Neil MacGregor :: 1915 - 2008

Dad called me this morning to let me know that my grandfather, his father, had passed away. This wasn't completely unexpected as Grandad was 93 and we'd been notified that he was failing fast earlier in the week. I didn't expect the end to come so soon though, I really expected that my parents were calling to let me know their month long motorhome jaunt to California was over and that they were home.

Dad told me that Grandad slipped away peacefully surrounded by family including my aunts and cousins. They had spent the past few days going through photo albums and sharing memories with him. Grandad was unable to speak but they could tell by his eyes that he was participating in what was going on. Dad told me that they showed him photos of Colin and William, his two American great-grandchildren.

The news of Grandad's death sunk in as Dad shared other bits of news from the family. He was in an amazingly upbeat mood and I didn't know if it was for my benefit, or maybe a sense of relief that his father was at peace. Grandad's quality of life was certainly not what it once was, and he always claimed that he wanted to die at home in his own bed. Still, I do not think that I would be able to muster such a positive attitude were I passing similar news about my Dad to Colin.

We closed up the phone conversation, I was aware that he had a number of other people to call. I offered to send my brother a text message to call my parents, who don't know how to text yet. Rob, being a teacher, can't really receive calls at work. I hope he was able to get in touch with them.

I got off the phone and a wave of emotion hit me; sadness, grief and regret. It had been nearly fourteen years since I saw him last, on the day of my wedding to my ex. It was the last trip that my Grandad was able to make to the US as his age had caught up with his globe trotting capabilities. We talked on the phone, but it isn't the same. Colin never had the chance to meet his paternal Great-Grandfather, and the guilt of this weighed on me. I never made going back to England, the country of my birth, a priority and now it is too late.

Being a child of a family who emigrated halfway across the globe I have always felt envious of people who are surrounded by family. Other than my parents and my siblings we had no immediate family in Houston. My Grandad would visit us every other year and we'd go back there every three or so years. Because of this I don't have a close bond with my aunts and uncles and cousins. The connection I feel with them is mainly based on their relationship with my parents, but my grandparents were different.

I attribute my sense of humor to my Grandad MacGregor, who was always ready with a good pun or to play a prank. He was a mirthful man with a knack for physical humor. He enjoyed amateur theatrics and would occasionally have roles in local drama productions. He was also a very proper English gentleman who did things the way they were meant to be done. For example, he always wore a suit to the bank and weighed his letter to make sure the postage was always correct.

Grandad was a good card player, a croquette player with a touch of a mean streak (a good streak to have in our cut throat family matches) and a good archer. One day he amazed me by setting up an archery target in the back yard for he and I to use, which we did for hours. Another time he made stilts for all his grandchildren to enjoy.

Grandad enjoyed games and was celebrated with his brother at their sports club for maintaining their weekly squash game together for the better part of forty years; they only stopped when they were both in their eighties, too old to continue. I asked him about the squash games and he told me that when they started they would often try just to maintain the volley, then they got good and competed against each other, but by the time they were in their seventies they were back to just trying to maintain the volley and had come full circle.

Grandad liked to read and had a large collection of books piled onto shelves all over the house, like all the other houses in my family. On the landing of the second floor they had a few of the James Bond novels in hard back, and I remember being excited to read a Bond adventure in it's first printing while there. I don't know if he wrote, but I suspect he did because both my father and I like to.

Memories of visits to England often revolve around my Granny and Grandad's wonderful house Whinmoor; a three story brick house located off the main road just above Stockton-Heath. Visiting Whinmoor as a child was magical; the house had a play room filled with toys my father played with, and the back yard was huge. My sister and I would always make for the back yard as soon as we arrived at Whinmoor to see the garden, check on the pond, swing on the swing, enter the playhouse, follow the trail through the wood at the back and then finally back into the house proper breathless and happy.

They moved from the first Whinmoor into the second about ten years ago, the big house was too much for a pair of octogenarians. In the past few years Grandad had a number of mini-strokes which decreased his ability to speak. His squash playing brother, my Great Uncle Jock, passed away less than a month ago, and was the older of the two. I guess that was why the news this morning took me a bit by surprise. Uncle Jock held on for years after his stroke that left him unable to speak and I thought the hearty MacGregor blood would keep my Grandad going on. Apparently not as the news that he was failing fast turned out to be accurate.

Death has this annoying habit of taking the people you love away from you before you're ready. It has colored this day a shade of gray for me. I can not focus on work and even writing this now has made my eyes moisten again for the umpteenth time. I feel envious of my cousins in England who were able to spend far more time with him and the regret that I didn't take my son across the pond to meet my great grandparents is palpable.

The living have to go on and move forward. Initially it sucks and at any moment grief can flood your mind but over time things get better. Fourteen years is a long time to go without seeing your grandparents; but now I will never see my Grandad again except in my memories and my dreams.

The funeral will be in June and my parents are planning to fly to England for it. Colin and I will not, but that's OK. I have my memories of him.