Remembering Dad

Dad died two years ago today. Here are all the posts about him since then. Amongst them you will see the photo below. But I like it, and it is one of the last photos, if not the last picture, taken of him so I am going to re-post it.

Grandpa and Grandsons

Found this pic of Dad with boys on the steps of Douglas Rd, Chappaqua. It is a good pic.

Scattering The Ashes

This is a shot of the beach at Tisvildeleje, and old fishing village in North Zealand, Denmark. My great aunt and great uncle had summer houses within a few miles of here. My grandparents honeymooned here. My dad came to the beaches here when he was a boy, and he brought Anna and me to the beaches here, when we were kids.

Dad didn't specify what he wanted done with his remains. We decided to scatter his ashes into the sea around Tisvildeleje. There is a beautiful little jetty that seemed the perfect place.

We decided to do it at sunset Monday August 24th. It was a lovely sunny day and the wind was blowing away from the shore (probably a good thing when scattering ashes). Anna's family had come up from Copenhagen on Saturday with us and Uncle Alick, Dad's younger brother, arrived on the Monday morning. We had a proper Danish lunch and played on the beach and in the sea in the afternoon. It was good fun. Alick, Anna and I made a little tour of the aunt and uncle's summer houses and he also showed us where our grandparents spent their honeymoon; the black cottage just back from the beach, below.

We had had a late lunch and didn't fancy returning to the summer house, so we went down to the ice cream shop at the car park and bought the most amazing (and expensive) round of ice creams to keep us going; flavoured scoops, soft ice on top, 'guff' (meringue whilst still soft), flodeboller (a kind of marshmallow encased in chocolate), with coatings. It was great. Rupert took the pictures. Firstly, Anna and I (don't worry about the moustache, it was a bad holiday experiment, it's gone now)...

and then the whole group:

Then we got down to the business at hand. The wind was blowing off the shore, and the tide was going out. We felt that we should be discrete, so Anna and I chose a site amongst the rocks on the seaward side of the jetty.

We all gathered about twenty minutes before the sunset. Those who wanted to say a few words did and Anna read this short poem;

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there;

I did not die.

We had given everyone an egg cup with ashes and some lovely purple petals that Anna had picked from the bushes just behind the beach, and after the poem was read, we stepped up, in our own time, and placed the ashes and petals into the water.

And they drifted, slowly and gently towards the setting sun.

It was all lovely and sad and beautiful and poignant.

Bye Dad

x

c

Guard Of Honor

This, if anything, was my Father's philosophy. I found a number of copies in amongst the papers of his I was going through tonight. I remember he showed me the piece a couple of times over the years. I think he found it helpful at difficult times in his life.

"In any human situation, even the simplest, there are more variables than any human mind can properly take account of...

A great many people, maybe most people, confronted by a difficult situation, one in which, the don't know what to do, get nowhere because they are so busy pointing out that the situation should be remade so they will know what to do....

There are reasons for everything that is....They're often interesting. Figuring them out increases our understanding. They may arouse our indignation or our compassion. They add up to say that if things had been different, things might be different. That seems quite likely; but things aren't different, they are as they are. That's where we have to go on from."

It is incredibly pragmatic.

I looked for it when composing my funeral speech, but am quite glad now I didn't find it. If I had, I suspect I would have built my speech around it and not ended up saying what I wanted to.

In case you are wondering, it is from Guard of Honor by James Gould Cozzens.

Completion on Dad's House

We completed on Dad's house today. I shut up the house today. Being inside the house wasn't too bad: it was empty, there was no furniture, it was very clean. It didn't look like an inhabited house. It is ready for someone else to make it a home. 

But being outside was different. It was more emotional. I suspect because the garden looked like the garden used to look when the house was inhabited; very little had changed in it.  The garden, unsurprisingly, also proved to be more photogenic than the empty rooms. There were some daffodils in bloom, in the flower bed in front of the shed, above, and around the tree on the lawn, below.

