To some he was John, to many he was Jack and to a privileged
few he was brother, Dad and Grandad. Perhaps he was most at home as husband to Mary who he truly
adored and lost 12 years ago. “I am alone”, he used to say, “but I am not
lonely”. He always felt Mary’s presence in the family home, which made it all
the more important that he was allowed the grace to pass away peacefully in the
house they shared, surrounded by his family. John had a very long life spanning the great changes in our
world, and was a very conscious link between the post Victorian world of want
to the plenty of the 21st century age of technology. John was always
interested in what was going on and had something to say on any subject however
obscure. He was knowledgeable and grounded, with a common sense and insight
that made him the first port of call for advice and support for his siblings,
friends and colleagues as well as for his children. John was born in Trevor St, Nechells to a mother who was the
rock and the foundation of the family whilst his father, when not away at war,
was invalided in bed. He had a very special relationship with his mum. He loved
her strength and wisdom and carried that spirit with him throughout his own
life. “ We were poor” he often said, “ but we didn’t think we were”. Too proud
to allow her children free school meals at school, they had oxo cube dissolved
in water for lunch at home. The house sat amidst a toxic industrial, chemical
fog that, according to brother Syd, pickled all the Brown children ensuring
their longevity. John felt his responsibilities as the elder of the post
World War One family Of Sally, Syd and Frances, getting his first job at
thirteen as a grocery delivery boy to literally put food on the table. Food and
dignity were always really important to John. He prided himself on his
judgement and ingenuity. Tasked with fetching stew from a woman up the road who
made and sold it , he would hide and watch from over a wall and count her
departing customers. He knew how many servings her stewpot held, and would wait
for exactly that moment when the pot was down to all the meat at the bottom.
Then he would pounce, and buy! One day of course it all went wrong, the woman
had bought a new pot and when he appeared he heard, “ ah Jack, glad it’s you,
I’ve got a fresh batch here and you can be first!” Taking the thin liquid away,
he could have wept. John was clever enough to go to grammar school but his mum
could not afford the required books, so he went to Eliot Street Secondary. But
he was always a believer in self education. An avid reader, even stoically
working his way through the many volumes of ‘Gibbon’s Rise And Fall Of The
Roman Empire’. To improve his maths skills, he attended night school after
work. His brother, Syd, maintains that ,if their mum had money, Jack would have
become a doctor. Interestingly, at work, John was known as “The Doc” because he
was the first-aider of choice and had trained with the St John’s Ambulance. He
was a great champion of blood donation and proudly wore his Silver donor’s
badge on his lapel. He always looked smart. John got his first full time job at Metropolitan Coach Works
and marvelled at the skills of the men
making railway carriages in exotic woods for customers all across the world.
Then on to the GEC before being sacked because he’d injured his leg on his
first holiday and could not stand. This is where his long apprenticeship and
career at Turner Brothers started. It is no exaggeration to say that he became
the most accomplished and skilled lathe-turner you could ever wish to meet. So
much so that, after he retired, Turner Brothers went out of business within a
year. Whilst there John worked on anything from parts for Frank Whittle’s
experimental jet engine, to the nose cones for Spitfires , or tools to make
Tupperware. On completing an impossibly demanding commission for Rolls Royce, a
letter came back stating that no one at Rolls had proved able to do the job
with the same level of precision that John had displayed. This precision was not, however, something he always
employed at home. Much to his wife’s horror he would awkwardly repair saucepans
instead of buying new. “I hope it’s not for me !” She’d exclaim if he was out
in the garden making something. Then there’s the broken cheap plastic spout for
a mass produced vinegar bottle that John replaced with a beautifully crafted
steel one he’d made in his dinner break at work. Mary would still have
preferred a new bottle. How about the broken handle to a hammer, which he
replaced with a DIY steel one, heavier than the hammer itself. During the war John enlisted in the Home Guard.Working long
day and night shifts on top of fire watching and guarding duties left him
exhausted and in dire need of Convalescence. He talked of a few brushes with
death, most noteably during the war on fire duty, when he was turned away from
going down an alley by a voice calling his name behind him. There was no one
there but, at that instant, a bomb fell and exploded at the point he would have
otherwise reached. It should have killed him.
Though there are many here today, that number would have
been tripled by friends and colleagues if, to put it bluntly, he hadn’t
outlived them all. Not to mention the extended family in New Zealand who cannot
be here. John made a lasting impression on all that met him. He had a
laugh that was honest and vigorous, and a sneeze that made the ground shake and
his children jump out of their skins. Above all, John was a truly contented human being. He loved
his family, loved to fish and be amongst nature. Mornings were his time, he
took great pleasure in watching the birds come and go and the patterns of the
weather, especially at the caravan in Bewdley. Perhaps he’ll be remembered for his fantastic pickled onions
or for his rhubarb and ginger jam. Maybe it will be the wonderfully inventive
storytelling to his kids whilst looking up at the fascinations of the long
summer night skies. His sense of fun and the ability to laugh at himself, are
all qualities that he has passed on to his children and grandchildren. But maybe over all we’ll remember a man who rose above
disability and worked to achieve, despite prejudice and disadvantage. After an
accident when he was seven, surgeons were adamant that they should amputate his
right leg. His mum fought hard to stop them, and succeeded. John wore leg irons
from his thigh to his boots for years until his leg was fused at the knee and
unable to bend. He carried his limp with energy and panache. He was called a cripple on being refused an apprenticeship
as a draughtsman, so his life took a different course. Ignoring his disability and refusing ever to be labelled
with it right from being a boy, John ran and climbed with the rest of them.
Without his mum’s knowledge, and against her express wishes, he learned to swim
wearing his irons. His mum thought he’d sink. What tenacity! I think John’s mum knew that he was a special person and did
not want the world to be deprived of him too soon. When she lay at the end of
her life she made John promise to give up donating blood. She thought it would
sap his strength. So he stopped at the silver, not the gold badge that he would
have liked. And then, with affection, her last spoken words to him were “Jack, you
were a very naughty boy”.
