We buried Uncle on Thursday. I’m grateful I was able to be there (being in Sweden wasn’t enough, when the trains went on strike, so GP Cousin ‘sent a car’ for Daughter and me…) to say goodbye.
It was a beautiful service, nicely filled with coincidences. The hymns all turned out to be ones I knew the tunes to, the Odd Fellows turned out in force and Daughter and I got by without poaching rhododendrons outside the chapel.
Eldest Cousin made it with some help from Volvina, and cousin Wolf turned up with minutes to spare. We don’t see nearly enough of each other, which is why Volvina staged a complete change of tables at the meal afterwards, because we wanted to chat.
Tea was found for us foreigners, GP Cousin managed to remember not to use his white tie as a serviette, while all I could think of was Uncle fifty years ago, wearing nothing but two paper napkins. Red ones. It’s easy to forget that kind of thing when people get to 95, but we’ve all been young(er), and a smiley memory is better than tears.
(And this photo is relevant.)