Of all the Freemasons I have met, the one I have most admired was my own father. That is quite natural you think? And yet it has always surprised me that so many sons of masons never go on to become masons themselves. Why is that I wonder? Could it be due to lack of encouragement? In years gone by, the ‘secrecy’ of the Craft meant that masons would never talk about masonry – even to their own sons, and so the sons tended to feel that perhaps they were not wanted.
    It was quite the opposite in my own case: I always knew that my father was a mason, and I am told that from the age of about sixteen I had begun to ask questions about the lodge and to enquire when I could join. By sheer good fortune Father became Master of our local lodge in the year that I was twenty-one and I was initiated by him just a month after my twenty-first birthday.
    Perhaps, then, I can be forgiven for ‘reflecting’ about the man who taught me not only to be cautious but also to be curious and always seeking to know more.
    Father was born in 1888, the son of a shop-keeper in Stowmarket, Suffolk, and he grew up to own the shop selling hardware, china and glass. While still at school he had lost an eye while playing a makeshift game of hockey in the school playground; this of course made him unfit for military service but it also led to some funny situations – and Father’s sense of humour was boundless. For instance, at a rehearsal of the local Choral Society he was sitting next to another one-eyed tenor and for some reason they were sharing a copy of the music between them. Suddenly the conductor called a halt to the rehearsal: ‘Ladies and gentlemen’ he said, ‘you are not keeping in time, it is essential that you follow my beat, so will each of you please keep one eye on your copy and one eye on me.’ Father and his neighbour solemnly produced a coin and tossed up, much to the amusement of the choir – and to the puzzlement of the conductor!
    Initiated soon after the end of World War One in Phoenix Lodge, No. 516, Father advanced through each office and was installed in the Chair in 1936. It was a pretty disastrous occasion: the second Friday in December, and a thick fog prevented a third of the members from attending – and more than two-thirds of the guests.
    From then on he was seldom out of office and ended up as Director of Ceremonies in both local lodges and a Past Grand Deacon. His influence was tremendous and although he died more than thirty-five years ago they are still proud to be keeping to the ‘Tydeman working’ in Stowmarket.
    Father’s sense of humour endeared him to all. He could always see the funny side – and made the most of it. When I became Grand Chaplain in 1966 he was still a Past Assistant Grand Director of Ceremonies and therefore, technically, junior to me. He loved it. When we were in a Lodge together I would get saluted with five and then thank the Brethren and sit down. Other Grand Officers would then be saluted with three and Father, as the most senior of these, would then stand up and say, ‘Worshipful Master, on behalf of the not very worshipful Brethren…’ I think one of the proudest moments of his life was at the installation of the Duke of Kent as Grand Master in 1967 when I officiated as Grand Chaplain at the Royal Albert Hall.
    However, the story that would most have amused Father came too late for him to enjoy. In August 1969 I had been on holiday in Scotland and on my return I was met at Kings Cross with the alarming news that Father had suffered a severe stroke and was in a coma at Ipswich Hospital. I hurried to Suffolk and, of course, took Mother to the hospital every day. While she was sitting by his bed I walked out into the corridor and talked to a male nurse. He didn’t know who I was and as I was wearing my clerical collar he no doubt assumed that I had brought a parishioner to visit the patient.
    ‘What chance has he got?’ I asked, pointing to the door. ‘Oh, none at all,’ said the man, ‘he won’t recover consciousness. He’ll be gone probably by tomorrow.’ He was.
    After the funeral the Brethren gathered at the hall for a cup of tea, and one dear old Suffolk mason came up to me to offer sympathy. ‘That’s a lovely way to go,’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘though we were sorry he had to lay unconscious for several days before he finally went.’
    ‘Ah,’ said the old boy, ‘you know why that was? When they heard he was acoming, they had to ask him to wait outside while they formed a procession.’ I can’t think of a better epitaph than that – but oh, how dad would have laughed!
    If by any chance you happen to be the son of a mason, though not a mason yourself, let me give you this bit of advice: talk to your father about it; he is unlikely to mention it himself but is waiting for you to make the first approach. In fact, he is longing for you to ask him. You will never regret it, for there is no finer relationship among men than a father and a son who can call each other ‘brother’ – and mean it.