I teared up a little when I met Malcolm walking his dog. He said they miss Mick. So do I. 

15 Beane Rd, Watton-at-Stone

I exchanged on Dad's house earlier this week and on Saturday we went around as a family to the house for the last time. The last few times we have been have been less emotional as the overwhelming need is to get the rest of what remains out and the house in good order for the next owners. The house is now looking like it needs someone new to live in it. It is ready to be a home again.

That said, it was the last time that the kids will go inside. Charlie cried. I think it is a way for him to access Grandpa. Ollie was a regular visitor to the house with me, and I think it was the same for him.

The picture is a Google Maps shot of Watton-at-Stone. Even though you can't see the house itself, I like the shot. It is a little like we are pulling away from house. The sale will be completed this Friday and I will take a last look then.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Today, Charlie created The Love Club, and started to populate it with all the people he loved. It was nice that Grandpa was included. I think he would be happy with that.

Reporting Dad's Death

At the inquest for Dad's death, there were two journalists present. I didn't mention them in the post, here, as they didn't play a significant part in the inquest. I exchanged a few words with them; enough to find out which papers they represented and that they often spend days sitting in court inquests like this. They gave me the impression that they would file a report of a few sentences that might appear in a far flung column of their papers. 

Not so. 

The Herfordshire Mercury reported Dad's death in the 5th Dec 2008 edition, in a prominent place on page 3. Go here for the edition and hit 'next' to turn one page to see it (oh, and click on the back arrow twice to get back to this post!).  I wasn't too impressed with their reporting, nor was Anna. They got Dad's age wrong, they wrote 60. The headline; 'Widower unable to cope with onset of Parkinson's' offended us. Admittedly we are a little sensitive to this type of headline which is not exactly untrue, but our belief, given the notes he left, was that it was more a deliberate act of someone who knew what was going to happen to them taking a decision about how to end their life before being unable to do so. I rang the Mercury and suggested that their reporting was factually inaccurate, that as he had been diagnosed with Parkinson's in 1999 the use of the word 'onset' was probably incorrect, and three, it conveyed what we believed to be an incorrect perspective on the death.  I spoke with the reporter, who after initially seeming to be a little defensive listened to my idea that if my father's death is to be reported, I would far rather be used as a springboard for a useful discussion about assisted suicide, euthanasia, etc. than it being portrayed as another sad old man killing himself in his garage. 

They printed an apology about Dad's age and the reporter did go off and write an article as I suggested. Given the number of programmes recently on the subject, most notably Julie Walters starting in the drama 'A Short Stay in Switzerland' about a Doctor going to take her own life in a clinic in Switzerland, it is a subject that has been given a fair bit of oxygen recently. The article appears in this edition, on page 16 and even gets teed up on the front page. 

So good for the Hertfordshire Mercury. I hope they do manage to start a debate on the subject. I understand that society has to be very careful about legislating in this area, but for those people who do want to end their life due to a terminal illness it feels right to me that they should have more provision that what is currently available to them. 

The Inquest

Because of the nature of Dad's death, the law requires an inquest. It was at the Old Courthouse in Hatfield today at 11am. The inquest was a documentational one; there was no need to call witnesses but I thought it would be good to go. The coroner, Mr. Thomas, was excellent. He drew upon police and medical evidence for the 'hard' data of the death and also upon the piece I wrote about any relevant information I had about the death and some of the family history I also provided. He was very compassionate and seemed to 'get inside' the case very well, especially as I only handed in my pieces 15 minutes before the inquest started. The room looked quite imposing when I went in, but he made it small and intimate. That is a good skill. I was very happy to have gone.

Poem

Erin forwarded me this poem by Jane Kenyon in response to the post on the whisk.

I took the last
dusty piece of china
out of the barrel
it was your gravy boat
with a hard, browndrop of gravy still
on the porcelain lip
I grieved for you then
as I never did before

It is a lovely and poignant poem.

