Positively the end

“Most of us do not want to talk about [drawing up an advance directive]. Is it up to our doctors to bring this up only in a crisis situation? Shouldn’t we be informed about our health care options, even when healthy, and especially when we have a chronic or terminal illness, and to discuss these with our doctors and family?

“My hope is that we can overcome our fears of losing loved ones, and of them losing us. These conversations can be the best gift of love we can provide to those who are close to us.

“My goal is to read my advance directive on my birthday as a celebration of life, of my taking responsibility for myself and not leaving it to others.

“There is no right or wrong answer here. You make your choice, I have made mine.”

Full article here

The race grows sweeter

Posted by Vale

Here on the blog we often rail against society’s thoughtless pursuit of longevity. Rightly so – it is cowardice not kindness that endorses the suffering that medicine – seemingly without reflection or conscience – prolongs.

But it’s important to remind ourselves that it isn’t always so; that old age can bring wisdom and unlooked for joys as well.

In the New York Times recently, in piece called The Race Grows Sweeter Near Its Final Lap, Eve Pell tells the story of the love she found. She writes:

Old love is different. In our 70s and 80s, we had been through enough of life’s ups and downs to know who we were, and we had learned to compromise. We knew something about death because we had seen loved ones die. The finish line was drawing closer. Why not have one last blossoming of the heart?

I was no longer so pretty, but I was not so neurotic either. I had survived loss and mistakes and ill-considered decisions; if this relationship failed, I’d survive that too. And unlike other men I’d been with, Sam was a grown-up, unafraid of intimacy, who joyfully explored what life had to offer. We followed our hearts and gambled, and for a few years we had a bit of heaven on earth.

Not only was I happy during my short years with Sam, I knew I was happy. I had one of the most precious blessings available to human beings — real love. I went for it and found it.

It’s a moving story of love and age and I defy you read to the end without a tear in your eye. Read it here

Why did we delete that blog post?

This morning we received an email which had been forwarded in error by Mr Potts, Customer Relations Manager at The Co-operative Funeralcare, to a bereaved family – not we hasten to add one of the families referred to in the message – who forwarded it to us.  On reading it, we immediately deleted the blog post describing the incident referred to out of respect for the wishes of the families concerned.  We have redacted those parts of the email which indicate the location of the incident and the date of the press story; and those which reveal contact details. 

We thought the email worth publishing for its own sake – because it isn’t often we get an insight into what goes on in the engine room.

 

From: Neil Walker (CLS-Exec) 
Sent: 11 February 2013 09:11
To: Anna Osborne (CLS-Probate Consultants); Sanjeev Chahal (TS) (CLS-Probate Operations)
Cc: Ziad Shukri (TS) (CLS-Legal Advisory); Karen Morgan (CLS-Wills); Jon Potts (Funeralcare); David Collingwood (Funeralcare)
Subject: Incident within Funeralcare

 

 XXXXXXXXXXX

Funeralcare had an incident in the  XXXXXXX    part of the country a few weeks ago.  As you would expect Funeralcare dealt with the matter in a sensitive and appropriate way with the 2 families involved; to the extent that neither family wanted anything to appear in the press.  Unfortunately the press in the local area published a story relating to the matter xxxxxxxxxxxx

In the unlikely event that the probate advisory team get questioned on the matter by a client who has any concerns whatsoever, could you please could you ensure that the client is offered the opportunity to receive a phone call from Co-operative Funeralcare.  Please could you ask your team members to capture name and contact details of the client and pass them onto yourselves as team managers? 

Could I then ask that you pass the client details onto Jon Potts, Customer Relations Manager, Funeralcare.  Please ensure that you follow up any e-mail with a phone call to ensure that Jon or a member of the team has picked up the details?  Jon’s contact details are: 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 

xxxxxxxxxxx9

 

Adios Noninos

Posted by Vale

In my very occasional series (see Song for my father by Horace Silver) here’s another piece written as a tribute to a much loved father. It’s a version of Adios Noninos by the great musician of the tango, Astor Piazzola.

