Going Home by Rita McLaren

Alighting from the four by four, we pulled our warm jackets tightly around us, protecting ourselves against the chill November weather, ready for the walk across the field to our goal … the banks of the small loch beyond.

We were here, four siblings from a family of five, in the village where we had all been born, the area redolent of childhood memories. Memories and voices echoing from days long past - our Mother, anxiously calling from the door of our home which stood and still stands at the edge of the field we had just crossed, calling to us to come indoors before darkness fell. Many a well deserved whack on the backside we got when we chose to ignore her calls and play longer. Special memories, as we reached the loch where, in summer, we learned to swim and where, in winter, in deep snow, we sledged down a high embankment, straight on to the ice covering the loch - free, happy and innocent of any danger. This place would always be home to us, this was where we had been surrounded by relatives and friends, where we had shared laughter and tears through good times and bad.  

Looking back across the field, to the house where we had lived all those long years ago, I could see, in my mind’s eye, the huge ‘Welcome Home’ banner which we, the older children, had, painstakingly and with high excitement, worked on and which we had hung, with great pride, from the upstairs window. This was in anticipation of our hero - our dear Dad, returning home from the army after fighting abroad for his country in the Second World War … So many memories!

Today, sadly, was the end of an era - today, we were here to scatter the ashes of our beloved Dad; a wonderful man who had been an inspiration, a stalwart friend and teacher - a strong leader throughout our lives and also the lives of our own children, his grandchildren.

One granddaughter’s tribute on the order of service for his funeral read …

‘Papa, you were like a Great Indian Chief; full of knowledge, wisdom, courage and understanding. It was a privilege and joy to know and love you.’

Another wrote …

‘Papa, you were my teacher, you showed me the stars and taught me their names. You placed in my small hands a tiny baby pigeon, warm and bony, and taught me respect for animals large and small. You were the finest example we grandchildren could ever hope to have.’

These, along with so many other beautiful tributes, from all of his grandchildren and children, some so painful and written only in their hearts, vividly portrayed the essence of the man.

Only a few years earlier we came to this same spot with Dad to scatter the ashes of our dearest Mother, a character who had loved and cared for us throughout our lives and each year since her death we came here with him to lay flowers in her memory. Theirs had been a true love story which had endured very difficult and traumatic times, especially the war years, yet their marriage had lasted for seventy years, the anniversary of which was celebrated in very happy style with all their family around.

It was strange to think that our dear Dad, this big strong, caring man who, somehow, had never really grown old but had lived a very long and meaningful life, was no longer with us. He, along with our Mother - two precious sparkling diamonds - would never die, but would go on living in the hearts of each and every member of their large family.                                                                                                                       

From his very early life, Dad had been a very well known and keen member of the local pigeon society and, as we took it in turn to scatter his ashes, two pigeons were released from a basket, the same basket which he himself had so often used for his own pigeons ….

Two pigeons - FREE AND HAPPY   -   Two pigeons - FLYING HIGH   

Two pigeons - GOING HOME

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