I SAT IN THE BACK OF THE CAR BEHIND MY SON AND HIS FIANCÉE, my attention diverted by the two police officers who had been drafted in to deal with the weight of traffic that was about to disrupt the town of Benfleet in Essex, on the south east coast of England. I could tell by the expressions on the faces of passersby that they too were intrigued by the presence of the police. I could imagine them wondering: Who was this person that their funeral should warrant such unprecedented attention?

It was a question I was to find myself repeating over and over again that day.

Stationing themselves at opposite ends of the road, the officers paused as all eyes swiveled in their direction. Then, with a practiced flick of their hands, they signaled the traffic in both directions to halt. Slowly, gracefully, the five flower-filled cars eased forward into the space that had opened up before them. The funeral I had flown over 5,000 miles home to England to attend had begun.

I'd known from the outset this might not be like any other funeral I'd attended. For one thing, the man we were gathering to mourn was only 63 - which, nowadays, seems an indecently young age to die. For another, the particular manner of his passing made losing him seem all the more heartbreaking and poignant: Though I had been on the other side of the world for most of Ron's 6-month illness, I’d heard enough reports from my family to know that metastatic cancer of the oesophagus is a viciously unpleasant, dignity-robbing way to die.

I looked at my watch. It was 1.30pm. Half an hour before the ceremony started, a chill wind was stirring. So far, our prayers for a dry day had been granted, but I wasn’t about to get complacent. After all, this was England, remember… in early March… so there was no predicting how many different seasons we might cycle through before nightfall. As if privy to my thoughts, the sun, which had been flirting with the day all morning, suddenly dipped a final farewell behind a bank of gathering clouds. It seemed even the clouds were closing ranks in honour of the occasion.

As we crawled through the gates of the crematorium I was momentarily taken aback by the sight of hundreds of black-clad figures lining the paths that converged on the small chapel. There were so many cars jostling for parking space they were even granting permission to park on the grass verges. I pushed my way through the press of people crowding the entrance, unsure as to who was coming and who was leaving from the previous service. Snatches of conversations drifted on the air as my brother Roy ushered me into one of the few remaining seats. “Did you see those flowers?” I heard someone whisper to their neighbour. “Yes,” hissed the incredulous reply. “It’s hard to believe they’re all for one person. There had to be well over a hundred wreaths on that car.”

Wrong. There were over 140. I knew because I had been counting and taking photographs of them since early morning when the first of the florists’ vans had started disgorging its colourful contents on to the newly clipped grass of my sister’s front garden.

“Ronnie really loved flowers,” Marion had murmured as we'd tiptoed our way through the multitude of tributes, many of which had been specially designed to reflect Ronnie’s passion for football.

“Did he?” My head had snapped up in shock.

For some reason that information had really unsettled me. I'd known Ronnie Crumpton since I was 12 years old, and I had never known that about him. How could that be? The more I reflected on it, the more uncomfortable I felt. It made me wonder what else I hadn’t known about the man my sister had married.

I bent down to read some of the messages on the cards. Of all the things that could have made me weep, but hadn’t, up to that point in time, it was the messages to “Our Poppa”, scrawled in the childish hands of grieving grandchildren that finally penetrated my carefully erected armour. Suddenly, I was having difficulty seeing.

Then I read the personal declaration Marion had written, telling Ronnie he had always been “the wind beneath her wings…" followed by the private messages from their sons, Paul, Ian and Neil, and their wives, Mel, Zoe and Lynn. All of a sudden it seemed imperative to keep going until I had not just read, but digested, every word accompanying all 140-plus of the floral wreaths, sheaths, bouquets and tributes that were rapidly filling the front garden. It was quite extraordinary. In just a few heartfelt sentences each card encapsulated a story… a miniature portrait of a life whose significance I was still struggling to comprehend. When I got to the end my head felt tight with the pressure of trying to reconcile the new perceptions that were taking shape in my brain with the image of the Ronnie Crumpton I had known and taken for granted for so long.

I was still pondering this epiphany when the service began. The crematorium was packed to overflowing and still people were cramming into the open doorways. And there were scores more, shivering in the cold outside, unable to hear a single word, but nonetheless determined to stay. That’s when it dawned on me that the crush of people I’d seen earlier weren't leaving the previous service; every single one of them (more than 500, I later discovered) had come especially to honour a man who had touched their lives in ways that I was only just beginning to grasp.

Yes, there were tears aplenty, as we sat through Tina Turner’s “You’re Simply The Best,” which Marion and the boys felt best summed up their feelings about Ron. And there was a good deal of unexpected laughter, too. Indeed, so well orated, and so hilarious was the eulogy given at Ronnie’s own request by his cousin-in-law Terry that, for the first time in my experience, a crematorium rang to the foreign sound of spontaneous and enthusiastic clapping.

And as the wheels of perception turned faster in my brain, again I found myself questioning: Who was that man?

Now, just in case this is all beginning to sound a bit too good to be true, let’s get real here. Ronnie Crumpton was far from being the kind of saintly character I may be in danger of portraying. A big, barrel-chested man who had done his duty in the merchant navy, and then worked most of his adult life in the London docks, Ronnie was the type of person most people describe as a ‘character’. A keen footballer and passionate supporter of West Ham Football Club, he was an immensely proud and highly principled person. A ‘union man’ to the core he would be the very last to cross a picket line, and the very first to leap to your defence, or stand shoulder to shoulder beside you in a fight. An inveterate prankster who loved a good laugh and a joke, he was never happier than when he was confounding us with a trick, or making us jump with an unexpected stunt that would leave us laughing and wanting to whack him round the head.

