In Memoriam
Right about now my Grandfather is being cremated. I'm just posting what my Dad and I asked to be read out in memory of him.
It is not easy to know what to say at the death of your father.There is a temptation to perhaps over sentimentalise or dramatise.However , when I think of him and think back over his life it is the small incidents and memories that seem to come to mind and it is these that I would like to remember him by today.
Perhaps my earliest memory of him is him carrying me on his shoulders in Pontypool park. This is not just a memory but also a taste as I used to suck the back of his hair when he carried me and the smell and taste of brillcream I can still recall to this day.
I also remember running head down up Brynglass Hill straight into the corner of a brick pillar with him shouting to me to stop, but too late.I ended up with three stitches in my head but at least I got taken to see the film Moby Dick in the afternoon as compensation, or perhaps it was just to stop me from crying.Luckily I realized later that you didn’t always have to run in to a wall in order to get taken to the pictures.
But maybe my most valuable memory is going with him to the Library in Newport.As you all know Dad was always a keen reader and was never without a book. I think that it was through him that I also developed a love of reading that has shaped my life so much and for that I will always be grateful. That family tradition has also been passed on to Sian who has probably already read more books that both me and Dad put together.
She also wishes to remember her Granddad today.Like me her memories are also of incidents that may seem inconsequential but which carry an emotional charge way beyond what is described. She remembers him coming down the stairs from the bathroom having just had a shave and getting her to feel his chin which he always then said was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. This was far gentler that what he did to me and Keith which was to rub our faces with his unshaved face to give us a “rough shave “. Her other abiding memory is of him putting his arms behind his head and flexing his biceps while saying “ muscles like sparrows’ ankles”. Unfortunately she also wants this tradition to carry on and now makes me do it.
However well you think you know someone they are always capable of surprising you.I said earlier that he was a voracious reader but I only ever knew him to read novels. It was only when speaking to him a day before his death that he also said that he liked poetry. He then quoted at length from WH Davies, the Newport poet and “ super tramp”, although he did then seamlessly move the poem into an extract from Wordsworth.
What was also clear was his great love of his wife. When Keith showed him a picture of her and me taken earlier that day his first remark was “ she’s still a good looking woman”. He also said how lonely he was without her and how terrible it was not having her in bed with him. In trying to find something to say about him, looking for a poem, now that I knew he liked poetry, I came across a poem, an extract of which is below, that I hope is a suitable tribute. It was written by a Welshman who also emigrated to Australia but was always conscious of being away from Wales and from the woman he loved. We know that mam can’t be here today but in dad and mam’s case they will both be reunited one day, eventually, back in Wales.
I say, putting on a bit more accent,
And of course prefacing what I have to say
With that disarming and dishonest “ of course”,
I say, “ of course, we Welshmen are exiles
Just as much in England as Australia”.
And they nod understandingly and smile politely,
And think I didn’t really understand the question.
How could I tell them,politely or impolitely,
That the only exile is from her bed,
From that visionary and impossible moment
When our customary involvement made
A sudden meaning we had not known before?
Exile, like love, is a word not to be lightly said.
One final thought.Dad is the only person I can think of who I have never heard anyone say a bad word about.There are not many of us that could have that said about us and perhaps that is the most fitting tribute and memory of them all.
It is not easy to know what to say at the death of your father.There is a temptation to perhaps over sentimentalise or dramatise.However , when I think of him and think back over his life it is the small incidents and memories that seem to come to mind and it is these that I would like to remember him by today.
Perhaps my earliest memory of him is him carrying me on his shoulders in Pontypool park. This is not just a memory but also a taste as I used to suck the back of his hair when he carried me and the smell and taste of brillcream I can still recall to this day.
I also remember running head down up Brynglass Hill straight into the corner of a brick pillar with him shouting to me to stop, but too late.I ended up with three stitches in my head but at least I got taken to see the film Moby Dick in the afternoon as compensation, or perhaps it was just to stop me from crying.Luckily I realized later that you didn’t always have to run in to a wall in order to get taken to the pictures.
But maybe my most valuable memory is going with him to the Library in Newport.As you all know Dad was always a keen reader and was never without a book. I think that it was through him that I also developed a love of reading that has shaped my life so much and for that I will always be grateful. That family tradition has also been passed on to Sian who has probably already read more books that both me and Dad put together.
She also wishes to remember her Granddad today.Like me her memories are also of incidents that may seem inconsequential but which carry an emotional charge way beyond what is described. She remembers him coming down the stairs from the bathroom having just had a shave and getting her to feel his chin which he always then said was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. This was far gentler that what he did to me and Keith which was to rub our faces with his unshaved face to give us a “rough shave “. Her other abiding memory is of him putting his arms behind his head and flexing his biceps while saying “ muscles like sparrows’ ankles”. Unfortunately she also wants this tradition to carry on and now makes me do it.
However well you think you know someone they are always capable of surprising you.I said earlier that he was a voracious reader but I only ever knew him to read novels. It was only when speaking to him a day before his death that he also said that he liked poetry. He then quoted at length from WH Davies, the Newport poet and “ super tramp”, although he did then seamlessly move the poem into an extract from Wordsworth.
What was also clear was his great love of his wife. When Keith showed him a picture of her and me taken earlier that day his first remark was “ she’s still a good looking woman”. He also said how lonely he was without her and how terrible it was not having her in bed with him. In trying to find something to say about him, looking for a poem, now that I knew he liked poetry, I came across a poem, an extract of which is below, that I hope is a suitable tribute. It was written by a Welshman who also emigrated to Australia but was always conscious of being away from Wales and from the woman he loved. We know that mam can’t be here today but in dad and mam’s case they will both be reunited one day, eventually, back in Wales.
I say, putting on a bit more accent,
And of course prefacing what I have to say
With that disarming and dishonest “ of course”,
I say, “ of course, we Welshmen are exiles
Just as much in England as Australia”.
And they nod understandingly and smile politely,
And think I didn’t really understand the question.
How could I tell them,politely or impolitely,
That the only exile is from her bed,
From that visionary and impossible moment
When our customary involvement made
A sudden meaning we had not known before?
Exile, like love, is a word not to be lightly said.
One final thought.Dad is the only person I can think of who I have never heard anyone say a bad word about.There are not many of us that could have that said about us and perhaps that is the most fitting tribute and memory of them all.