Erin's blog is excellent. It is here.

It's Funny What's Important

Anna and I have started to go through the content's of our Father's house. It is not an easy task. One of the nice parts is finding unexcepted things that have strong emotional resonance. This whisk is one of them. We both remember our Mother using it 35 years ago and more. Of course there are better ways to whisk things nowadays and the whisk itself is so tempremental that it takes a persuasive hand to get it work properly - slow and steady - but of course that isn't the point. For a good few minutes we were memorized by it and the memories it stirred in us.

Christian's Speech

It’s not unusual for people to say to me, especially when I have been a little too direct or terse, “that was just like Mick” or “you’re just like your father”, and even though I make a show of contrition, in fact, just between you and me, I am a little proud of the accusation. And today, I am happy to admit it.

I had a think about other ways I’m like my Dad. Here are some:

I‘m about 6 foot, and I’m reasonably slim. I like cheese and I like chocolate. I have bushy eyebrows, though mine don’t show like his (you need to see Uncle Alick for the real deal). I used to play tennis: pretty well in fact. I like music. I am more introvert than extrovert. I get preoccupied with things. I married a woman whose name begins with “J” (he did it twice).

There are other ways in which I am not like my Dad.

My hair is naturally blonde, his was jet black. I like novel. He liked familiar. I know the names of The Rolling Stones and The Beatles. He didn’t (and was proud of the fact). I am right footed, right handed and right brained. He was left footed, left handed and very, very, very …….very left brained.

And there are also some ways in which I am still trying to be like my Dad.

He ploughed his own furrow. He was skeptical of vested interests, “secret” organisations, and the ‘system’ in general. He was scathing of pomposity and pretension. He went out of his way to do things his way. I admired that and I still do.

He drew a good straight line. It was very clear where you stood with him; I probably crossed it a little too often. He was firm and overwhelmingly fair. He tried to do the right thing. He was loyal,
trustworthy and reliable. He was good at his job: I know. I worked at Shell Centre in the summer holidays as a messenger, and when people realized I was Mick Barnett’s son I was given
instant respect. What he did, he did very well. He would rather not participate than perform at a level that was below his standards.

And he was quietly brave. His wartime and postwar experiences in Paris and London were formative. Dealing with the death of his first wife, Jose, my mum, when he was in his early 40s with two young children whilst holding down a serious job was one of his achievements I am most grateful for. Coping with the death of his second wife, Joan, after having been diagnosed a few years earlier with Parkinson’s, was harder for him, though he bore this too with
considerable dignity and a determined resolve.

And when he realized that he couldn’t sustain a level of performance to his standards any longer he quietly and bravely decided to bow out, his way.

So the next time someone reminds me I am just like my Dad, I shall sit back and with a wide grin on my face, say “yep, you might just be right”

Anna's Speech

I have my own special reason to be thankful to Dad. After he and Jose had Christian they were advised not to have any more children but decided that to complete their family they would adopt a baby girl. That was me! During my childhood I had this fairytale notion that there was huge room full of pink cots and Mum, Dad and Christian walked up and down for hours looking at the all the babies until they eventually chose me. I was always told that I was somehow special as I had been ‘chosen’. I’ve since found out of course, to my huge disappointment, that this wasn’t how it was done at all but it doesn’t change what I believe! However I was chosen, it really doesn’t matter.

What does matter though is that Christian and I were always treated exactly the same and I never felt anything other than a much loved daughter, sister, granddaughter and niece. When our mum died when Christian was 10 and I was 6, Dad worked so hard, with the help of our two grandmother’s, a very special auntie, and then Joan, to provide us with a stable, secure and loving family life.

He kept an adoption file of letters and photos from my birth Mother so that when I started asking questions, as he knew I would, it was all there for me to see. And just to show what a remarkable and selfless man he was, when, at the age of 28 and after having had my second baby and curiosity getting the better of me, I asked him how he would feel if I traced my birth mother, he welcomed the idea with open arms as he did my birth mother when they met a couple of months later.

