A True Celebration of Life: Harry’s Story

Written by Kim Greenacre, Aura Angel and qualified Civil Celebrant.

Harry died at the age of ninety-three. Survived by his one and only child — a son who was the polar opposite of him in both character and approach to life — Harry had made plans.  Plans that outlined what should happen when his life finally drew to a close. The first part of his plan focused on finances and, although not known for prudence, Harry was determined that his son, James, would not need to carry the financial burden of his funeral. A prepaid cremation plan, taken out after his beloved wife of fifty-one years had passed away, took care of that. The second part of Harry’s plan focused on something that he considered to be just as important — a truly unconventional yet authentic celebration of life.

It wasn’t that Harry didn’t think James capable of arranging a funeral, his concerns were based on his understanding and his acceptance of how totally unalike they were. “James takes after my father —and ‘Pops’ reached the rank of Colonel,” Harry had told me during one of our meetings. Elaborating further Harry said, “I, on the other hand, am more Byron than Kitchener.” I kept that and all of the other things Harry shared with me in mind as I wrote his celebration of life.

Two weeks after Harry’s (unattended) cremation had taken place, I drove north and arrived at the beach car park in Wells-Next-The-Sea, a little after 5am. It was barely light and although James and I had never actually met before, I knew the very upright man reading the tide table by the torch on his mobile was Harry’s son.

Our first exchange was not an easy one. For a high-ranking officer in HM Household Cavalry, a deserted car park in East Anglia was a far cry from the pomp and splendour that he was used to, and his discomfort was evident.  I was relieved when the horsebox arrived a few minutes later and James visibly softened.  Other vehicles, carrying Harry’s friends, neighbours and 2 gorgeously scruffy dogs followed and, after introductions were made, we ascended the steps that lead to the beach as a group.

As we neared the waterline, the first reading, exactly as per Harry’s wishes, was Byron’s Mazeppa’s Ride: verses 9-17. And, although the poem called for a ‘noble steed’, Rook, the horse Harry had rescued in 2015 arrived on cue and immediately became part of this informal, meandering tribute. Again, as per Harry’s instructions, the rider who had ridden Rook around the headland to get to the beach, dismounted and handed James the reins. Somehow, the leather which connected human with horse formed a connection to the past; James unconsciously shed a little more of his military bearing and more of the small boy who learned horsemanship from his Dad was revealed.

For the next hour we strolled along the sea shore.  Every now and again, we paused to read Harry’s favourite poems — each taking turns with Keats, Cummings, Blake and Angelou. Harry had also insisted that a little Cooper Clarke be included, For balance and ridiculousness. We obliged with You Never See A Nipple In The Daily Express and I Wanna Be Yours.

By the time we reached Holkam, the sun had heaved itself well above the horizon and, to allow us to adhere to another of Harry’s wishes, we stopped. I took the urn containing Harry’s ashes from my shoulder bag. “This is where Harry wanted James to scatter his ashes but before that happens, he wanted you to all look back down the beach.”

They did just that, each bringing to mind memories of the Harry they had known and loved as they looked upon his favourite place in the world. Several eyes filled with tears — tears for a father and for a friend – others tears were prompted as we witnessed the footprints we had so recently made in the sand, washed cleanly away by the sea.

Mother Nature’s reminder of how fleeting life is, did not go unnoticed.

After James had poured Harry’s ashes into the water and the receding tide took him gently away, we shared breakfast in the pine forest that runs behind the beach. Buttered Hot Cross Buns were washed down with Thermos coffee (another nod to what Harry loved most in life), and, between mouthfuls, we played the ‘Three Word Game.’  The rules were simple — everyone present had to describe Harry in just 3 words. Superlatives filled the air. Some described the man; heaped praise on the music he’d made and the art he’d created. Harry’s neighbours used their 3 words to thank him for the positive impact he’d had on village life and James, who was still connected to Rook via the reins his dad had so often held, decided to speak for them both.“Magnanimous. Gentle. Intuitive.” After responding to numerous heckles made on Rook’s behalf, James added, “Carrots. Polo-mints. Hay.”

Reminded of the joy Harry had brought to so many lives, we walked slowly back through the forest. Stories of times gone by filled the air until we reached the place that Harry had told me about. A rope swing, that countless children had swooped and laughed on, hung from an ancient tree. I asked everyone to stop, then retrieved a hip-flask filled with ginger wine and a box of seashells from my bag. I handed one shell to each person. Harry had collected the shells himself and carefully engraved the date he’d found each one. The numbers confirmed that Harry’s fascination for shells had spanned more than six decades and represented the years he’d lived and loved on this stretch of the North Norfolk coastline. Shells still in hands, we then toasted this much-loved man with a swig of ginger wine that he’d brewed in his shed. Like Harry, the wine was unusual: warm, sweet and intriguing.

We made our way back to the car park and after Rook, who Harry had ensured would spend the rest of his days loved and cared for by a friend, disappeared back into the horse box, we said our goodbyes. 

James, who was heading back to Horseguards, seemed reluctant to leave despite facing such a lengthy journey. After promises to ‘keep in touch’ were made, he waved to his Dad’s friends as they left. It was time to face life again but before walking towards his own car, James stopped, turned to look at me and said, “Dad never told me what you two had cooked up.” James paused, and then said:

“I know now. What we’ve done this morning was perfect for Dad. He was in every single step. I’ll never forget it and, if anyone ever asks, I’ll tell them that this is how you celebrate a life.”