Monday, 5 July 2010
Salty old sea dog.
The only person for whom a beard is not only acceptable, but endearing, and indispensible.
Your Boxing Day leftover turkey curries were legendary (especially when 'teaspoons' was misread for 'tablespoons').
You encouraged me, entertained me. Two Little Dicky Birds, for me, your pussycat.
And very much like a cat -at least nine lives, keeping coming back fighting. I believed you'd outlive us all.
I'm in awe of your strength and spirit.
Dignified, a true country gent -cutting a fine figure in khaki -cords and waxed jacket. Educating me to revere nature, as we explored the moors or coastline with Dan, your best friend ever. The comforting smell of the toast you'd share before we were allowed out of bed.
Mensa-sharp, imparting your knowledge. You admired and applauded intelligence, and didn't suffer fools, except when invigillating incessant games of Bamboozle!
I can still feel the last time we hugged. You called me pretty.
I'll never be able to hear Buddy Holly without remembering you casually crooning 'Every Day' for me back when I was smaller.
Your gentle voice -on occasions when raised we knew you really meant it. You commanded respect, and it was deserved.
Times we spent together are precious. I've been the captivated audience to your reminiscences.
I hope I always speak my mind -just like you. Your forthright manner and the driest wit, not quite masking the kindest heart. The filthy sense of humour when Grandma's back was turned -limericks about the Duchess and such.
The strong scent of your carbolic soap. Your walking cane collection. Your old rocking chair, which I'd snatch a seat in when you were out of the room.
Your open face, and the eyes I think I inherited. I feel privileged to be the Grandchild to have spent so many years with you.
My hero. You'll roam the moors forever.
Harry Lord 1928 - 2010.