Remembering My Dad

My Dad passed away last year. It's taken me a while to write about it; nothing prepares you for losing a parent and in the past year or so I've been doing a lot of reflecting.

Dad didn’t have the easiest start in life. Born in Orpington, London, in 1938, he was put in boarding school at the age of 3, during the war years, and didn’t even get to go home during the holidays. His family subsequently moved to Herefordshire, where he did well at school, becoming Head Boy. He then carved out a successful career in the army, with international postings, before settling in Shrewsbury and working for Shropshire Grain. When he retired, his colleagues wrote about his ‘unflappable air of calm’ and that really was his defining characteristic. He was essentially an introvert and I never heard him shout. He would happily while away hours in his big vegetable garden, complete with fruit cages and a greenhouse. For some unknown reason, he used to call me Sung or Sungalita, and I still have the little wooden stool he made for me as a toddler, so I could sit and watch him work his magic with his crops; marvelling as he engraved my name into marrows and seeing the letters grow. He was often busy with artistic endeavours too: painting peaceful seascapes or doing clay or wood sculptures. He was also passionate about rugby and loved being out in nature, walking and bird watching. He had a wonderful sense of humour and frequently offered a witty observation with a conspiratorial wink. I take heart in knowing that he’ll be with his parents and three brothers again now, but it’s still very hard to accept that he’s gone.

I organised Dad's funeral and it was comforting to see how many people came and to hear how highly regarded and loved he was. It was especially lovely to see my aunties and cousins and feel their warmth and support. My cherished cousins, Simon and Alistair, were pallbearers alongside myself and my eldest daughter, Ruby, and my daughters Lyla and Mia walked behind the coffin. It was a beautiful show of unity and source of strength. Dad would have been proud.

I made this photo compilation to be played at the ceremony -it was deeply touching but also beautiful to be reminded of how long and full Dad's life was. The celebrant was the wonderful Andrew Trelawny and I have pasted his eulogy below, followed by the tribute that I delivered.

ANDREW TRELAWNY'S EULOGY:

In a moment, you are going to hear some beautiful family tributes, but, as Tom would have told you, from his long experience of the Army and of commerce, a proper briefing starts with a bit of “situation” or, in other words, background. 

The second of four boys, Tom was conceived in Burma, both sides of his family having served for many years in India, both in and out of uniform, and he was born in London in 1938.  During the war his father fought with his Sikh regiment against the Japanese and, although he was posted as missing believed killed, was, in fact, a prisoner of war.  Educated in Gloucestershire, Hampshire, and Herefordshire, where he finished as Head Boy, Tom was soon called up for National Service in the Grenadier Guards.  Spotting his potential, his superiors recommended him for a commission, and after officer training, he joined the South Wales Borderers, the 24th of Foot of Rorke’s Drift fame.  Tom’s military career lasted 21 years and included operational service in Aden and Northern Ireland and garrison duties in Germany, Hong Kong, and the United Kingdom, where his final posting was in Shrewsbury.  As a young officer, he represented his regiment at royal events in Wales, including bearing the Regimental Colour newly presented by Queen Elizabeth, and he met King Charles, then Prince of Wales, on several occasions.  He also boxed for his regiment and quickly won the respect of those serving under his command.

On leaving the Army, he settled in Shropshire and directed his considerable skills towards a number of projects, including working as a grain merchant, running a nursery school, gardening, bird watching, creating masterpieces in wood and clay, cooking (curries a speciality), listening to music and watching rugby.  He enjoyed the company of his friends, global travel, as we shall hear, and time with his family.  Described on his retirement from Shropshire Grain as a “man of unflappable calm,” Tom was philosophical, dignified, sensitive and eloquent.  He was a true gentleman who will be sadly missed. Tom’s daughter, Sarah, will now pay her own tribute.

Dad and his training staff at The Welsh Brigade Depot, circa 1973 (he's in the middle of the front row). From Regimental Magazine, December 2015.

MY TRIBUTE:

I'd like to honour Dad by sharing some special memories that stand out to me.

Dad used to call me Sung, or Sungalita. I never knew why, but it was a term of endearment that still brings a smile to my face. When I was a toddler, he made me a wooden bench so I could sit and watch him gardening. I still have that bench, and I treasure it. To me, it represents his passion for gardening, his impressive woodwork skills, his gentle nature, his practical mindset, and his love towards me.

