My wonderful, brave mom, Gillian Sharratt, passed away on 16 June 2023.
Along with my two elder brothers, I read a short eulogy at her funeral at Gornal Wood Crematorium on 14 July 2023.
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Thinking about Mom over these last few weeks, and sifting through photographs and mementos of her life, has felt like attempting to put in place the final pieces of a particularly intriguing jigsaw.
When someone you love dies, memories of them come flooding in. With Mom, there are so many – she was always present, always engaged, from childhood through to adulthood and starting a family of my own.
A lot of my memories seem to revolve around food, from tuna salad sandwiches on Booby’s Bay in Cornwall to home-made lemon meringue pie from Mom’s big black 1950s Good Housekeeping cook book. Making great food was one of the many ways Mom showed us her love, and she was always buying recipe books. When both myself and Rob stopped eating meat in our teens, Mom responded by going on a vegetarian cookery course. We were very happy guinea pigs as she regaled the family with her latest (mostly delicious) creations. When we both went vegan a few years later, Mom was again up for the challenge.
Food also played an important part in how Mom showed her love to my own two boys, Oscar and Henry. Before we visited from Glasgow she would always ask what they would like to eat, whether I thought they would enjoy a particular dish she was thinking of making. Once served, she would fret and fuss about whether it was nice, which of course it always was. Her tofu and cheddar cheese burgers are still a regular on our own family dinnertime menu.
Mom was, I think, someone in love with the possibilities of life – in love with the interactions and experiences and knowledge it brought. She was always inquisitive, always up for learning new things, and full of surprises right to the end. One of the things I discovered when sorting through photographs from her life were some lovely watercolours and the certificates that showed mom had successfully completed a painting course to learn the skill. She would have been in her late 70s when she was doing it.
Mom always joked that she wished I’d been a daughter, because in the Sharratt family she was the lone female – “Even the cat’s male,” she would say. If she had had a girl, Mom would have been an exemplary role model. In the man’s world of both home life and society in general she never allowed herself to be defined only as a wife, as a mother, as a grandmother, as much as she was proud to be all those things. She was a strong, determined, intelligent, unrepeatable individual. She was Gill until the end.
My lovely dad, James Sharratt, passed away on 19 September 2022.
Along with my two elder brothers, I read a short eulogy at his funeral at Gornal Wood Crematorium on 14 October 2022.
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When I think of Dad – when I think of Jim – I think of a steady pair of hands, a warm hug of support. A reliable, unwavering presence in my life.
Dad wasn’t showy, he didn’t go in for big gestures, grand statements – or at least if he did, he never said.
In fact in many ways, it’s what he didn’t say that made me love him so much.
He supported and guided by example. He didn’t lecture.
As his son, I’ve always felt like his only expectation of me was to be my own person, to follow my own path. And to work hard – like he did – of course.
Most of the things that stay with me about Dad perhaps seemed small at the time, but their significance has grown over the years.
I realise now that he instilled in me an awareness and love of nature, an openness to people and life’s possibilities; an appreciation, too, of the joys of homegrown fruit and veg – I treasure the memories of our phone conversations about broad beans, rhubarb and the height of our respective sunflowers. Dad’s always seemed to be taller. Something to do with the application of horse manure, apparently.
There are lots of memories of Dad that have been swirling around in my mind over the last few months, but the one I keep going back to is perhaps one of my earliest.
As a very young child, I used to sleep walk. On one occasion, in the middle of the night, I climbed out of a downstairs window and made my way to a neighbour’s house.
Of course I don’t remember that bit, but I do vividly recall the moment I woke up, standing on the pavement in my pyjamas as Dad, bare chested – in those days, he never wore pyjama tops – ran towards me and then wrapped those warm, loving arms around his confused and startled son.
In later years, it’s been a privilege and joy to see Dad giving the same, unconditional hugs of love to my own sons.
Thanks Dad – I’ll miss your steady, warm presence so much.
CHRIS SHARRATT 