The way to go out
Monday, 4. July 2005, 22:35:14
"...is with a bottle of beer and a gut ful of anger and a belly of fear..." -- Hunters and Collectors
Jock died at home, talking to his wife. 82 years old, he had run away to sea as a child of 14, been a sailor and a soldier, had a family in the country, and grown old. When the end finally came it is hard to know if it would have been a relief, or if he was still worried about his family and how they would be when he was gone.
He had children and grandchildren of whom he was immensely proud, he had mates in the Caledoniand Society, in the Masonic Lodge, in the RSL (Returned Services League). Often they were the same people.
So when the old men lined up to farewell a comrade-in-arms, it was something that was important to those who shared it, and something only they really shared. He never really talked about being in a war, about being sunk 3 times, being in advance of major landings, being a soldier in some particularly bloody conflicts. A group of old men stood in line to place a hero's ribbon and a poppy on a little wooden box, and remember things taht had happened. I heard snippets of stories from people who will soon not be around to tell them - about a shell that carried away the bloke next to him, or about a bomb that threw him into the air as he ran across a miniefield to man an anti-aircraft gun.
Those were things that he never shared with anyone who didn't have to go there. And although it was his job, and it was his job to prepare more people to go there, when his own son was in line to be drafted, it seems he was mighty relieved that a government he could never support stopped sending soldiers to a war that wasn't being won.
The man I knew wasn't a soldier. He was a bloke with a sly "who me?" grin as he fed the dog a few scraps from his plate, a man immensely proud of his children and grandchildren, fiercely loyal to his wife, and an outgoing, social, bon vivant who quietly lived out his time.
The only war story he ever told me was the first story I understood through his accent. He was in New York for the first time, and he and his mates were accused of being in the english navy. Prouder than they were strictly truthful, they pointed out that they were scots, and were therefore logically in the scots navy. And they were served something that claimed to be tea, although it was made with little bags sitting in cups. They had to teach the folks at the café how to put leaves in a pot, and make tea like it was meant to be.
The one vision I had of his presence at the funeral was during teh singing of the first hymn. It was Amazing grace, with none of the jazzy sound that he would have put into it. And I could see him just quietly tapping away with a couple of brushes and the "what, me?" look that he would have hadd if caught drumming in a church.
As I write this, I am sitting in the seat where he used to take his tea and a biscuit, and then another one (which would usually end p inside the dog). I think he had a life well lived, with great joy as well as hardship, and that he went quietly, as he would have chosen to go.
Funerals should all be filled with old mates, people who are no longer steady on their feet or clear in their eyesight.
Vale Jock. I think I'll have a cup of tea.
Jock died at home, talking to his wife. 82 years old, he had run away to sea as a child of 14, been a sailor and a soldier, had a family in the country, and grown old. When the end finally came it is hard to know if it would have been a relief, or if he was still worried about his family and how they would be when he was gone.
He had children and grandchildren of whom he was immensely proud, he had mates in the Caledoniand Society, in the Masonic Lodge, in the RSL (Returned Services League). Often they were the same people.
So when the old men lined up to farewell a comrade-in-arms, it was something that was important to those who shared it, and something only they really shared. He never really talked about being in a war, about being sunk 3 times, being in advance of major landings, being a soldier in some particularly bloody conflicts. A group of old men stood in line to place a hero's ribbon and a poppy on a little wooden box, and remember things taht had happened. I heard snippets of stories from people who will soon not be around to tell them - about a shell that carried away the bloke next to him, or about a bomb that threw him into the air as he ran across a miniefield to man an anti-aircraft gun.
Those were things that he never shared with anyone who didn't have to go there. And although it was his job, and it was his job to prepare more people to go there, when his own son was in line to be drafted, it seems he was mighty relieved that a government he could never support stopped sending soldiers to a war that wasn't being won.
The man I knew wasn't a soldier. He was a bloke with a sly "who me?" grin as he fed the dog a few scraps from his plate, a man immensely proud of his children and grandchildren, fiercely loyal to his wife, and an outgoing, social, bon vivant who quietly lived out his time.
The only war story he ever told me was the first story I understood through his accent. He was in New York for the first time, and he and his mates were accused of being in the english navy. Prouder than they were strictly truthful, they pointed out that they were scots, and were therefore logically in the scots navy. And they were served something that claimed to be tea, although it was made with little bags sitting in cups. They had to teach the folks at the café how to put leaves in a pot, and make tea like it was meant to be.
The one vision I had of his presence at the funeral was during teh singing of the first hymn. It was Amazing grace, with none of the jazzy sound that he would have put into it. And I could see him just quietly tapping away with a couple of brushes and the "what, me?" look that he would have hadd if caught drumming in a church.
As I write this, I am sitting in the seat where he used to take his tea and a biscuit, and then another one (which would usually end p inside the dog). I think he had a life well lived, with great joy as well as hardship, and that he went quietly, as he would have chosen to go.
Funerals should all be filled with old mates, people who are no longer steady on their feet or clear in their eyesight.
Vale Jock. I think I'll have a cup of tea.
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By zenya, # 4. July 2005, 22:35:14