Jennifer Paterson, Francis Bacon and other fallen stars

Posted by Richard Rawlinson in sparklingly shameless name-dropping form – ED

‘Thank goodness for inequality,’ quipped a friend with nonchalant disregard for political correctness as we casually admired inequality’s legacy of beautiful architecture lining the streets of Belgravia this weekend.

The plethora of blue plaques adorning these grand houses gave a degree of substance to this seemingly flippant remark: the display of wealth was arguably a consequence of remarkable people doing remarkable things, whether in politics, medicine, literature, art or any other accomplishment that gave them ‘celebrity’ status, or a place in history.

Sunday strolls in London often conjure up memories of those who have gone before, whether a martyr such as John Southworth, executed at Tyburn (now Marble Arch) or simply plaques noting that a Charles Darwin or a Virginia Wolf ‘lived here’. Even swinging through the revolving doors of Claridges might trigger a passing nod to the ghosts of notable guests, whether a Garbo or a Roosevelt.  

As I get older, my familiar haunts remind me not just of figures from the more distant past but offer up personal recollections of those who have died. With age, we become more nostalgic as well as know more people who have ‘shuffled off this mortal coil’. 

Before she became famous as one of The Two Fat Ladies, Jennifer Patterson and I crossed paths on two fronts: she was cook at The Spectator when I worked there in my 20s; she also lived in a mansion block near Westminster Cathedral that later became my home.

A traditional Catholic, Jennifer rode her motorcycle to Kensington for the Latin Mass at the Brompton Oratory because she disapproved of the Cathedral’s Novus Ordo mass. I attended mass at the Oratory this Sunday, so Jennifer sprung to mind as my friend and I walked to lunch afterwards through streets lined with plaques revealing they were once inhabited by everyone from philanthropist George Peabody to Nancy Mitford.

I recalled Jennifer’s funeral at the Oratory after she died of lung cancer in 1999. By then an unlikely OAP TV star, the ‘Spinster of Westminster’ attracted over 1,000 mourners. The floral tributes around her coffin included a bottle of whisky and her motorcycle helmet, and a speech alluded to her stiff-upper-lip jollity, even on her hospital deathbed. Asked by visiting friends how she was feeling, she’d reply matter-of-factly, ‘I’m dying, dear.’

Jennifer would arrive mid-morning at The Spectator’s Bloomsbury offices, always wearing a smock with a pouch for her Woodbines, helmet in one hand and cigarette in the other, and often still slightly inebriated from last night’s whiskies.

Before settling into the kitchen to prepare a ‘bunny casserole’ for editor Charles Moore’s lunch guests (who could be anyone from Prince Charles to then-Chancellor Nigel Lawson) she would swan around the offices as if she was hosting a cocktail party, offering a welcome distraction from work with her booming voice and madcap small talk.

When she got to my desk, she’d make me blush by grabbing my cheeks with her ringed fingers, then shaking my face while making ‘coo-chi-coo-chi-coo’ noises, as if I was a sweet child or cute puppy.

I was there when Jennifer threw crockery and cutlery out of the kitchen window because the accounts department had left unwashed coffee mugs in ‘her’ sink. Charles sacked her on the spot but reinstated her a few weeks later.

I shared an office with Rory Knight Bruce, another eccentric character and someone I worked with again when he became editor of Londoner’s Diary at the Evening Standard – which leads to other recollections of brushes with dead folk in public consciousness.

Rory, a fanatical huntsman of foxes as well as a newshound, might be considered a bully by today’s right-on standards. He had a bulging contacts book and he’d slam a scrap of paper bearing a well-known person’s number on your desk, and bark at you to call it and ask the most outrageous questions.

I once had to wake up an elderly Quentin Crisp in his New York garret for a quotation about some gay rights legislation. Despite the time zone difference, a reedy voice picked up immediately (‘Crisp here’), and he was charm personified, a lonely, gentle insomniac seemingly content to natter about anything to anyone at any time.

