It's the seemingly endless tears we can produce at any time - the ones that stream down the face for what seem like hours and leave you snotty, red eyed and exhausted and the ones that just leak silently from the eyes unbidden at unexpected times. It's the howling like a banshee with your face pressed into an old coat, the sight of which had caused the flood in the first place.
It's that intensely sharp stab through the heart at a piece of music, a specific scent, the touch of a cashmere jumper, the memory of a frequently shared old family joke or seeing a beloved face in a photograph. It's the tossing and turning in bed at night, unable to get to sleep then finally doing so only to wake, exhausted, in the wee small hours to start tossing and turning all over again.
It is the intense weight of lethargy - that sheer inability to make a decision or even to do anything some days, the total lack of enthusiasm for things that you normally love, the sudden inability to concentrate on anything except iPad jigsaw games for more than a couple of minutes at a time. It's the favourite book that has suddenly been translated into Russian and no longer makes any sense no matter how many times you read the same paragraph.
It is the burning desire and the need to become a hermit from the social world to be alone with your pain without having to deal with other people. It is the immense heaviness of grief. But strangest of all, it is the mind that wanders off to a different place at will - a place of bland nothingness, but where it was safe, where you weren't bereft, rudderless and adrift in the sea of life, alone as an orphan.
You may have realised by now that, at the age of 55, I have become an orphan. The death of a parent is always devastating and I don't think it matters at what age it happens, but the death of your second parent is even more so because of that complete loss of the guiding lights of your life and the only people who can and will ever give you total complete and utterly unconditional love.
My wonderful Dad died on February the 26th after a brief illness - the first in his 83 years of life. Ower Dave and I are left bereft. We had such a strong, loving, open, honest and laughter-filled relationship with Dad, as you can see from the photo below.
I wanted to say so much about Dad, but as Ower Dave gave a fantastic and very moving eulogy at Dad's crowded funeral, and as I share so many of the same strong memories, I figured I couldn't write anything better than that so I've pinched a few bits from it instead. It's over to Ower Dave now, but any bits in brackets are my comments and thoughts:
Family
Dad was a big family man and most of my earliest memories are around the things we did as a family:
- the way we used to go for walks in Derbyshire every weekend, and how brilliant Dad was at playing hide and seek in the heather when we had picnics
- the way we always ate together as a family and how he teased us by hiding our cutlery when we were distracted at the dinner table
- the children's parties we did and the treasure hunts he organised as part of those
- the way he could always pick out the last piece of the jigsaw and put it to one side to prove it, even when we'd just started (took me years to work that one out!)
- and the magical way he was able to get the toothpaste to suck back up into the tube the first time i queezed too much out.
As we grew up, home and the family continued to be important to Dad.
- He and Mum always made friends welcome, both ours and theirs, and I remember the house often being full of other people.
- In my head it seems that Mum and Dad often went out to parties and, especially when I was young, the way everyone dressed up in long dresses and posh suits made being a grown up just seem so glamorous (Mum and Dad, circa 1971. Dad was Regional President of the North East Region of the National Federation of Master Painters - now the more boringly titled Painters and Decorators Association)
- Mum and Dad also loved travelling. We used to go camping in England and then across Europe in our summer holidays and we got very good at it. We all had our own jobs and Dad was always proud of the fact that we could get to a campsite we liked, pitch the tent, get everything sorted and be sitting down to a three course meal within forty minutes.
- As an aside, when I first wrote that last paragraph I put down that we could be sat down to a three course meal rather than be sitting down...and I could hear Dad chuntering away at me. Sitting is, of course, a continuing action and therefore takes the present participle 'ing' form of the verb rather than the past participle form. I hope he appreciates me getting that right for him.
We lived as a family in three houses over the years but whichever house we were in, he and Mum always made it a welcoming place for other people.
- there was always a meal available
- many of our friends came round just because they felt it a comfortable place to be when they were growing up
- and Dad would, I think, be truly moved by the number of old friends, including friends of Liz and myself, here today.
As the family grew up and we found ourselves with our partners, Dad and Mum embraced them all fully as part of the family and of course loved and treasured Nicola, Megan, Ruth and Laura when they came along.
- It's telling that one of the most consistent messages we've heard since Dad died, from the funeral director, from dad's florist, from his neighbours, Father Desmond (Dad's parish priest) and others is how proud he was of us all.
- looking back over his life, one of the reasons I think he was able to be so proud was because of the safe spaces he created for all of those around him. Whether it was us, our friends or those he came into contact with, he had a way of being supportive and present in a way that was right for each person even if he didn't know that was what he was doing.
Part of that was Dad's sheer capacity to love, his underlying kindness, personal resilience, courage and fortitude. He was devastated when Angie (our sister) had an accident that left her paralysed. And I'm certain he thought he was going to die of a broken heart during the first few months after mum died in 1991. But he found a way of working through these and Angie's subsequent death in 1996, and continued to find great joy and pleasure in the family.
