I'm truly pleased to welcome June to our site today. She is a wonderful real life friend. Our friendship goes back a very long time, and we have many interests in common. One of these is story-telling, and in fact, June still teaches story-telling for adults at the university level.
June knows that story-telling keeps family memories and even whole cultures alive. Today she shares a personal story of a long-ago loss. It's told with love and joy that comes from truly special times with a loved one. |
June begins her story
And of course, the key figure is always my Dad.
Beloved memories
Short of stature with a shock of thick white hair, a cheerful ruddy face and twinkling, hazel eyes, we shared many times together which enabled me to really be me. Living in a small market town in the heart of England and having no brothers or sisters, Dad and I would go walking down the fields that were at the top of our street.
Here we would traverse pathways alongside golden wheat fields which sported red poppies in late summer. Clambering over the rickety wooden stile, we would pause to look at the expansive view of rolling hills and verdant green pastures. He'd point to the far distant horizon and tell me about the ancient battle of Naseby and where the country footpaths would lead us that were explored long ago by the Romans. My imagination was fired up by his story-telling. |
Learning story-telling from Dad
“It’s okay Duck, they won’t hurt yer. Thems more 'frit of us.”
Reaching the hedgerows the subtle scent of wild roses would greet us along with the many songs of birds. Dad recognized which birds were making the calls and we would peer carefully into bushes to see if we could spot any nests
The ducks, the dance, the delight
As we talked, or rather he talked and I listened, he passed on life’s lessons.
“Always make sure folk respect yer and try to be as honest as you can, although I know with yer Ma, it’s almost impossible.”
I knew what he was referring to. I felt so glad we were together alone, just he and I...
“You know yer a bright one,” he continued, “and don’t let anyone tell you that yer not.”
I still have to keep remembering his words.
The stories I loved
So now, as I reflect back, I can recall vividly the images, the sounds and the scents of our country walks, " …down the fields and by the cut,” and all was beautiful--Dad and I in nature, sharing our heritage.
Now I remember them
Those are the words on my parents’ gravestone, in the heart of the Warwickshire countryside.
They are still my mantra.