Friday was the day of my dad’s funeral. If you’ve just tuned in, you might like to see my blog post about his death, and a second article about the things that have been hardest, so far, in its aftermath. I’m not inclined to say too much, so I’ll be brief and let pictures, and a video, tell the story. As usual, you’ll find that you can click on the pictures to enlarge them.
A remarkable number of people turned up to mark my dad’s passing on this sad occasion. I was genuinely surprised to see how many lives he’d touched (and to hear about a great many more from people who couldn’t make it). About 350 people struggled to fit in to the cramped crematorium, and many had to stand outside where – thankfully – there were repeater speakers.
My sisters and I were determined that this event would be a celebration of our father’s life. So rather than focusing on his tragic and premature death, we made every effort to commemorate his achievements and reinforce the lessons that we can all learn from his time with us. In a similar vein, we’d told everybody that we had the chance to that there was no need to wear black for this funeral: that people should wear what’s appropriate to them for their personal act of mourning and remembrance.
We’d hired a former minister, Ken Howles, to provide a (thoroughly secular, under threat of non-payment!) framework for the service, but we “rolled our own” so far as possible. Seven individual tributes and eulogies were given by people representing different aspects of my dad’s life: from my mother, from his partner, from the friend with whom he was walking on the day he died, from the managing directors of the company he founded and the company he last worked for, from the chief executive of the charity he was fundraising for, and – finally – from me.
The contrast between the different tributes was stark and staggering, reflecting the huge variety in the different facets of my father’s life. From guerrilla gardening to trainspotting, lessons learned to tyres pulled, we collectively painted a picture of the spectrum of my dad’s life. The tributes given were, in order:
- My mother, Doreen (watch), who talked about their adventures together as young adults and the roots of his career in transport
- His partner, Jenny (watch), who shared the experiences they’d had together, and mourned for those that they would not
- His friend, John (watch), who let us in on the things that they’d talked about during my dad’s final hours
- Adrian, the managing director of the company my dad founded (watch), on his success in the world of transport consultancy, and working with him
- A break in the middle to watch a video of my dad singing karaoke
- Kevin, the managing director of Go North-East (watch), on the subject of my dad’s recent career and influence on British transport
- Gary, chief executive of TransAid (watch), announced the future creation of the Peter Huntley Fundraising Award, and thanked my dad and his supporters on behalf of the dozens of charities my dad helped
- And finally, me (watch), contrasting all of the above by talking about what my dad was like as a father and a friend, and the lessons we can learn from him
If you can’t watch YouTube where you are, you can also read the full text of my personal eulogy here.
Afterwards, we held a wake at Grimsargh Village Hall which, on account of the sheer number of bus industry attendees, rapidly became a micro-conference for the public transport sector! It was great to have the chance to chat to so many people who’d worked with my dad in so many different contexts.
Between hot food provided by a local caterer, cold savories courtesy of Jenny’s daugher Eppie, and a copious quantity of cakes baked by Ruth, there was an incredible superfluity of food. These two, plus JTA, Paul, and Eppie’s boyfriend James, provided a spectacular level of “behind-the-scenes” magic, keeping everything running smoothly and ensuring that everything happened as and when it was supposed to.
We set up a “memory book”, in which people could write their recollections of my dad. I haven’t had time to read much of it yet, but one of them stands out already to me as a concise and simple explanation of what we achieved at the crematorium that day. It reads:
“Great funeral, Peter. Sorry that you missed it.”
It was certainly a great send-off for a man who did so much for so many people. Thank you so much to everybody who made it such a success, and to everybody who, in the meantime, has donated to TransAid via my dad’s JustGiving page (or by giving us cash or cheques at or after the funeral). You’re helping his memory live on, for everybody: thank you.
Hi Dan,
I too was at the service, sitting at the front in one of the last seats that was available. I wish I could have come to the wake afterwards but I had left my partner in the middle of Preston going around the shops in an unfamiliar city – something that leaves her feeling very anxious. She didn’t feel it appropriate to come with me to the service.
I’ve never attended a service such as this one, a celebration of his life. I imagine Peter would have been laughing with us all at the anecdotes being told.
I knew Peter from his work as TAS, by the time I had joined them in 2006 he had taken up his position at Go North East, but strangely this didn’t seem to stop him popping into the office quite frequently. Peter was a very big reason why I ended up working in Preston and I feel proud to have worked for the company he founded. Like a couple of others in my career he gave me the start I needed and I shall always be grateful to him for that.
It is very hard to add anymore but I just wanted to let you know that my thoughts are with you all at this time.
Stephen