Ted The Shed, Chapter 34 (Final) - A Natural Memorial

Dad's voice is with me at all times, especially at his funeral, where he complains about the celebrant and some of the guests. We attend the Care Home Christmas party even though he isn't there any longer and although I am initially unsure what to do for his memorial, inspiration soon strikes.

Trigger warning: this episode deals with a funeral.

Don't forget to check out the playlist of Ted the Shed, regularly updated.

For more gentle humor, try The Wind In The Willows by Kenneth Grahame, over on Premium.

Transcript

Hello,

It's Mandy here.

Thanks so much for joining me tonight and we've reached the final chapter of Ted the Shed,

My memoir about my dad and his allotment.

If you've listened all the way along,

I'd like to thank you from the bottom of my heart because it's a special book for me to read on Insight Timer,

This one as you can imagine,

And I'm so grateful for all the kind words and messages I've received while I've been reading it to you.

So we've reached the end of the year in 2019 and this chapter is called R.

I.

P.

Dad.

Before I start reading,

Please go ahead and make yourself really comfortable.

Settle down into your chair or your bed.

Relax your hands.

Soften your shoulders and loosen your jaw.

That's great.

So if you're ready,

Then I shall begin.

Dad's voice is present to me throughout his funeral.

It's a tiny affair,

But the important people come.

My two cousins and their wives drive a long way to get to the little chapel at the Undertaker's,

Halfway between our house and the allotment,

As do some very dear family friends.

I think how pleased Dad would be to see them.

Two care home staff and four good friends of Mr.

M.

S.

's and mine come too.

What are that lot doing here?

Comments Dad in my head.

Come for the free booze,

No doubt.

We hold the funeral tea at our house where Dog M.

S.

Joins us.

Talk turns to the celebrant.

We all agree she did a great job and some of us were struck by her warmth and experience.

My female friends query,

However,

Her slit skirt,

Bare legs and ankle chain,

Especially in winter.

She must be having an affair with the funeral director,

Says one.

To be honest,

I hadn't noticed what she was wearing,

Worrying throughout the funeral about whether I'd ordered enough vegetarian sandwiches.

But now I say that if Dad had been present in a less inert form,

He would have called her a brassy blonde.

The term has sprung so quickly to mind that I wonder if it's now actually my term,

Not his.

In our right minds,

My friends and I would try not to talk about another woman in such terms.

But now we laugh our heads off.

Speaking of Dad's inert form,

During the service,

I was relieved that the coffin was closed.

I'd had Dad embalmed,

Thinking my cousins might want to see him before the funeral.

I'm glad they didn't.

When I visited him at the undertaker's,

His face covered in a creepy white lace veil looked so ancient and mummified that I hardly recognized it.

Other dead relatives I'd seen in the past had looked plumped up,

Better than they had for years.

But I had to spend my 10 minutes in the chapel of rest focusing on his hands,

Hands that had done so much over his long lifetime,

Brown and freckled and still very much Dad.

Home in a state of shock,

I asked Mr.

MS if he'd go and take a look.

Of course,

He said.

I mean,

I'm used to dead bodies from when I worked as a health care assistant in London.

He came back green about the gills.

I see what you mean.

I think I offended the funeral director.

I blurted out that I'd never seen anyone looking so dead.

I mean,

They've made him look like Ray Reardon.

There is a weekend between Dad's funeral and his cremation.

Even though it's cold and wet and there's nothing much to do on the allotment,

I spend most of it there,

Clearing brown stuff wet and dry from the ground and tidying inside the purple shed.

It's full of memories.

A stubby yellow pencil,

Sharpened with a knife,

Lodged in a specially drilled hole in a shelf.

A rake made by hammering four inch nails into a piece of wood and attaching it to a broomstick with little wooden struts.

A white tub of something brown and sticky,

Saved from around 1979.

A fork and trowel set,

So cheap as to be unusable.

Assorted screws and nails stored in the bottom half of a cut-off Tesco's orange juice bottle.

On Sunday afternoon,

I close the door on these mementos,

But only temporarily.

I know they will continue to bring Dad back to me more than anything else.

The cremation is private,

Attended only by Mr.

MS and me.

I have made a new dress to wear and managed to focus less on the catering arrangements and more on Dad,

Though I'm still slightly worried about the music I've chosen,

Which contains some swearing in the lyrics.

The funeral director,

Smart in his reassuring uniform of death and weddings,

Draws my attention to it beforehand.

You do realise that the music you've chosen contains profanities?

Yes,

I say.

Does that matter?

Is it going to offend anyone?

He holds up his hand to reassure me.

It won't offend me,

I just wanted to make sure you knew.

Well of course I know,

I nearly snap.

Do you take me for a complete idiot?

Then I realise it's Dad talking again,

Not me.

It's fine,

I say.

But while Mr.

MS and I are sitting in the crematorium chapel with the coffin,

Waiting for it to disappear on its runners behind the red velvet curtain,

It never does.

