Our Grand Finale

by Laraine Denny Burrell

  “Each of us here has shared a part of Dad’s journey. He was a brother, father, grandfather, uncle, and friend. My mother shared Dad’s journey through friendship and marriage for sixty-two years. Dad was a mentor to many of us. I attribute the person I am today to his love, guidance, and the many things he shared with me—and not just his blue eyes and cheeky sense of humor.”

  I pause, looking out at the smiles recognizing the reference.

  “He shared his love of world travel experienced through his years of service in the Royal Navy. In later years when I too sailed through the Panama Canal, lived by the Great Pyramids at Giza, and visited the Tiger Balm Gardens in Singapore, I thought of Dad being there before me, and I tried to envision seeing these sights through the eyes of a young lad from Glasgow. The fact that he had been to these places too, I felt a part of Dad was there with me.

  “My dad also instilled into me a love of learning, a desire to do better in life. Dad didn’t complete his formal education. He left school at fourteen to become a carpenter’s apprentice but was determined that I and later my sister would get a better education than he ever had. Dad was always buying me books, atlases, always pushing me to reach my full potential, urging me to do better than he ever did. My dad was the catalyst in my many achievements, my numerous college degrees, my position as a lawyer in a top United States law firm. But the irony is, no matter what I do, I can never have a better life than he did. I will never be half the person he was because, you see, I will never be able to earn the enormous respect he earned in his quiet, unassuming way.

  “Respect for Dad comes from the many lives he touched with his kindness, his sense of humor, and his nonjudgmental manner. He always gave so much of himself without hesitation, without question, and asking nothing in return. Love and respect from others are the things that give us a better life, and Dad had these in abundance.”

  I pause, taking a deep breath, steadying my feelings.

  “I had the task of going through my dad’s personal belongings, and it was with mixed emotions that I saw what he had kept over the years, his treasures, things he valued the most.

  “There were thousands of photographs of mum, myself, my sister Loretta, his grandson Mark. Photos of family and friends. And on the back of many of them, Dad had taken the time to write a little note as if it was important for him to always remember that moment.

  “Dad kept photos and mementos from his time onboard the Royal Yacht Britannia. Dad was proud of his service to Queen and country, and proud to be awarded the Royal Victorian Medal for his services to the Queen. But above all he was proud to be a part of that elite group of men, the royal yachtsmen, many of whom became lifelong friends.”

  I look over to where a group of royal yachtsmen and Dad’s friends are sitting and smile warmly at them.

  “Books were of a great value to my dad. Dad kept all of his books: books from his days as a carpenter’s apprentice in the 1940s, books on science and naval engineering. And dozens of notebooks full of his meticulous notes, written in the beautiful handwriting that he had, made all the more amazing considering his limited education.

  “And of course Dad had his records of Scots music. He loved playing his rousing recordings of bagpipe music, probably much to the chagrin of our Irish neighbors in Manchester Road.”

  A gentle laughter responds to the words. I smile.

  “Probably the oddest thing he kept, and maybe because he had so little as a child he hated throwing anything away, was his false teeth, much to the dismay of my mother who opened one of Dad’s drawers to find it full of teeth smiling up at her. We found more teeth in his closet, in the attic, in his coat pockets. Perhaps this was Dad’s way of literally getting the last laugh on us all.”

  The laughter is louder. We all knew about Dad and his jokes.

  “And of course there were Dad’s tools, symbols of his time and effort freely given to so many of us. I cannot remember a time when Dad didn’t have a long list of jobs to do for other people, those jobs always getting done—until now. It is rare to go into a home without seeing some evidence of Dad’s handiwork: wallpaper hung, trim painted, shelves built, gardens landscaped, and the number of cars kept roadworthy with Dad’s careful tuning and maintenance. Dad has left his mark with us all.”

  And as I am speaking, for a fleeting moment between words, time seems to pause, and during that briefest of moments, I stop and look out at the people filling the chapel. I see faces from Dad’s childhood: his brother, his childhood companion and his wife, my mother. I see his daughter Loretta, and grandson Mark. I see his nieces and nephews, and their children. I see four generations of his family. I see his shipmates from his early years with the Royal Navy, and friends and coworkers from his later years at the factory. I see next-door neighbors, both from the present day and from years ago. I see people who had been his friends, some for decades, others he had known only in recent years. I see people he did odd jobs for, people we hadn’t seen in many years but who had come to pay their respects. I see people from as far away as Scotland, and those from all over England. I see many generations of people, from young babies to elderly persons. I see people who had known Dad since his birth in 1931, and those who were close to him at his death in 2007, seventy-six years later.

