The lost generation

I'm scraping the barrel somewhat here, as I've pretty much run out of decent photos to post. I've been really busy the last few weeks but not the kind of busy that has taken me anywhere photogenic. 

My uncle Colin, one of dad's brothers, died recently. Aged 91 and in frail health, his death wasn't unexpected, but it still feels significant. He was ten years younger than my father and when I was born he was only 17. That means my earliest memories of him are of his playfulness. They say that some of my first words as a toddler were 'Up the Stags', the Stags being the local football team - and guess who taught me to say that?  Another vivid recall is of when I was dressed in my 'nurse's outfit', aged about four I guess, and my uncle was my 'patient'. He groaned and writhed around so realistically that I got scared and thought he really was ill! He was a competent cricketer, playing in the local village team. I remember weekends at my grandma's, the womenfolk making sandwiches for the 'cricket teas' and then going to watch Colin and his younger brother play. He was also a master player of 'the bones' - a folk percussion instrument used in a similar way to playing 'spoons'. He did try to teach me once but with little success. 

It was his funeral in Retford, Nottinghamshire the other day, so of course I attended. The eulogy and all the photos on display reminded family and friends of his great capacity for fun, alongside his caring for others. It is a shock to realise that Colin was the last of my parents' generation, now 'the lost generation'. Now I'm the oldest person in my family! 

I took the train to Retford as it's a long and scary motorway drive from here. I arrived in plenty of time and, as it was a chilly but bright day, I decided I'd walk the two miles to the crematorium, rather than get a taxi. Not an especially pleasant walk as it was on a narrow pavement alongside a fairly busy road, but the sunshine was nice and the landscape different enough from my own locality to be mildly interesting. Retford is a small but very historic market town in the wide, flat, flood plain of the River Idle. It has, tragically, suffered many floods (even quite recently) and fires. In 1528 nearly three quarters of the buildings in the town were destroyed in a fire. In 1916, the local gas works was bombed and blown up spectacularly by a German Zeppelin. It may be a small place but it's had a wild ride over the years!  

The crematorium had a large memorial garden around it, with a small, reed-filled lake providing a quiet spot to sit and contemplate in the gentle, late autumn sunshine.