Not many people get to choose their daughters, but my Mum and Dad did and I am eternally grateful to them both

Steve's Speech

Hi, I`m Steve Mossey and I was Mick’s bridge partner for about 14 years. He was a very good player and we had a lot of success at Hertford Bridge Club. We won several competitions at the club and also at other venues. Probably our biggest success was leading our team of 8 to victory in the Eccles Cup in Hemel Hempstead. We once came second in the Heath Cup, at Hertford Heath, out of about 35 teams of 4...and we won £60! Perhaps our biggest disappointment was coming second in the Club Champions pairs in WGC - we could have won but for throwing the wrong card right at the end of the hand. Although we occasionally pointed out each others mistakes we never had a row or took umbrage.
Apart from bridge we also played golf as a pair a couple of times at Knebworth GC against another bridge pair..we won! I was at Knebworth last Tuesday and spoke to the bar tender...she said that Mick was a lovely bloke and very popular.
Mick was a generous man - he offered me good deals on his old cars...I bought two from him and my wife still drives one. He was also very generous in sponsoring my charitable expeditions. He will be greatly missed.

Geoff's Speech

I did not seek to give this short address and when Anna telephoned me I was initially hesitant but quickly realised I was flattered to be asked to pay a tribute to Michael: I always called him Michael.

We first met about 15 years ago by chance at the Golf Club down the road at Knebworth. We teamed up that day and since then Michael, Roy Shepperd, John Allen my wife Jenny and I played variously together twice a week. So that gave ample time for Michael and me to get to know one another. I know that he would have preferred me to have taken the game more seriously and he would also have preferred a more competitive element. But I have seen how golf can somehow get under the skin and I would not budge. I’m sorry Michael. It was no big deal between us and there was no rancour whatever. Christian and Anna – you may be please to hear also that never ever did so much as a penny change hands as a result of our golf.

In the event none of us, except Jenny perhaps, ever improved much at the game.

I quickly learnt that Michael had a certain gravitas about him which I lack. But we formed a friendship: not close, but one of mutual respect and fondness I believe. I learned about Christian and Anna and met Joan his wife and saw first-hand the fearful jolt the loss of her gave him. Tragically he had had some experience of having to cope.

I learnt also of his interest in bridge at which he was able to exercise his competitive bent. Not without success. I would think bridge suited Michael or was it that Michael suited bridge ?

As the years passed and an arthritic hip, a cluster of heart by-passes and in Michael’s case Parkinson’s disease chose us, 18 holes became 9 and mechanised transport was adopted to carry our clubs and sometimes Michael as well. Then absences from the course were not uncommon. But we continued to meet regularly at the club for a natter over coffee. Michael enjoyed the company although he was not naturally a gregarious man.

Roy Shepperd and John Allen and their wives were especially kind to him and entertained him to supper on occasions. Michael keenly took us all out for a meal by way of thanks.

Eventually his health deteriorated more and he felt unable to play golf. He was reluctant to talk much about his condition but throughout our association I found Michael had a dignity, decency, straight-forwardness and innate sense of fair play in all things which singled him out as a loyal and good friend.

But these last two weeks or so I have learnt that it was not only those qualities with which Michael was blessed.

He was also a courageous and special man.

