I was only 11 years old when my dad’s dad – my granddad – passed away. I remember him as an old man – a rather sad and lonely man living in a dark basement flat. I never really knew him as we didn’t live close by and so, for him and I, there was no picking me up from school, or icecream on the beach, helping me with my homework or running around the garden, shrieking with laughter.
However, as I got older I realised that my dad’s memories of his father were vastly different from mine and, as he shared those memories with me, I began to see my granddad in a completely different light. Through my dad, I learned of a man who had lied about his age to serve his country during the First World War, who was a devoted husband who visited his sick wife in hospital every single day until the day she died, and who was broken and lost at her death. I learned of a man who worked hard for his family as a confectioner at Fullers in Hammersmith, was a loving father, firm but fair. A man with a sense of duty, but also a sense of humour. I discovered that my love of horses came from my granddad, who still carried the memories of the horses he had lost in the War as well as the friends, and how those memories still affected him deeply years later and would move him to tears. A man who had lost a sister in childhood and a much-loved brother in the Great War, who had had to send his own children (including my dad) away during the Second World War to escape the Blitz and later, the V2 rockets. I learned my granddad was a humble man, but as honest as the day was long (apart from when he lied about his age to join up!). Together, my dad and I embarked on discovering more about our family tree. From surviving documents and social history, we were able to discover things that my granddad had not shared – his own childhood growing up dirt poor in London, the circumstances of his brother’s death in the First World War and the loss of his own father when he was only ten years old. I realised how catastrophic the loss of the breadwinner of the family must have been in a time when there was no National Health Service, or Government benefits to help those on no or low incomes and how my granddad would have had to go out to work whilst still a child himself.
My dad also told me of his own childhood and how some of the principles my granddad had instilled in his children shaped how my dad was as a father to me and my brother. We were brought up to be honest, to be fair, to be loyal and hard working and to treat others how they would wish to be treated, to do what we can for those less fortunate than ourselves and to have compassion and respect. I realised that all these things came from my granddad and that, although I was only a child when he died, he had still played a huge part in my life and in making me the person I am now.
When someone we love dies, the memories we have of them and how they have enriched our lives, however briefly, is their gift to us. It is a precious gift as it is through remembering those moments and shared experiences that we are able to smile again, to feel our loved one is close, and to realise the impact that their life has had on who we are which, in turn, helps to shape our future. By sharing his memories, my dad brought my granddad back to life for me and, although our memories of the same person are very different, my granddad lives on through our experiences of the different stages of his life – as a child, a husband, a father, a widow and a grandfather.
As a celebrant, crafting a eulogy goes in some part to capture those shared family memories so that, in years to come when we and the person has passed from living memory, we leave a message – that precious gift of memories – for those who follow. It is so true that you never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory. .