Ronald Alexander Price

March 15, 1920 - October 29, 2005

This is the part of the service which they call the eulogy: the Greeks had a word for it, and it means, speaking well of the person we're here to remember and celebrate.

I suppose two things strike me about the idea of delivering a eulogy on my Dad. First, it's not hard to speak well of him, you just have to tell it like it is. Secondly, the five minutes or so that we're allowed for it, in the crematorium service, isn't very long. This is just the tip of an iceberg, and what we should really do, what I'm sure Dad would really enjoy, would be for us all to carry on with this as we meet together later, and in the days and years ahead. Tell those stories about Dad, share those memories you have, and above all, sing the songs he sang and you sang together. And raise a glass or two: to Ron.

The home where I grew up was a home full of song. It was Dad singing mostly, I don't know the rest of us would have got a look in, even if we'd wanted to.

"Sons of France around us, break the chains that bound us, and to hell with Burgundy!" Just like Bart Simpson, I relished these songs which allowed you to use words that were frowned upon in general conversation, but singing them made them perfectly acceptable. Long before I had a clue what or where or who Burgundy was, I was wishing it to hell, with the best of them.

"Give me some men who are stout hearted men, who will fight for the right they adore, start me with ten who are stout hearted men, and I'll soon give you ten thousand more." (I think the latest cover version of that was sung by Dolly Parton; and certainly, for a red-blooded male to sing it nowadays might raise a few eyebrows.) And Sally and Janet have different favourite memories of the songs Dad sang, from whenever they started being allowed to stay out late for performances at the Operatic Society. I don't remember Dad singing hymns all that often, though surely that was what got him started, when he was a boy in the choir of St Bartholomew the Great; but he would certainly want you to sing up here in chapel, for him - and then get back to Fagin, or the tailor Motel Kamzoyl, or Francois Villon, afterwards.

It didn't matter what the party was: Dad was the life and soul of it, always. The centre of attention seemed somehow to gravitate towards him, says Mike his Texan son-in-law (and Dad loved having a Texan son-in-law - that was probably just about big enough for him, and he loved the new audience for his stories that his visits there gave him).

He was a man of tremendous enthusiasms, he was always taking up new hobbies with great energy and gusto. I remember when I was a boy and he took up photography - and he really became quite good at it. There was wine-making and beer-making, spreading pungent aromas of hops and malt and other boiling substances around the kitchen and the whole house. (What did Mum make of any of that?) As he developed a more discerning palate, I think he gave up the winemaking after a few years, but the beer carried on for many more, with its quicker and better results - and a visit to Dad's was always worthwhile for that special moment when he would say, What about a glass of beer, then?

There was meteorology, particularly when he moved to Wales, where as we've seen the last few days, they have a lot more weather than we used to have in London. He was always so practical, and an excellent handyman, decorator and DIY man; but when he came to Wales, he took up plumbing as well. I still think the taps in the guest bathroom at Aeron Retreat, which he put in, are the best I've ever come across. Just a few years ago he was even keen to get to grips with computers, which is my particular passion of a hobby, but he never quite managed to invest the time or concentration the new technology demands, and I've wondered if he wasn't already losing some of that tremendous drive and energy and enthusiasm for new things we had got so used to.

Sally, Janet and I remember him as a Dad that we owe such a lot to, though it was he who was proud of all of us in our different achievements, and as Janet says, always so supportive of her, and interested in her career even when it was too technical for just about anyone other than Jan and her colleagues to understand.

He was delighted when all three of his children got married to three such excellent partners, and his generous welcome extended, too, to Alison, Owen and Mike. He took just the same enthusiastic interest in their achievements, whether it was Alison's teaching and doctorate, Owen's painting and wildlife interests, or Mike's diving and love of the sea.

And many of you will know him best as Granddad: a man with an enormous, playful Inner Child of his own who would play with you, and share his curiosity and wonder at life with you. I expect you'll remember the times when you were allowed to sit on his lap, as long as you promised faithfully that you would sit still. I don't imagine any of you ever managed it, any more than any of us did when we were younger: it was like trying to ride a bucking bronco. First his leg would begin to jog up and down, then it would go from side to side and backwards and forwards, and the more Granddad exhorted you to sit still, the more you would find yourself bouncing, until generally you and everyone else in the room had dissolved in fits of laughter.

You, Mum, who shared him with us and his many friends, thank you. You've lost a friend, a helpmate, and husband of 57 years, and our hearts go out to you today. You and Dad have set us an example of marriage and parenthood which we hope and pray we will emulate and pass on to our children and families.

Yes, we'll shed a tear or two for Ron; but the best thing we can do is thank God for a man who has made all our lives better, happier. Men like Dad help confirm our faith that God's gift of life, to us, isn't just a niggardly short-term thing that we're only meant to enjoy for 70 or 80 years or whatever, and then it's taken away from us. Life is too big for that: God wants us to enjoy that gift, with him, for ever. And Jesus' promise to his disciples is a promise of that: I am going away (that is, by his dying on the cross) to prepare a place for you; and when I have prepared a place for you, I will return (that is, by his Resurrection), and take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. Jesus described it in the homely terms of eternal life being like a place prepared in his Father's house, for each one of us, where we shall be with him forever in the heart of the love of God.

Well, that's our hope and confidence for Dad, which means that when we ourselves get there, there'll be one more friendly face waiting to greet us. (And I hope there'll be some of that beer in heaven, too. Even if there isn't, I know there will be plenty of good cheer.)

God bless you, Dad, and take care of you, until we meet again.