I also used to marvel at his other creations: the rustic, wooden vegetable rack he crafted to store his home-grown veg, the beautiful wooden eagle he carved with ease and flair, and the magnificent Herefordshire bull he moulded out of clay.

He used to engrave my name into marrows, and I'd find it truly magical to watch my name grow as the marrow grew.

Being alone with Dad in the house was always a peaceful experience, because he had such a laid back, easy going energy. I never heard him shout.

I'd sometimes sit on his knee while he was watching TV, and he'd cross his legs, trapping me between them, and tickle me, until I had tears of laughter streaming down my face.

His office at Shropshire Grain was on the same road as our family home. I'd often see him looking out of his office window, enjoying a cup of tea, as I walked along the street. It gave me a sense of comfort, knowing that he was close by. He taught me how to drive, with admirable patience, and he was always my role model on the road, thanks to his steady and thoughtful approach. He'd visit me during my university years and make me his delicious, trademark salad. It was my favourite dish. He was a very good cook and his motto in the kitchen was always "tidy as you go," -an approach which I've held ever since.

Dad and I shared an interest in politics and current affairs. On one occasion, he came down to London so we could watch Question Time being filmed, as part of the studio audience. We both loved it. When he came to my university graduation ceremony, I could feel his warm sense of pride, which meant the world to me. And when he moved into his house in Belle Vue, in which he'd spend the rest of his life, I loved going furniture shopping with him and putting all his bits and pieces on display, turning it into a home that represented him, his style and everything he loved. One of my happiest days was when we built a shed for his garden, and shared a beer together afterwards, for a job well done. It was such a satisfying feeling of team work, accomplishment, and enjoying the simple pleasures in life.

When my friends came over, he'd delight in sharing a few glasses of wine with them, and would keep us entertained with his warm personality and his dry wit. My friend, Lian, still refers to it as "Question time with Mr B," when he'd crack us up with his answers to life's questions. He had a wicked sense of humour, and would frequently send me jokes by email to make me laugh, or deliver a funny quip during conversation, always delivered with a little smile and a twinkle in his eye.

When I had my first child, Ruby, Dad would delight in making her giggle. And he was so generous and welcoming towards my friends, my new little family and me -taking us out for lunch and going for walks in the countryside. He'd always fit in to any dynamic with gentle ease, and I loved and admired him for it.

When he visited me in Fiji, he'd dance with his grandchildren in the sitting room, which was so beautiful and heart-warming to watch. He'd delight in sitting on our veranda with his binoculars, watching the tropical birds in the garden, and when we trekked to a stunning waterfall, and he didn't have his swim shorts, he immediately stripped off to his underpants to swim. He loved going to a local rugby match in Fiji, and bonded with my husband, George, over their shared love of the sport. He thought very highly of George, and would frequently tell me so, which made me feel very happy.

He'd never fail to remember each of my six children on their birthdays, and would always send them a loving message the day before. It's something that always touched me, and I was very grateful for his thoughtfulness. When we'd all visit him, he'd frequently make his grandchildren laugh with a funny observation and a conspiratorial wink. They all loved their grandad, and his endearing ways were frequently the topic of conversation at home.

On one of my recent visits, when we hugged, he told me that I was a breath of fresh air, and it really gave me a warm glow inside. In one of his recent messages to me, he said that he was wrapped up in a blanket that I'd bought him for Christmas, and that it made him happy, because it reminded him of me. I was extremely touched. And he'd always finish a conversation or message by saying, "I love you." Dad didn't throw around meaningless utterances; when he said something he truly meant it. So I carry these words in my heart.

I love you deeply and eternally Dad. Thank you for being such a steady presence in my life. It's very hard to accept that I won't see you again. But I know I'll feel your beautiful spirit when the cold wind blows on my cheeks in the Shropshire Hills. I know I'll feel your love and appreciation of the great outdoors when I see awe-inspiring nature. I know I'll feel your passionate, happy energy when I'm watching a rugby match. I know I'll feel your calm and contentment when I'm sipping red wine. I know I'll feel your fulfilling sense of artistry when I'm doing something creative. I know I'll feel your adventurous spirit when I'm visiting new countries. And I know I'll feel your wisdom and insight when I read about current affairs.

Your light will shine on, and I will be forever be your torch bearer.