Eric Alexander Crombet-Beolens (1925-2008)
|
Parents |
|
||
|
Siblings |
|
||
|
Partners |
|
|
|
|
Children |
|
Eric on Brighton Beach
Born 10th June Ringmer, Sussex, UK – 1925 Died 10th May 2008 Waipu, New Zealand “Sussex born and bred, Strong in arm, weak in head”
Ham Lane, Ringmer c.1932 with cousin Gladys & sister Rita
Occupation: Errand Boy – Baker’s Roundsman, Horse-drawn cart – Timber-feller – Soldier 4½ years 1939-45 war, artillery, Black Watch. Returned to Timber-felling 1947-1950 – 1950-75. Kent County Police Officer. Retired after 25 years – To NZ 1975, Wellsford. Worked 1975-1985 Wellsford Vet Club. Retired June 1985.
Hobbies: Photography, Bird Watching, Public Speaking, Bowls, Fishing etc., Watching Sport, Reading.
In his own words
‘War & Police’
Most of the entries in his own words are either about his war service or his time in England as a Policeman. To see each article click the links below:
Cricket & the Delivery Boy
Impressions After 14 Years
My Life in a Kilt
My Nineteenth Birthday
The Police – The Beginnings
Dad in his Mason’s regalia… he was keen on the social aspect of the Masons many years after retiring
My Dad
This is what I (bo) wrote when he died:
I wish I could believe that there’s a heaven – because if there were then dad would be up there now with mum there saying “What kept you?” and they would be rowing and laughing and dad would be getting mum a cup of tea.
I grew up in a household of rows and laughter but the arguments were safe as they were surrounded by love and, despite the fact that we were all allowed our own opinions and allowed to use every trick in the book to argue our case, we all knew it could never change our love.
We were a close family even when thousands of miles apart. Not close in the hugging and kissing demonstrative way of some families, but close by virtue of deep unspoken love and acceptance of our individuality.
Jean and me, mum and dad shouting the odds, bunging in a witty comment and poking fun at each other… and, if anyone got too isolated, or felt picked on, we would all ‘cool it off’ and pull back so no one got hurt. Our home was safe in love and secure in the fierce protection mum and dad gave.
Dad taught me so much.
He taught me that respect has to be earned but that love is unconditional.
He taught me that if I did my best that was always good enough.
He taught me to rail against injustice in any form.
He taught me that hatred was a waste of time and that it rots your spirit.
He taught me that it was not a cliché to say laughter is the best medicine.
He taught me to love and respect nature, not with books and lectures, but by showing his love of wild places and wild things, by naming the trees and birds and whispering with me when we had the privilege of watching a mouse eating our fishing bait, or seeing a reed warbler building her nest.
He taught me patience as we waited out the hours for fish to bite.
I am grieving now for both mum and dad, not Phyll and Eric, not the C-B’s, not that old couple who lived in Wellsford, but the mum and dad of my childhood who loved me, kept me safe, would fight my corner and who sacrificed without a second thought, like spending months visiting me every day in hospital.
My most abiding image of childhood shows my dad for what he was… I remember at six years old being in hospital to have my tonsils out and being scared and frightened to be left alone. When no-one else was looking he winked at me and put 6 threepenny bits in to my jacket pocket for when I came round from the op… he had to find a way to stop my fears.
The best memory of my dad I had later life was when he visited the UK for the first time after leaving for NZ. Maggie and I took him fishing to our favourite carp lake where he loved watching the buzzards kettling up on the thermals and seeing the kingfisher flash by. Dad hooked a big carp and started to play the fish when his rod snapped in half… he didn’t give up but went on playing the fish with half a rod. His tongue was clamped between his lips in concentration when his fishing reel fell off… but dad wound the line round his hand and kept playing the fish. In his concentration he slithered down the bank until he was up to his knees in the lake… but he landed the fish. It never ever crossed his mind to give up, despite the hysterical laughter coming from mags and me.
Over the last few years when I rang dad we would talk of our ailments and troubles but then swap jokes.
Ask anyone who knew him and they will tell you how he loved to tell and hear jokes, how he liked to laugh and make others laugh.
I loved my dad and now there is less laughter in the world.