All these thoughts and many more flashed through my mind as we observed the Vicar’s exhortation to spend a few minutes remembering Ronnie in our own special way. I remembered the first time Marion had brought him home to meet the family. I'd thought he was the coolest guy I’d ever met because he taught me how to make a ‘farting machine’ with just a knitting needle, elastic band and a curtain ring, which proved to be so satisfyingly loud and rude it beat regular whoopee cushions hands down.

I remembered how he was the first person to ever greet us with a kiss on the cheek when he came and went. That was a rare thing in our experience - to meet a man who was so open and spontaneous with his affection. Such a simple gesture, but it had made a huge impression on my sister Pauline and me. I remembered also the way he used to talk to me - and listen - as if the opinions of a 12-year-old kid were just as fascinating as anything an adult had to say. I recalled how supportive and generous he'd been when I was struggling to bring up two small children on my own. And I remembered the times when, just as I was at my lowest ebb financially, Marion would turn up with an unexpected gift of cash from Ronnie

And I wasn’t the only one who had cause to remember and appreciate Ronnie Crumpton's thoughtfulness and generosity. Later on, back at the reception - which he had pre-planned and paid for when he knew the chemotherapy wasn’t going to save him - I gradually pieced together a new image of the man I’d known for most of my life, but clearly had never really seen. I discovered that my brother-in-law was one of those rare unsung heroes who tiptoe silently and unassumingly through the world, offering a helping hand here, or a shoulder there. I learned that when anyone was in trouble, or needed a favour, Ronnie was invariably the first to step up to the plate, not with a fanfare, but quietly and unobtrusively, with his last penny in his hand if he thought it would help.

It was a salutary lesson for me. Wherever I turned, whomever I spoke to, had an inspiring story to tell. I heard first-hand accounts of help and support that even my sister, his wife, hadn't known about. I learned how difficult life had become for Ron in his last few weeks, and of the immense courage he’d displayed in the face of the cruel indignities cancer wrought upon his once stocky frame. I discovered that even on that last day when he couldn't muster the strength to get out of bed, he’d still managed to write one last card and leave a beautiful gift behind with his sons for "his lovely's" birthday the following week. And throughout the evening I watched grown man after grown man crumple and cry without shame, as they spoke of how privileged they felt to have been befriended by Ronnie Crumpton.

Too late, I came to understand that my brother-in-law was more than just a good husband, a good father, and the very best of friends… A deeply respected and much loved man, he was a hero and a mentor and, hell, yes – I’ll stick my neck out and say what would have embarrassed him no end if I’d ever dared speak of such things in his presence – without conscious thought or intention, but merely by being himself, Ronnie Crumpton became a living legend in his own lifetime.

And you know what? I am filled with shame and sorrow and immense regret that I never got to appreciate or understand the full extent of his generosity of spirit, his humanity, and his sheer ability to care so deeply about other people, until after he had gone.

Several weeks have now passed since the funeral, and still, people keep calling and talking about what they saw and learned on that extraordinary day. They can’t get over the fact that a seemingly ordinary everyday person like Ronnie Crumpton could inspire such an outpouring of love and respect that, when placed side by side, the flowers sent by those whose lives he touched covered an area that was at least 10 feet deep by 30 feet wide. And they especially can’t get over the fact that over 500 people cared enough to attend his funeral – that’s more than have been known to turn out for some politicians!

Think about that for a moment. And then ask yourself this: Do you even know 500 people? And if you do, how many of those lives do you think you’ve touched in such a profound and meaningful manner that they would voluntarily – even eagerly – exchange a day’s wages for the opportunity to give thanks for who you are and the impact you made on their lives?

And now consider this: In the final analysis, by what yardstick do you think we should measure the worth of a man (or woman, for that matter)? By the size of the bank balance they accumulate during their lifetime? By the extent of their education or the number of letters that follow their name? By the number of companies, houses, cars or shares they own? Or even by how far and wide their face is known?

According to an ancient Egyptian legend there’s only one way to measure the true worth of a man. His heart must be weighed after death against the feather of Ma’at, the goddess of truth, justice and order. If it is equal in weight to the feather, the person is judged to have been ‘pure and good’ right through to the core, and thus worthy of immortality.

Of course, we don’t go in for heart-weighing much these days. But I do believe that old-fashioned qualities such as kindness, compassion, modesty, integrity, generosity of spirit, and a willingness to make a difference in other's lives still count for something. And if even only one person who benefited from knowing Ronnie should choose to pass on his example of what it means to be a good friend and a truly decent human being, I think the name of Ronnie Crumpton cannot fail to live on.

But get this: I know for a fact that there are at least 500 people whose lives Ronnie Crumpton touched in ways that even he couldn’t have begun to imagine.

That's a heck of a potential for immortality!

That’s a heck of a measure of the worth of a man.

We invite you to share your experiences, opinions and questions on this article. Please visit the PLW Community and leave your comments.

© 2002 Sandra Sedgbeer