When you die at 103, most of your peers have already passed away
That’s the price you pay for longevity I guess.
With the choir , I counted around 100 people at Llanasa’s pretty church this afternoon.
Too many to have been accommodated at St. Michael’s
What I didn’t know was the Auntie Glad wanted her service to be in the bigger church.
As her daughter Rene shared with the congregation , it was because she didn’t want anyone to stand outside in the rain.
There was no rain today, indeed we had bright spring sunshine for the duration, and as the male voice choir softly sang Abide With Me , the sun shone brightly through the stained windows of the little Norman Church, giving the whole place a sense of if not cheerfulness, but of warmth.
The Trelawnyd-ites were there early. Rowenna, Christine the old Church warden, Jenny the old postmistress. Animal Helper Pat, Irene,Heulwen, Derek and Me from the Flower Show. Mrs Trellis and others all sat straight in our pews and let the singing wash over us like a wave.
I’ve not heard better singing at a funeral, and I doubt I will hear the such again, and as Auntie Glad’s feather light coffin left the Church, the Choir almost whispered O Iesu Mawr to accompany her home.
We all nodded at her coffin as it passed.
Rene, Glady’s daughter who lives in England seems to have inherited much of her chutzpah from her mother, and she gave a long, lovely Eulogy, even mentioning my blog as a welcomed source of village information.
The afternoon tea in the village hall afterwards was pure Gladys too.
A selection of sandwiches, scones with thick butter and lashings of strong tea.
I gave my goodbyes earlyish as I needed to write the blog before leaving for college tonight.
And before I left for my classes, I walked over to Gladys’ grave to look at her family flowers as the sun cooled towards dusk.
Islwyn had left the grave pin perfectly neat , and as I sat I listened to my Spotify account this piece of music was playing in my ears.
Nothing welsh , or traditional , or even sad, just a uplifting African based piece of choral work Waloyo Yamoni ( We Overcome The Wind) and for ten minutes or so I sat on Auntie Glad’s favourite bench and let the music wash over me as I had my second but-not-so-unhappy weep of the week.
The gravedigger has arrived to open up Auntie Glad’s family grave . It’s her funeral tomorrow. The weather is foul, but village elder Islwyn ( our unofficial gravedigger) is hopeful the sun will be shining
She deserves that much, he said simply..
And so I think it’s fitting giving this blog entry an airing again. I was remembering Gladys as she should be remembered and it’s from a post written , about an event I held in the village over fifteen years ago now.
My family often nag me to amalgamate the better parts of Going Gently into some sort of bestselling paperback. The Prof says whimsy sells, and I guess he is right given the plethora of " heartwarming" and " uplifting" tales of life changing encounters middle aged pongos like myself experience when lifestyles change and temple hair is lightening from brunette to a gentle grey. On the way to the panto the other night, my sister remembered what I call a " Field of Dreams" moment which she said would be a " Satisfying " denouement to the chapter where two middle aged gays first moved into a tight knit Welsh village! Nine years ago, I held my very first " allotment open evening" It was on the back of similar open evenings my sister organised at her own town allotment, where friends and family had the opportunity to survey her vegetable beds, have tea and cake and make a contribution of a charity of her choice. My first allotment open was a small affair, but it was important to me as I left several hopeful posters around the village inviting everyone to attend. Attendance by the Trelawnyd-ites meant everything and as the 6 pm opening deadline loomed close, My sister remembered me gazing up the lane in a sudden downpour of summer rain, worried that no one would come.
I should not have worried ...for the " Field Of Dreams " moment arrived as powerfully as anything ever seen in a sentimental movie or tv series! the only thing that was bloody lacking was a sudden swelling of a musical score, for at exactly 6 pm and valiantly led by Auntie Glad hidden underneath an oversized umbrella, a long line of village characters weaved their way down the Church lane from the main road and towards the field to support the event.
It was a real Hollywood moment amid the wet grass and Slightly damp Victoria sponges.
Perhaps, my sister was right. It is these kind of moments balanced with the sadness of those normal life dramas that make a story readable and accessible to all. Light and froth peppered with emotional romps......perhaps that is the formula..
And I will always remember Auntie Glad nodding her head at me, with those sparking blue eyes, eager and interested, as she passed by that evening
“Good Evening Mr Gray!” She trilled “ I told you I would come “
If you want something frothy and forgettable , sweet and likeable go and see What’s Love Got To do With it? It won’t tax you too much, it will make you cry at least four times and it could have been a much more serious and far reaching movie, if it tried.
But it settled for ROM COM status.
Childhood friends Kazim ( Shazad Latif) and Zoe ( Lily James) have grown up next door to each other in an affluent London suburb. He is a serious Muslim doctor , whose only hidden flaws are cigarettes and occasional alcohol. And she is a serial singleton, filmmaker who lives on a boat on the Thames ( !)
When Kazim decides to allow his parents to assist him in finding a wife , Zoe is allowed to film the who process, a film which challenges everyone of what they think is the right way to love.
Written by Jemima Khan and directed by Shekhar Kapur, we still have to put up with the usual Asian stereotypes, but some like Asim Chaudrey great turn as Mo the Matchmaker are probably very true to life.
Once you are on a roll, things have a tendency of moving on at their own pace.
I’m thinking of the Queen Mary’s stopping length, here but the same can be thought of holes in underpants.
Last night I found a hole in my underpants .
I was in the bathroom and this sort of thing happens , so irritated I threw the underpants out of the window onto the patio, to be retrieved later to put in the bin by the back door.
Now galvanised , as I warmed to my task, I had a quick check of my undercrackers drawer and found four more gusset challenged sets all with holes in and threw them on the patio too.
This seemed sensible to me as I often throw used bleach bottles, empty shampoo bottles etc out on the patio to be retrieved later for recycling.
At 9 am there was a knock at the back door and Trevor’s gardener stood there wanting to know how he was.
Nothing was mentioned about the five pairs of underpants lying on the patio
