s crops. September clearly was a special month to him; he was born, was married and died in that month. Fitting indeed.

He even met his wife in the village. My Nana was an ack-ack girl in the war (aiming anti-aircraft guns at enemy planes) and, having lied about her age to get in to the army, was initially stationed alongside the farm my grandfather worked on. One night he wanted to pass through the camp to visit his great-grandmother, but needed to go through the checkpoint (manned by my grandmother that particular evening)…”STOP!!!! Who goes there?” she commanded. And the rest is history, in the shape of two children, two grand-daughters and three great-grandsons.

He was popular with the farmer’s children (and his grandchildren!) for his sweet tooth and the ever present bag of sweeties about his person and tucked in to the corner of the kitchen drawer. I”‘m just going to see Bert” the children on the farm would say, drawn by the promise of a sweet treat. I stayed in my grandad’s house the night before his funeral, and was relieved to see the a bag of fruit gums in the corner of the kitchen drawer, exactly where I expected them to be….where they have been kept for nearly 40 years and probably longer!

He was never seen without a hat, he was that kind of man. He wore a navy blue beret on the farm, and I have memories of him bringing back freshly laid eggs in it together with a pint of warm milk for breakfast when I was a child. Out and about he always wore a tweed cap or hat, I saw a blue one tucked in to the umbrella stand by his front door…I wonder how many hats he got through in his 89 years?

Pictured above is ‘the lane’…the lane that leads to the house where my Grandad lived for over 60 years, where my Dad lived from when he was 1 and where my Aunt was born. It’s got a few tales to tell that house.  This is the lane which my Dad trotted down as a toddler, pushing his baby sister in her pram and left her up the top by the road…for hours….this is the lane where I walked the Walk of Shame as a child, covered in vomit, having finally succumbed to travel sickness after an 8 hour car journey (my parents ejected me from the car and drove down, i walked…COVERED IN SICK!)…this is the lane where I first drove a car…I drove up, my Dad reversed back, repeat 100 times…

And this is the lane which ferried my grandfather away from his home for the last time this week…in a hearse. They do things in real style up north…the undertaker walked ahead of the hearse, leading the way down the lane for one last time…a fitting and respectful exit for this great man. I stood at the bottom watching the procession and cried a thousand tears for all the years and all the memories.

So, BRAVO to you Grandad for a life well and rightly lived, and loved to the full. Blessings to you as you go on your way. Package up a bit of that sparkle in your eyes, that infectious chuckle and a big tight squeeeeeze and mail it to us once in a while would you?  xxx

Above: Grandad and Diggy, looking on admiringly. Below: Grandad meets Bertie for the first time. We’re laughing because Bertie was just filling his nappy…….!

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