  I realize in that moment, as I stand looking out at these faces, that I am looking out at my dad’s entire life lying before me, at the people that had made up Dad’s lifetime, the people that had traveled Dad’s journey with him. And only I have the privilege of seeing this because of the unique position of where I now stand. I had relinquished my time with my father, something I have regretted until I now see this tableau of Dad’s entire life laid out before me.

  I realize in that moment that we have choices in how to interpret our life experiences. I can choose regret, remorse, guilt, anger, and sadness at not spending more time with my father, or I can recognize that my choices to travel and become educated in life experiences were to prepare myself to be the one person to make sure Dad lives on in the memories of each one of us on this most significant of days.

  As I look out at the mourners, at the faces looking back at me, I see so many tears. My heart breaks seeing my mother crying; my sister, my son, my cousins are all crying. Even the stoic faces of my uncles are belied by wetness on their cheeks. I become aware of the gentle sound of rain and see streams of moisture gliding down the windowpanes. Heaven is crying with us, I think. I glance over at the vicar, and am surprised to see tears are streaming down her cheeks, too. The tributes to a man the vicar never knew have touched her. So much sadness. So much grief. But this is how it is supposed to be. I want this moment to be memorial. I want them to remember this service and, above all, to remember my dad.

  Tears well in my own eyes. I struggle to keep my emotions in check, managing just barely. I continue to speak.

  “I have to believe the Lord said, ‘Ian, you’ve done enough. You’ve spent your entire life doing things for other people. You’ve given as much of yourself as any man can give. It’s time for you to rest.’”

  I turn to look back toward Dad’s photograph.

  “Dad, may you rest in peace with the knowledge that everything you did for us was appreciated. To my mother you were a loving husband and companion. To Loretta and I you were a mentor and inspiration. To your grandson Mark, you were a hero, and for so many others you were a true friend. You will be forever loved and missed.”

  I turn back to face the chapel.

  “One final thing I found in my dad’s belongings that I want to share with you now is a prayer by Winifred Holtby, one that he had kept for many years. It reads:

  God give me work

  ’til my life shall end

  And life

  ’til my work is done.

  Dad’s work here is done.”

  A warm feeling comes over me. I feel my father’s presence among us in the hush of the chapel. I have a sense of well-being, as though I have finally given something back to
my father after all that he had given to me.

  I look behind me at my father’s photos, his cheeky grin smiling back at us all.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  author’s father, photo © Laraine Denny Burrell

  EPILOGUE

  I never took Loretta on the holiday of a lifetime that I promised her. Shortly after Dad passed away, her second leg was amputated. Her struggles continued on for three more years through a pancreas transplant, more blood transfusions, more medicines and treatments—all while I waited for her to get better, always thinking that “next year” we would go on holiday. Next year never came. She died in October 2011, aged forty-one. I will always be haunted by the promise to my sister that I didn’t keep.

  In 2014, for my mother’s eightieth birthday, I took her on a trip up to Glasgow so she could visit the site of her childhood home, where she went to school, and the church where she and Dad got married. The highlight of the trip was our visit to the Royal Yacht Museum in Leith, near Edinburgh.

  Following the proscribed route of the museum tour, we walk along the familiar decks, we pass the engine room once Dad’s domain, and finally, we make it into the mess, where still above the bar is the sign THE VERGE INN. On the mess bulkhead are photographs, including one with my father’s cheeky grin staring out from among a group of yachtsmen.

  Mum asks a steward where we can find the Book of Remembrance, explaining that her husband is in the book and she would like to see it. On hearing that we are family of a royal yachtsman, the steward takes us under his wing. He escorts us through the ship to what was once the Queen’s Private Apartments. Standing at the side of the anteroom is a glass cabinet. Inside the cabinet is the Book of Remembrance, a tribute to yachtsmen who have passed “over the bar.”

