Sunday of my Life

The familiar road winds back and forth. Not so familiar anymore, as they’ve recently paved it, but the country is still there, around the new asphalt. Rolling hills, largely green after the recent rains; here, a herd of Black Angus cows grazing on fresh grass; there, the yellow-white clouds of sheep, gathered around the edge of a dam, drinking their fill. For me, this will always represent peace. A serene place which was always safe. A place where there were animals, and things to do. A childhood full of adventure to be had.

And always there, there were two people. Two special people, who meant the world to me. My grandparents, who owned the farm. The Farm on the Mountain. Another home. A place that was always there, and that I always had a part of with me, even when I wasn’t there. And they were always there.

It felt strange to go up there this year, for the annual family get-together. Always before the sight of the familiar hills brought a feeling of serenity over me. Peaceful, that’s what it’s always been. Quiet, and peaceful. But this year, each moment that brought us closer to the farm gates made me more and more apprehensive. Something was different, and I knew exactly what it was. One of the people who made the place special for me was gone, never to return. It didn’t make the place any less special, nor did it in any way diminish what the remainder of the pair, my grandmother, brings to the place. But it just felt… strange.

I had a good time, though. I’m never comfortable in crowds. Large gatherings of people always make me nervous, make me feel out of place, and very much like I’m being watched, and judged. But it’s different, with these people. Every year my family gets bigger, and every year the gathering gets bigger. People marry into the family, and children are born. New partners are gained, and introduced, and welcomed. But it’s always comfortable, and always fun. This year was no different. There was a current of sadness through it all. Someone very special to the whole family wasn’t there to share the day with us. He loved nothing quite so much as having his entire extended family in one place, so many people, all talking and laughing and being together. And that’s something which should make these gatherings all the more special for us, I feel. By doing it, we become closer, and we honour his memory.

No one ever really dies, so long they’re still remembered.

On the morning of Tuesday the 5th of September, 2007, Herbert Pickersgill left this life. He was a husband, a father, grandfather and great-grandfather. And he was loved, by his entire family, and all those who knew him.

He was an irascible man. Argumentative and opinionated. You learned, as you came to know him, that there were subjects that you just did not get him started on, because he could talk the birds out of the trees. And somehow, this was part of his charm. It was one of the many, many elements that made him who he was. And prejudiced as he could be on some topics — and everyone, at one time or another, is prejudiced about something — towards his family, and those who sought to join it, he showed nothing but love, and respect, and understanding.

He was a soldier, not only in the times of war in which he fought, but throughout his life. He fought for his family. He raised his many children to respect life, to always give dignity, and never to turn from those who are in need. These principles are part of the guiding flame of my entire family, and are something that I know I intend to pass on, when it’s my time to do so.

If I ever want any kind of confirmation on all of this, all I need to do is look around at my family. Combined, my grandfather and grandmother raised fourteen of the best people I have ever known, including my own mother. If nothing else spoke of their good characters, then this would be enough. They are supportive, kind, considerate, and loving. They instill this in their children, and their children do the same. It is a legacy, one worth having, and one worth keeping. Together, that is what they created. And I cannot think of anything better I could do in his memory than to carry this on.

He will be missed.

I do not know if I am writing this as a memorial, or a tribute, or just to express something on the subject. Right now, I don’t know how I feel. Since I found out, after coming home from a very long day out, I’m not sure how I’ve felt about anything, except numb. I don’t know if this is the mood stabilisers I take doing their job, or if it’s shock, or some combination thereof. I’m hoping it’s shock. I really am. I’d hate to think that, at this time of all times, I’m unable to feel anything. The funeral is next week. We’ll see.