Alick's Speech

Our mother, Else, was born in Denmark. She became an au-pair in Paris where, in the 1920s, she met our father, Fred, who was English. He worked in the Paris branch of the Bank of London and South America.
Got that?
They had two children while they lived in France, Kir, who was two years older, and Mick, born in Denmark in 1932 as the law was that, being born in France required that you serve French national service.
Mick, I am sure, developed his interest in sport from an early age by watching his parents on the tennis court and our father playing cricket and football at the Paris ex-patriots’ club. As a child, born in 1945, I could not accept that I wasn’t there and claimed to have been lurking just around the corner, out of sight, sucking a green lollipop.
My parents told me that the family enjoyed their time in Meudon, a suburb of SW Paris. For instance, Saturday evening meal was often oysters and bread from the corner shop with a bottle of red wine. This being France, the children had a glass of wine with a little water added.
All good things come to an end, of course. In 1940, Herr Hitler decided that he wanted to invade Paris, and so the exodus began. The family’s escape from France is well chronicled in a letter Fred wrote to a friend at the time and which, fortunately, was returned to us.
Mick, his mother and Kir, had left by train on 25 May 1940 and were staying with friends. About two weeks later, when the bank staff were being evacuated, Fred had to borrow a bicycle in order to meet up with them. After two and a half days pedalling, the family was re-united after he had covered some 200 miles.
The four then travelled by train to Bordeaux where they were to be taken back to England. They were with 25 other refugees, in a cattle truck, covering something like 30 miles in 17 hours until a change of train was needed, for which they waited another whole day.
Eventually, in Bordeaux, whilst the Germans were imposing restrictions nationwide, they had to wait 2 hrs at the Consulate for their paperwork whilst the French staff had their lunch! Eventually, some 9 days after Fred left Paris, they were allowed onto a collier on its way to England, along with 800 others, mainly Polish, and arrived in Falmouth 3 days later.
Fred wrote; “The children behaved admirably all the way. In fact they had the time of their lives clambering up and down and around the ship. And, making themselves thoroughly dirty. We found them making friends, talking away, running about, being made a fuss of by everybody as they were the only children on board.”
In England, they settled in North London. For the next four years of the war, Mick was a typical 8 year old boy, going on 12, getting into scrapes and wearing out his clothes, which could not be replaced, only repaired, time and time again – so much so, he told me, that he was known as “Magic Patches”.
In the 1970s, Mick held a quite senior post with Shell – he had an office to himself, with a window and a carpet. The Shell house magazine published a picture of his desk on which were 14 telephones! These were mainly direct lines to the banks where Shell’s money was on deposit as he was responsible for paying the Arabs for the oil Shell bought. At the time, he was, of course, using a typewriter to keep track of what he was doing and we reckoned that the zero wore out every 6 months.
Eventually, when he retired, he was replaced by a computer and a couple of juniors.

Funeral Quotes

"If I can choose between a death of torture and one that is simple and easy, why should I not select the latter?" As I choose the ship in which I sail and the house which I inhabit, so I will choose the death by which I leave my life"
Seneca

"Love doesn't end with dying
Or leave with the last breath
For someone you've loved deeply
Love doesn't end in death"
Anon

Missing Dad

After the funeral, the reception, after The Handley's came back to St. Albans for tea and left, and after the 'wind-down' had begun at home, I spent a few moments on a chore, totally unrelated to the funeral. A minute or two later I looked up to remind myself that I ought to ring Dad and let him know everything went fine.

It was reminescent of the evening Anna and I started phoning around to inform people of Dad's death, we were having trouble finding Dad's bridge partner's home number. He had recently moved but the there was no new number. I had a good idea, "I'll give Dad a call" I thought.

It is a these moments I miss him the most.

The Funeral

It went very well. The weather was okay. We had about 140 people attend, which was tremendous. The service was decidedly no frills and all the better for it. Here is the order of service:

A Ceremony to Celebrate the Life of
Michael Christopher Barnett
18th May 1932 – 27th September 2008

- - - - - - - -
Music: Debussy – Prélude à l’aprés – midi d’un faune
Words of Welcome
Moments of Remembrance
The Tribute:
Alick Barnett
Geoff Utting
Steve Mossey
Christian & Anna
Music: Beethoven – Piano Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, Adagio Cantaile
The Farewell
Music: Bach – Brandenburg Concerto No. 1 in F Major

Over the next few days I will post more from the service.

Mick, Anna and Christian

Mick, Anna and Christian