  The steward opens the cabinet and helps us find the page showing the photograph of Dad. The photograph is one I know well. It is of my father in his uniform, holding the Royal Victorian Medal he received from the Queen that day so long ago at Buckingham Palace. Next to the photograph is a verse by Rudyard Kipling chosen to memorialize my father. The steward closes the cabinet, leaving Dad’s photograph as the one on display.

  Mum and I stand alone by the cabinet, each of us silent, both studying Dad’s image and lost in our own memories. Again I recall what an amazing life he had lead and how his ever-determined effort and hard work had given him this significant distinction. I take photographs of my mum standing next to the cabinet and Dad’s photograph. I see the pride in Mum’s face as she looks down at Dad, her hand resting on the cabinet glass above the image of my father. I feel enormous pride for both of them. I click the camera shutter, capturing the moment and the memory.

  Toward the end of 2014, I moved from Las Vegas to Washington State to live near my son, Mark. As I wrote this book, revisited my life and adventures over the years, and evaluated my choices and accomplishments as a dancer and as a lawyer, I can confirm that Mark is still, and always will be, my greatest success.

  Images of Ian Denny in Book of Remembrance in Royal Yacht Museum, photo © Laraine Denny Burrell

  author’s mother reviewing her husband’s photo in Book of Remembrance in Royal Yacht Museum, photo © Laraine Denny Burrell

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to Brooke Warner and She Writes Press for giving me the vehicle to share my story. But the story could not have been published without the editorial genius of Liz Kracht, who took my eight years of writings and ramblings and tirelessly worked with me to create a coherent message of transforming a daughter’s guilt over a loved one’s death into a positive understanding of life. A final acknowledgement has to be given to my family, Scots, English, and the rest of you, who were my anchor in this world of drama, disappointments, all tempered with amazing achievements. Cheers all!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Author photo © Landon Michaelson

  Laraine Denny Burrell was born and raised in England and at sixteen won a full scholarship to the Royal Academy of Dancing in London, England. Burrell spent many years living and working all over the world, performing as a professional dancer, singer, and actress. Eventually, she moved to the United States to join the cast of what was then the largest stage show in the world, Hello Hollywood Hello, at the MGM Grand in Reno, Nevada. After retiring as a performer, she went on to obtain three academic degrees, including a law degree. Burrell currently practices as an intellectual property attorney and litigator for a well-established law firm in Washington State. She has written many law-related articles for legal, trade, and general publications. Her short story “The Perfect Crime” was published in Woman’s World Magazine.

  SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS

  She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to serve women writers everywhere. Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.

  Don’t Leave Yet: How My Mother’s Alzheimer’s Opened My Heart by Constance Hanstedt. $16.95, 978-1-63152-952-8. The chronicle of Hanstedt’s journey toward independence, self-assurance, and connectedness as she cares for her mother, who is rapidly losing her own identity to the early stage of Alzheimer’s.

  The Space Between: A Memoir of Mother-Daughter Love at the End of Life by Virginia A. Simpson. $16.95, 978-1-63152-049-5. When a life-threatening illness makes it necessary for Virginia Simpson’s mother, Ruth, to come live with her, Simpson struggles to heal their relationship before Ruth dies.

  The Butterfly Groove: A Mother’s Mystery, A Daughter’s Journey by Jessica Barraco. $16.95, 978-1-63152-800-2. In an attempt to solve the mystery of her deceased mother’s life, Jessica Barraco retraces the older woman’s steps nearly forty years earlier—and finds herself along the way.

  Where Have I Been All My Life? A Journey Toward Love and Wholeness by Cheryl Rice. $16.95, 978-1-63152-917-7. Rice’s universally relatable story of how her mother’s sudden death launched her on a journey into the deepest parts of grief—and, ultimately, toward love and wholeness.

  Scattering Ashes: A Memoir of Letting Go by Joan Rough. $16.95, 978-1-63152-095-2. A daughter’s chronicle of what happens when she invites her alcoholic and emotionally abusive mother to move in with her in hopes of helping her through the final stages of life—and her dream of mending their tattered relationship fails miserably.

  The Sportscaster’s Daughter: A Memoir by Cindi Michael. $16.95, 978-1-63152-107-2. Despite being disowned by her father—sports-caster George Michael, said to be the man who inspired ESPN’s SportsCenter—Cindi Michael manages financially and heals emotionally, ultimately finding confidence from within.