Faulty windows - with a small 'w' for once

This morning I had to take the car to N.G. Motors in Splott to get the front passenger side window fixed. On Saturday, on the way to Penarth after the funeral, I opened it and found the electric winder had stopped working, leaving the window open a couple of inches. Nothing we tried could persuade it to shut. Annoying, as we've had rain twice since then, and needed to drape a protective bin bag over the seat to prevent it getting wet. The same thing happened with the driver's side window about six months ago. Coincidence or a design fault? Getting it fixed is urgent, arranging a slot for this at short notice isn't easy. As we don't use the car that much, and have nothing planned for this week that calls for car use, it's fine to drive it there and leave it with them to fix when they find they have time.

I walked the mile and a half back to Canton Bridge stop and caught a bus the rest of the way. It gave me an hour and a half free before being collected to go to the Vale Crem, where we were on Saturday to take today's funeral. There was a congregation of thirty, about average for a nonogenarian with just a couple of offspring and their families.

Two grand daughters and spouses were the chief mourners, arriving from Bristol. Unfortunately, they mistook the place of rendezvous with the funeral cortege. Instead Pidgeon's Funeral Home in Canton, they drove to the Care Home in Barry where Gran lived for a few years until her death. They weren't too far away from the crem, perhaps ten minutes or so, when this was conveyed to them. They arrived three minutes after the appointed hour instead of ten minutes before. As the tributes were fairly lengthy, the service was bound to be a tight fit for the slot assigned. We finished just three minutes late, and the congregation left and dispersing without delaying the next 'late' arrival.

I was home by two. Clare was out, so I cooked lunch, and had a siesta, then went for a walk before supper, and watched telly before turning in early, tired after a busy day.

  

Farewell Russell

We had an early start this morning to be sure to arrive at the Cardiff and Glamorgan Crematorium for our dear friend Russell's funeral. Unusually for a man of 94,  two hundred people came to pay their respects in a service lasting sixty five minutes, over-running the double slot reserved., a measure of how well and widely known he was. Fortunately it was the only event in the chapel that morning, and place was locked just after the congregation dispersed. 

This is the first time I have been to the funeral of an Anthroposophist, led by a priest of the Christian Community, a group established by followers of Rudolf Steiner, guided by his writing. Her apparel was after the manner of an early 20th century German Protestant cleric in the era when the group was founded. The wicker coffin was sprinkled with water and enveloped by incense. More Catholic than Protestant. The liturgical content other than the ritual, I found original thoughtful, and poetic. Instead of classic forms of prayer addressed to God, meditative reflections were offered containing similar content, biddings reflecting the intention and understanding of what it means to entrust someone to God in an invitation to personal prayer. It's a similar approach to what I've heard from other reformed pastors at funerals but express in more lyrical and creative way. Anthroposophists are confident of the life beyond this world in a way historic European Protestants are not, since the reformation banned prayer for the dead to combat the monetisation of ancient prayer tradition by mediaeval Catholicism.

The priest told Russell's life story, and several others gave tributes or read poems. Here the element of appreciation and gratitude for a life well lived was expressed by different voices. Also read out was a personal testimony he'd written a couple of months before his death, a beautiful piece of prose poetry reflecting on his personal spiritual journey. A few months ago, we met for a chat and he shared this with me, so I was already acquainted with it. It seems he left copies of it in several places around the house, rather than just leaving it with essential documents, to ensure it wasn't missed. He'd been conscious of his impending morality for several years, and prepared well for his demise to make things easy for his wife Jacquie. This was his apologia pro vita sua, and expressed confidence in the spiritual adventure lying ahead of him in life beyond.

As a young man with an enquiring mind, he had encountered Steiner's teaching on experiencing life's  spiritual dimensions. He delighted in exploring these in church discussion groups and outside, but in the end, the elders of Congregational Church he attended declared his activity was unorthodox, and pushed him out, so his educative work went public into community centres and a home group which has continued meeting over the forty years since then. It's always been open, never exclusive, and hundreds of people have passed through it in their explorations and enquiries about the meaning and purpose of life ever since.

We often talked about his past, particularly his church's rejection of his unique kind of lay ministry, ahead  of its time in giving a central place to dialogue and enquiry about what Tillich called 'Ultimate Reality'. He never joined another church, nor did he condemn those who opposed him. He expressed bewilderment that they couldn't see his approach was consistent with a Gospel approach to religious faith and was never bitter. He realised 'all things work together for good to those who love God', and as a natural leader confident and comfortable with making progress by asking the right questions of others, he embodied the classic notion of priesthood of all believers in an admirable way. I certainly will miss our conversations.

The congregation retired to Penarth Pier Pavilion for a reception and buffet after the service. This was followed by the gathering forming one big circle and telling stories about what Russell had meant to their lives. I didn't have energy to sit still and listen for another hour, so I made my excuses and left for home, have acquired a lift with Farah a young Muslim woman who knew Russell through the Fountain School which all three attended in their early years before moving on to Llandaff Cathedral School. We had an interesting conversation on the way back - she lives quite near us - so we agreed we'd meet up en famille, to pursue our shared interest in the life of faith some time after Eid ul Fitr.

Inspector Montalbano returned to BBC Four in the evening, another watchable mystery, with humour, pathos and tragedy all mixed in. Apparently this episode aroused resentment towards author Andrea Camilleri from right wing populists in Italy, as it opens with scenes of the local police having to deal with processing rescued immigrants, involving two people traffickers in an on board rape case. In the first fifteen minutes drama the audience is exposed to the tragedy of some who are refugees and not economic migrants. Thoughtfully presented.