When asked later,

The funeral director says that isn't how things are done in Yorkshire,

I find myself waiting tensely for the offending lyric and worrying that I'm committing a breach of public decency.

There's always some daft detail lying in wait to take one's attention away from the matter in hand,

It seems.

I think again of the celebrants' bare legs,

Slit skirt and ankle chain,

Another distraction and draw comfort from them.

We are living in the 21st century now,

I tell myself.

Perhaps these days anything goes and perhaps sometimes that's a good thing.

In early December we attend the Christmas party at the care home.

I sit on the floor while the raffle prizes are awarded and carer Diane,

Who I've come to love and or miss terribly,

Tops my glass up continually with red wine.

It is strange to be there without Dad,

Of course.

It is also profoundly relaxing.

The next day I turn to the task of his memorial,

Something we never sorted out while he was alive.

It wasn't because we didn't try.

One day over coffee in his flat and well before his health declined,

He said,

When they ring you up and tell you the old man is gone,

Don't cry,

I'll be all right.

This made me cry instantly,

Of course,

But he ignored my tears,

Turning his attention to an unusually detailed unwrapping of his Jacob's Orange Club biscuit.

You're not frightened of death then,

Dad,

I managed.

Not at all,

He said.

It was a good thing to hear.

A little later I asked,

And when the time comes,

Would you like to be buried with Mum?

Mum's ashes are in a family grave in Gloucester that also contains her parents,

Brother and sister.

Dad shrugged,

Not especially.

Perhaps he found it inappropriate to barge in on a family grave that wasn't his.

He didn't know or had forgotten where his own family of origin was buried.

How about a headstone in the cemetery here,

I asked.

He frowned,

What if it gets defaced?

Hmm,

A commemorative bench?

There are many of these in our small town,

But the one near Dad's flat is favoured by youths.

I'm not paying for a bunch of yobbos to sit about drinking lager,

He said.

When I relayed this to Mr MS later,

He was surprised.

I don't know why,

I think it would be quite fitting.

We shelved the question for the time being.

Of course,

It ended up getting shelved permanently,

And now suddenly Dad is dead and there's no plan.

But at least I know he had no strong wishes.

I talk to my cousins and we decide to take Dad's ashes to Cheltenham,

Where Dad was born and lived as a young man.

We commission a plaque commemorating his mum,

Dad and brother too,

And get it installed at a natural memorial site with views.

Then COVID-19 arrives and our plan to meet and scatter the ashes in spring 2020 is indefinitely postponed.

But before that,

I have an idea.

Six memorial trees stand on one side of our local cemetery,

Separated from our allotment only by the local sewage works and 10,

000 rabbits.

I ring the council to ask if there is room for a seventh.

I'm prepared to be told there isn't,

Or that they don't approve of my choice of tree,

An aspen that will one day reach an enormous height and dwarf the six ornamental rowans and cherries.

Even if they do agree,

I'm expecting it to be expensive,

Going by the eye-watering cost of buying even a tiny plot to bury ashes.

But I'm put straight through to a lovely gardener who lets me talk about Dad,

Then says that if I buy the aspen,

He'll help me plant it.

He will let me put up a memorial plaque too.

They're not allowed,

Strictly speaking,

But we tend to turn a blind eye.

That's fantastic,

I say.

How much will it cost?

Oh,

It's free of charge,

Love.

We think of it as beautifying a public space.

This is like being in the 1970s again,

I think,

But in a good way,

When organizations didn't try to extract money from you,

Left,

Right and center.

I thank him profusely.

I may be slightly teary.

The aspen sapling proves difficult to find.

I visit the wintry backfields of several garden centers,

Poking around in sodden grass to try and identify leafless trees with no labels.

There seems nothing online either.

Then I remember a tree nursery an hour away,

Where,

During my stint of attending courses,

I learned how to graft an apple tree.

I ring.

They have aspens.

Mr.

MS and I go to pick one up.

The tree is a beauty,

But three foot taller than they said on the phone.

Mr.

MS and a bearded lad wrestle it this way and that,

But it won't fit in the camper van.

Sorry about that,

Says the lad.

We'll have to deliver 45 pounds to your area.

I wince and they try once again,

Unsuccessfully.

Never mind,

I say.

At least we've seen the tree.

At least I can pay for it now.

But their card machine isn't working,

So I'm advised to pay on delivery.

However,

When the tree is delivered a week later,

The driver has no way to take payment.

It's best if you ring him,

Love.

Put it on the plastic.

Before doing that,

I arm myself with the tree and a four foot stake and meet the gardener at the cemetery.

As suspected,

He's my age,

About 21,

And wears similar shabby gardening garb.

We could be twins.

We pick a good spot for the tree.

I feel like a lightweight watching him dig into the hard winter ground,

But he says it's good exercise now that he no longer has to dig graves by hand.

We talk trees.

He tells me the region's rarest and most majestic trees are located in a park about 10 miles away.

We both know this park as a no-go zone with drug dealing at all hours.

