....a few words from a mate!
A jaunty, limping little figure, a woollen hat and a fag; a son a couple of paces behind, carrying the shopping. A cheery greeting through the kitchen window..... the news and the village gossip. You never quite understood that the glass and the passing traffic meant that I hardly heard a word you said, but a bit of lip-reading was usually enough for me to make a half-sensible reply. Shopping up the village rarely took you less than a couple of hours. There were friends to hail, stories to exchange, news to catch up on.
A visit to my yard, bearing some ancient rusty rustic treasure you had found; a helping hand with a bit of hammering, painting, lifting or pushing; daydreaming an assortment of farming relics back to life. An exhortation to down tools and come for a beer.
On a rally field, at a vintage vehicle event. Pure joy, perched on an implement seat behind the trusty Fordson, or atop the threshing drum (moving warily here, mindful of the time long ago when you lost the best part of two fingers doing this work for real).
The Carnival, the late-night shopping, the fetes and shows in the villages round about. There with a little organ playing the tunes of times gone by, collecting for charity. How many deserving people helped by deserving causes know what they owe you?
How many know of the ever-present strain of sustaining your family, of the pain and sleepless nights coming from a hip replacement gone wrong? And how many would rise above these to do what you have done for others "less fortunate than yourself"?
A man is lucky if he finds one good friend in his life - someone it's good to be with, who needs support from time to time as well as being always ready to give it, who stops him from taking himself too seriously. I can only hope that I came near to being the friend to you that you were to me.
Many a laugh we shared, many a pint of good ale. I will cherish our days in the sun.
©Ron Moore 1998
(At Trevors funeral service, at Kibworth Methodist Church, the church organist played him in but his own small organ bade him farewell).
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© Kibworth & District Chronicle 1998