Another diarist was given a trickier challenge. Rory got it into his head that we must contrive an attack on the Turner prize by… Francis Bacon. Amazingly, Rory had the number, not just of Bacon’s agent but of the legendary, chaotic studio of our then greatest living artist. 

‘Call him now,’ hissed Rory to a bemused colleague, ‘and ask him if it is really acceptable that a collection of loathsome art-crowd inverts should use the name of Turner to lend substance to this appalling and valueless charade.’ 

He added for good measure, ‘You must use the phrase ‘loathsome art-crowd inverts’, is that clear?’.

We all watched nervously as the helpless young diarist dialled Bacon’s direct line.

‘Yes?’

‘Is that Mr Francis Bacon?’

YES?’

‘Erm, I’m calling from the Londoner’s Diary page in the Evening Standard…’

‘YEESS?’

‘Could you tell me, Mr Bacon, do you think it objectionable that a crowd of loathsome art-crowd inverts should abuse the name of Turner for their prize?’

There was silence. We all anticipated Bacon to scream, ‘Bugger off’, or worse. But instead he chuckled and simply said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you’ before replacing the receiver.

Bacon died a year later in 1992 and his last disturbing triptych from 1991 hangs at New York’s Museum of Modern Art. Its ghoulish figures blur the divide between life and death. So too do our memories. I wonder if the artist was momentarily disturbed while working on this painting by some timid hack following outlandish orders.

The extraordinariness of ordinary people

“I just love the work. Much of it isn’t anything to do with being at the cutting edge of any ‘new’ movement, but about listening to people, giving them attention and valuing a person’s life that I am told was just ordinary.”

Sue Goodrum, celebrant. 

Close thine eyes

Posted by Vale

I was at a funeral recently when this song by Purcell was played at the committal. We listened to the Treorchy Male Voice Choir, but I couldn’t find their version on You Tube so this is the Kirkintilloch Male Voice Choir instead.

Close thine eyes and sleep secure;
Thy soul is safe, thy body sure;
He that loves thee, He that how to buy a cialis keeps
never slumbers, never sleeps.

The quiet conscience in the breast
Has only peace, has only rest;
The music and the mirth of kings
Are out of tune unless she sings;
Then close thine eyes in peace and sleep secure.

There is a lovely, fuller version too. If you are keen you can listen to it here. Worth it to my mind.

Shrine on you crazy diamond

It’s amazing, really, just how terrifically buttoned-up Brits are when it comes to commemorating their dead. Other cultures offer us examples of observances, duties, rituals and practices which can teach us a thing or two. We really ought to take them up on it. 

One of these is the household shrine. We’ve touched on this before here and here

Up in Scotland, ‘Honest’ Rob Lawrence makes a household shrine (illustrated above). It comes in different sizes, for indoors ones or for outdoors. 

Like it? 

There’s something else Rob does which you’ll like. Let him explain:

“When I make a coffin, I save and label some off-cuts of the timber used. We then offer the family (only if they want it) a shard of the actual timber used in the coffin as a book mark. It becomes a tangible connection that one can hold and play with. One such book mark was given to a wee lad of 7 years ish by his dad because the wee lad so missed his Grandpa. We understand this helped a little.”

Yes, where were the humanists?

We’ve held this over awhile, but the question it asks remains topical. The article is about the aftermath of the Newtown shootings: 

The funerals and burials over the past two weeks have taken place in Catholic, Congregational, Mormon and United Methodist houses of worship, among others. They have been held in Protestant megachurches and in a Jewish cemetery. A black Christian youth group traveled from Alabama to perform “Amazing Grace” at several of the services.

This illustration of religious belief in action, of faith expressed in extremis, an example at once so heart-rending and so affirming, has left behind one prickly question: Where were the humanists?

Well worth reading the whole piece in the New York Times here

The Good Funeral Guide
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