I wonder if I have the courage to go.

I imagine standing with a friend in our gardening hats,

Peering at leaves and bark and making notes while groups of hooded youths exchange small packages.

Job done,

The gardener and I shake hands.

Once again,

I thank him profusely and maybe slightly teary.

I install my plaque,

Which is plastic,

But nevertheless looks jolly good.

Not many walk by this spot,

He says,

As a parting shot,

But some do,

And one or two will notice that a new tree's gone in and appreciate it.

Back home,

I ring the nursery to pay for the tree.

Hello,

Love,

Says the man at the other end.

Yes,

I remember,

The aspen.

I'm sure you've paid for that.

I'm sure I haven't,

I say.

I remember you paying,

He says.

Perhaps you remember me trying to pay.

Your card machine was broken.

Tell you what,

Love,

I'll check the books when I have a minute.

If you owe me,

I'll call you back.

How does that sound?

That sounds good,

I say.

Of course,

The call never comes,

And if there was ever anything guaranteed to please Dad more than getting a beautiful tree planted in his name,

A stone's throw from the allotment,

And for nothing,

I'd like to know what it is.

The end.

Reviews

I woke at 1:30 am. I could not sleep. I listened to your story. Lovely. I think I can go back to bed now. Good night and thank you.

I really enjoyed listening to your memoir about your lovely dad. He so reminded me of my dad who was also a ‘make do and mend’ Man. He also made many things out of wood, loved making and fixing many things and had an allotment. His coffin was adorned with vegetables!
I remember re- felting his shed roof when he was too ill near the end of his life. He sat in the chair watching me, unable to move hardly, while I tried to make it look like I’d done a great job from a distance. The actual roof was rotten and needed replacing but we didn’t need to tell him that and somehow managed to get nails in to make it look the part!
Thank you for bringing back many memories. Rose.

I have listened to the end a few times, “What A Winderful World” by Louis Armstrong keeps coming into my mind. The 1 and only “Ted” , Mr MS, dog MS and “author “ Mandy thank you with my whole ❤️, you afforded me to see a different “ wonderful world”. Hugs

This has been a wonderful journey getting to know you and your Dad…Mr MS and Dog MS .
Truly a touching, humorous, and heartfelt memoir.
This last chapter so resonated with me, especially each time Ted’s phrases and comments came to your mind. Since my husband’s death three years ago I’m always pleasantly surprised and amused to find myself thinking or even saying aloud things he would say about a situation..especially, like Ted, the more outrageous comments.
Thank you Mandy for the gift of this glimpse into your life and your relationship with your dad.
I’ll be ordering the book to treasure on my shelf.
See you back here on Insight Timer.
Warmly,
Pamela in New York City

Mandy, there isn’t anything I can write here that will truly cover how special I think this series has been. I have LOVED each and every episode. I have loved being welcomed into Ted the Sheds world, I have loved your humorous observations and honest telling of allotment life and I have loved relistening to each chapter as I was for the next. Thankyou for sharing this with us. I am now looking forward to reading the book and enjoying the illustrations that go with it. You’re my favourite Insight Timer! Xx

Thank you so much for this very special reading. It had meant a lot to hear about your relationship with your dad. I have learned a lot from you about how to deal with an old guy set in his ways - with love and humor.

Thank You Mandy for the courage to share your closing chapter. I thought the same about my Dad’s hands when he passed.
That’s special about the tree. ❤️

Thank you for sharing your story about your dad. I looked forward to each chapter.

Absolutely brilliant final chapter, Mandy. The aspen relay made my eyes leak, in a good way. Indeed, Dad would be pleased with how that all came about! I’ve so enjoyed this entire journey, and thank you for sharing with us. You “done good.” 🙏❤️PS, I love seeing that you’re visiting the thriving, dancing aspen. ❤️

Thank you Mandy! I really appreciate your reading Ted the Shed! I loved the ending with the story about the aspen. 🌳❤️🙏

Thank you for this final chapter. I hope your tree is thriving and brings you peace, joy and contentment when you visit, and sit under or gaze at from the allotment.
I’ve really loved each chapter, and I feel getting to know you, your Dad & Mr MS. I’ve laughed at 2am or shed tears, both fully understanding this aging journey with your Dad. It’s also had an impact on my patience, which had been wavering somewhat in my own situation- so again thank you. It’s been very special following your life’s story with your Dad.

Thank yo so much for sharing this story. I grew to love both you and your dad. 💕 What a beautiful way to memorialize him! Please share more of your stories with us.

absolutely hung on every chapter! Thank you so much for sharing 🫶

Awww Mandy! 🥲 Such a touching, delightful story! I’m sorry it’s over. 😢
But I am looking forward to your next book! 🙏🏻😊❤️

Beautifully written and beautifully read from start to finish. I'm sure you're right about how pleased Ted would be by his free aspen, but this book is the ultimate memorial. I loved every chapter, laughed more than I cried, and can't thank you enough for sharing your dad with us here. ❤️