Made a comment on Steph's blog back in February and it got me thinking. About the four G's. That'll be Gifford, Godfrey, Gwen and Garth. Siblings all and mad as cheese. And, regrettably, all now late. I knew them well. Godfrey featured in a long ago blog entry, lurking in a graveyard by moonlight, doing things illegal. Gifford was my grandfather, a teetotal wine buff. Having tried some of his produce I can understand his aversion to alcohol - it was horrifically bad. Particularly the tea wine. Garth was a headmaster and ex pipe smoker who had a habit of sidling up to the nearest smoker and inhaling deeply. In a scholarly way. And Gwen was given to having conversations with her deceased husband, Frank, at inopportune moments. She once gave me the superb gift of a combined shoehorn/backscratcher. Original thinking, what? I still have it somewhere. And that reminds me of Frank, who carried his own salt cellar with him. Each forkful of food was liberally salted before mastication. Probably what killed him in the end. And he claimed to be descended from Caspar. Lovely chap.
What am I rambling on about? Stories. That's how people live on. In memories and anecdotes, and it's important that you pass these down through your family and friends. A photograph might tell you what these people looked liked but it won't tell you who they were. Are.
End of message.