As the grandchildren grew up, he built a strong relationship with each of them. Of course, he them by hiding their cutlery when they weren't looking.Nicola ate Christmas pudding for years evn though she doesn't like it, just to try to find the lucky coin Grandad always managed to get, even after he'd let her switch bowls with him. He'd spend time with them. He'd play games, share stories and, as grandparents often do, he'd slide them a few pounds and tell them not to tell their Mum and Dad.
He loved it when all the family was together. (Like the time 2 years ago that we had a professional photography session for the family - he was at the centre of the family then, as he always was. This was the photo we chose to go on the front of the Order Of Service at his funeral as it seemed so right to surround him with our love one last time)
One of the great things about Dad was his sheer capacity to love. In his later years he formed a great friendship with Angela Cooper, which everyone knew about from the way they radiated pleasure in each other's company even when they thought it was a bit of a secret.
Dad asked me to say how much he treasured and valued that friendship and what a great help Angela had been to him over the years. They enjoyed each other's company enormously, laughed at the same things, shared their faith and went on trips and holidays together. Angela became a welcome part of our family and I know Dad felt the same about hers. From the stories he told, it seemed as though he had become a sort of honorary grandfather there and I'm sure he will be missed by them as well as us.
Work
In terms of work, Dad was, of course, a painter and decorator all his life. He started an apprenticeship at the age of just 15, formed his own business when his old boss died and loved what he did throughout his life.
He was a skilled painter, paper hanger, grainer and signwriter and a good all-round craftsman as well as being very practically minded in almost anything he turned his hand to.
- He trained many people, including myself, over the years.
- and he was always mindful of doing a good job and always wanted to make sure the customer was happy.
When Dad retired, his business passed to Darren who is here today and Dad would have been pleased to know that Darren is still doing work for some of Dad's original customers and, even though the name of the business has changed, it still says Dad's name down the side of some of the ladders.
My earliest memory of what Dad could really do as a painter and decorator was when he painted a full sized union jack on the bathroom door of our first house when I was very small. Dad told me years later that the buyers had insisted that had to stay on as part of the condition of the sale.
My last memory is probably going to be a story I got from a neighbour last week who told me that last year she'd seen Dad up a scaffold repainting his chimney after the rendering had been repaired. That's a scary though for a man of 83 with two replacement knees - but, if I'm honest, I think it's probably typical of Dad that he would have wanted to show that he could still do something like that and I'm proud of him for it.
Faith
As many of you will know, Dad was a Catholic all his life and we're here at St. Mary's today because this was his parish.
- He was one of the first pupils to attend St. Mary's school across the road when it opened in 1940.
- Mass at that time was being said in the school hall and Dad was one of the first two alter boys the parish ever had.
- He became a member of the choir in 1951 when he finished his National Service with the RAF and he's been a member ever since.
- He and Mum were the second couple ever to be married here in 1955.
One of the things I liked about Dad's faith was that he never made a song and dance about it. He thought about things, followed his conscience, let it shape his values and quietly continued to practice, leaving others to find their own way.
I do know he found it a great comfort to be visited by Father Desmond when he was ill in hospital and on the day he died, and I'd like to say thank you to him and to Delia and her her driver and to Sister Joan who also visited Dad with communion during the time that he wasn't well enough to get to church. It was important to Dad and I have to say that I found it comforting that someone had the words to say at a time when I was struggling.
Socially
The last area of Dad's life I'd like to touch on was the overall way he was able to connect with people. When Mum was alive she was so vibrant that I thought she was the main connector, but I've come to recognise that Dad and she were at least equally matched.
Both before and since he died, so very many people have told me (us) what a genuinely good and nice man he was and how fond they were of him and I think that was one of his true gifts. Sometimes it's just the little things. People remember him as being kind, thoughtful and caring - a true gentleman, but they also remember him being smartly dressed with a jacket and tie or his trademark cashmere jumpers.
For those in the know, it's as daft as the piece of blue rope he used to hand on his garage door when he was in and which he took off when he was out so that you could tell from the bottom of the drive if he was home. I was really touched last week when Dad's gardener for the last twelve years asked if he could have that rope so that he can hang it on his own gate post to remind him of Dad when he goes in and out.
Dad was, of course, a huge fan of the British Decorators Association and there are many people here today who knew him through that, either at local branch level or regional or national levels.
Dad was hugely proud of the Association and was an active participant for many years.
- He was President of the local branch on numerous occasions.
- in 1971 he became the youngest Regional President of the North East Region up to that point.
- he spent 14 years on the National Executive Committee.
- he acted as chief steward at the regional conference for an amazing 20 years and he became Regional President again in 1995, this time with Liz as his President's Lady.
- in 2002 he was awarded life membership of the Rotherham Branch, the North East Region and the National Association, one of only a very few members to achieve all three.
That's quite a record but I remember in the early days, Dad used to be nervous of going to meetings and particularly of writing and delivering speeches. He got a lot of support from others in the Association at that time and over the years and, judging from the amount of thank you letters I've come across in his files, he in turn came to help a lot of other people along the way.
