Eulogy for Day

16 March 1914 - 16 July 2007

Day --

You always liked us to call you Day rather than Doris, and many of us only know you as Day --

On those few occasions you wanted to talk of serious matters, we used to say, partly in jest, that you would outlive us all.

But this was not to be.

And so a long and richly varied life has drawn to a close and we are here to say our farewells.

First the formalities.

Occupation. Pause. "Writer" I said, the best word to sum up the diversity of your activities.

Retired, question mark. Another pause. "Yes - but only just!" Even as recently as 5 years ago you were sending letters to magazines, being published, and being paid.

"Dear Editor, I am 88 and I cannot understand why it is impossible to ..." Often the theme reflected your ability to see through What Is, and imagine What Might Be, What Could Be and perhaps What Should be. A quality much needed in these times and perhaps at any time.

Writing was your life and for years you have inspired many of us, been inspired, and exchanged the secrets of the writer's craft.

Professionally for many years as coach for the London School of Journalism, or informally at the Writer's Group and among your friends many of whom are gathered here.

I could also have said "WORDSMITH" though you might shudder at this modern coinage. For your hobbies were also connected with words, you were a keen crossword puzzle solver and we've had many a game of Scrabble going on into the night.

And as reader you were among the best. The library would bring a bundle of books every few weeks and in no time you'd finished them.

As collector of books - well, anyone who has visited you remembers the books from floor to ceiling in several rooms. As you always said, you would never part with them.

Place of birth. Evenwood (Bishop Auckland). Travelling was your way of life from earliest years and you moved to Gateshead, then to Billingham where you completed your formal education at Stockton Secondary School and returned there to work as secretary.

Then to London where you began a career in a large department store. But that was never your style. Just to type a page of a report, for someone else to type the next page - you liked to have the whole story from beginning to end. The assembly line was not for you.

For 2 weeks you stuck it out, then one lunch break you walked out never to return. To escape the war you fled to Bath then Bristol, but the hostilities followed you and you lost all your possessions in a nighttime raid. Another book collection destroyed, but you could remember every volume!

Hastily you returned to our part of the world, Darlington, Billingham, then Middlesbrough where you remained. Travel was often to France, your great enthusiasm. French Cooking, the French way of life, everything French.

You did not form a wide circle of friends, but those who were your friends were friends for life. They valued your sincerity, honesty and unwillingness to toe the line. When asked for your opinion about personal matters you would answer from the depth of your heart, based on your profound life experience - the answer may hurt sometimes but afterwards we would discover you were right all the time.

We are not diminished by your absence, but empowered by the wisdom you have left us after a long and richly enjoyed life.

We are not bowed in grief but transformed by your memory which has shed its light on all our lives and shall give us a new optimism to continue on our own paths. Thank you Day.

------
[before the reading] Another of your interests was the theatre, not acting but behind the scenes, that work which rarely gained the benefit of an applause.

In your youth you discovered Shakespeare and devoured the complete works, and we shall end with this excerpt from his play Cymbeline.

 Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
 Nor the furious winter's rages;
 Thou thy worldly task hast done,
 Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
 Golden lads and girls all must,
 As chimney-sweepers come to dust.

 Fear no more the frown o' the great;
 Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
 Care no more to clothe and eat;
 To thee the reed is as the oak:
 The sceptre, learning, physic, must
 All follow this, and come to dust.

 Fear no more the lightning-flash,
 Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
 Fear not slander, censure rash;
 Thou hast finished joy and moan;
 All lovers young, all lovers must
 Consign to thee, and come to dust.

 No exorciser harm thee!
 Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
 Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
 Nothing ill come near thee!
 Quiet consummation have;
 And renowned be thy grave!

28 July 2007

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