There was however a possible flaw later on in the story, when the death of a man in a love triangle is interpreted as suicide when it was murder. He is found drowned after a marital quarrel with his hands tied together - tying your own hands is difficult though not impossible, just implausible if the victim was drugged. It's possible the Examining Magistrate didn't think an autopsy necessary however, and presumed unjustifiably the death wasn't suspicious. It is possible that legal process in the north Italian province of Udine a decade ago in the story was so lax? It depends on context. The audience is left bewildered. If it's been published as a book, I'd like to read this story to see if a relevant clue or two wasn't omitted by the movie makers.

Coping with ups and downs

We celebrated Candlemass a day late at St Catherine's yesterday morning, with the blessing of candles. I walked straight to St David's hospital for a wound dressing change afterwards, then a made a quick trip to the shops before returning home for lunch.

After a siesta, we walked out on Llandaff Fields together before Clare turned back to get ready for a visit to Capel Salem for an evening service in Welsh with our friend Diana. I continued walking around Pontcanna Fields for another hour, enjoying the sunset birdsong, and still evening air, milder than the last few days.

After three fairly quiet days of wound comfort, I had a distressful set-back today, just when I needed it least, having to officiate at a big funeral in St John's, mid-morning, and had to cope with pain and discomfort from the start. It came in a seemingly random way. Clare thought it was nervousness on my part but that kind of physical distress coming unexpectedly triggers the familiar shock reaction, when there's impact on the vagus nerve. It's happened far less over the past six weeks, but it's still very disruptive. It made methodical preparation to leave for church rather difficult, but I was outside the house waiting to be picked up, only half an hour early - I'd entered a leaving time in my diary as if I was walking to St John's, not being collected. By the time chauffeur Paul arrived, my pulse rate was back to normal and the sense of panic was receding.

After that, everything proceeded in order, as planned. The church was full, and I had enough energy to guide people through the service in the best way possible, despite ongoing wound discomfort and pain. The funeral concluded at the Vale Crematorium. It's eighteen months since I was there last to attend Auntie Ivy's humanist funeral, and almost three years since I last officiated there.

Rather go on the busy main road to Barry, Paul took an old country road beyond Caerau to reach the crematorium, and on the return trip used a different one via Dinas Powys, rather than queue in traffic. It's no faster, as country lanes make for slow driving but it's much more pleasant. Paul used to work as a recovery truck driver covering South East Wales, so he knows the region's roads in detail, and has many stories to tell about situations he encountered in the course of work. He is one of Pidgeon's long standing employees and quite a character. Like the rest of them, he's utterly reliable.

In the afternoon, I went to the bank, then across to the river, and came back along the Taff Trail, as the sun was setting, walking for over an hour, needing to exercise despite the wound not yet calming down. I spent the evening half watching a crimmie on TV, while relentlessly doing language drills on DuoLingo to distract me from the pain and discomfort.

I can still say honestly that I'm having more good days than bad ones at the moment. I just hope the balance stays like this until the operation.

Marking the passing of a generation

Today Auntie Ivy's funeral took place at Cardiff and Vale Crematorium outside Barry. I was relieved to have nothing else in my diary, as it meant I could go to the Funeral home down in the town to take some flowers and pay my last respects to her beforehand. The service was conducted by a Humanist celebrant, as Ivy never went to church and declared herself an atheist, even though both her husbands were churchgoers, and she brought her children up to attend church. Her son Alan, accompanied by four of his cousins Ros, Dianne, Lindsay and me, led mourners into the chapel, followed by the relatives of her second husband Bill and friends. About thirty of us altogether.  

Ivy was an intelligent, capable, independent minded woman. Recounting her life story took about half the service time. It was both interesting and informative. It was delightful to hear about the way she kept young in spirit, mentally and physically active until her last few years. Always a ballroom dancing enthusiast, she started tap dancing classes in her late eighties. It was a salutary reminder to me to work at overcoming the problems I've had recently and keep up a regular regime of physical activity, and not be discouraged.

After the service, there was a reception with an amazing finger buffet held at Mr Villa's Fish and Chip restaurant and Oyster Bar. The style of the place is plain simple old fashioned sit down chippie with blue and white chequered tablecloths with salt 'n vinegar pots on the table. It's actually a sophisticated sea food restaurant, serving a wonderful variety of locally sourced fish and meat products from South Wales. It's a real foodie's delight and already popular with locals since it launched a year ago in its current form. I seem to recall there was always a seafront cafe in this locality, but now it's reaching out to a wider range of customers with its new offer.

The cousins ate together and talked for an hour, such a rarity to spend any time together nowadays. Then I took Dianne to Cardiff Central station for her train to London. With all but Auntie Mary, in her nineties, of our parents generation still alive, times of family gathering get fewer and further between. The older we get the less mobile we get, as well as living further and further apart from South Wales where most of us grew up. How spread out we are! A couple in London, a couple in Berkshire, a couple in South Wales, one in North Wales, one in the West of Scotland, one in Cambridge, one in Warwickshire, one in Somerset, one in Hong Kong, one in the South of France. It gives the notion of 'extended family' a meaning it didn't carry in quite the same way a century ago.

All this is thanks to life decisions made by our parents half a century or longer ago. So many different stories interacting. So much we don't know, as well as know about each other. Life is never long enough to find out everything about, and no family tree however expertly traced can do more than convey an outline. Only Ros still lives in the Rhymney Valley a mile or so from where half the cousins were born and bred. With Ivy's passing, the default territorial link of the extended Kimber clan to South Wales is just about broken.