I think what the BDA did most for Dad though was to provide him with friendships that lasted a lifetime. I remember as a child going to conferences with him and Mum, people in their best dresses and dinner suits and how everyone hugged and kissed each other and just seemed to enjoy each other's company enormously.
Mum and Dad became particularly fond of many people withe Bob and Anne Smith and Gordon and Bette Hare deserving honourable mentions just for how much I saw of them in my early years. Mum and Dad and Bob and Anne in particular spent a lot of time together and went away on holidays together for many years. In recent years, Gordon and Dad used to speak on the phone every day.
In later years I went to several barbecues that Dad did in his back garden for the local branch and I saw those same deep friendships. It's a testament to everyone how long those friendships have lasted and, indeed, spread. Liz, it seems, now knows pretty much everyone in the BDA from her time as the Regional President's Lady and we've received a lot of kind thoughts and condolences from that route.
Looking in from the outside, one of the things that seemed to reinforce the social side of things for the BDA was the annual branch dinners and it was the received wisdom in our house that the Rotherham dinner was one of the best. It won't mean anything to people outside the BDA but for those of you who used to attendm we have asked for something to represent the fish course as part of this afternoon's reception at the Carlton Park.
Wherever Dad formed his connections and friendships, he held them all dear, and this completed the circle for him of family, work, faith and friendship. The one thing that was common throughout all this seems to have been that there was always laughter wherever Dad was. Liz often tells the story that the people where she worked always knew when she was talking on the phone to Dad because she laughed so much and I remember Angie saying much the same thing.
Even amongst the sadness we laughed with James from Bartholomew's when we were arranging the funeral. We laughed with Sasha at the florists when we were the flowers. We laughed with Father Desmond when arranging the funeral service and we've laughed amongst ourselves as we've remembered what Dad meant to us and the things we did together.
Dad would have been fine with that. I came across a piece of paper when I was checking his papers for his thoughts on today which said, in his words, that it was alright to take the mickey out of him at his funeral.
And it's also starting to look as though that message might be the begining of a final treasure hunt he's left for us.
We've started to find little notes around the place. For the decorators amongst you, we've found one on a Walpamur colour card dating back to 1963 with a post-it note saying "rare- do not through away" which I'm going to frame up.
In his RAF uniform, which he'd always said he wanted to go to the local museum along with the book he wrote about his time in National Service, two days after someone saying they'd like to keep it to remember him by, we found a note saying he'd now like it to be kept in the family.
In an old bed warming pan in the kitchen we've found an enticingly titled envelope that I've yet to open called "detailed history of the warming pan" which should be interesting.
and my favourite so far though is a note Annette found which includes a phone number for me and underneath it the words Dave Price and then, in brackets, Son.
Conclusion
One of the things that Dad often said in good humour to us, usually after he'd been teasing, messing around or just generally being daft, was "you'll miss me when I've gone".
He was right. We do and we will, but these then are some of the ways I'm going to remember him:
- as the man who could magically squeeze toothpaste back into the tube
- as the man who always found the sixpence at Christmas
- as the man who could always find the last piece of the jigsaw
- as the man who loved his family and friends enormously and was loved equally by them
- as the man who left us with a legacy of doing up houses that so far has lasted for more than thirty years
- as a man who brought love and laughter wherever he went
- as the 83 year old with two replacement knees who could still get up at ladder to paint his chimney
- as the man who adored spending time with his beloved granddaughters
- and as the man who knew me as Dave Price brackets son.
- as a man who's competitive spirit and unending sense of fun caused so much laughter over the years - traits that he has passed on to Ower Dave and myself! (This photo, from the same photo shoot, is made up of individual photos of us all role playing 'jobs' from one of our favourite family games ...Cranium. It was supposed to be a quick part of the shoot, but we all got competitive and wouldn't stop until our 'jobs' had been correctly guessed, so it beautifully sums up the fun we all had together)
Back to me now for the final word.
I feel so fortunate to have had such amazing parents. We were financially poor when I was little, but we 3 children were never aware of it because we were love rich and protected from such adult worries. Dad and Mum both set us firm and consistent boundaries with known consequences if we didn't follow them - and they never failed to carry out those consequences either, but they also praised and rewarded us for the positive things we did and for our achievements - even though Dad was smarting a little when, at age 12, I finally beat him in a swimming race! (Competitive? Us? Dead right!)
The best thing they gave us throughout our lives though was the knowledge that we were loved. "I love you" was a commonly used phrase by everyone in our family.....although from Mum and Dad, it was sometimes (okay, often) followed by "....but I don't like your behaviour right now!", but it was never used in a trite or offhand manner. It was always heartfelt and meant.
Dave and I had the painful and heart-wrenching privilege of being with both Mum and Dad when they died, 24 years apart. But we also had the immense privilege of hearing the last words from both of them to each of us be "I love you".
I love you too Dad.
