In loving memory of Charlie, a gentle giant with a lovely personality, always had a smile on his face. Absolutely loved and Doted on he wife myra and he’s children. Will be sadly missed by all. Xx

Our Dad I'm sure that if I try hard, I have many memories of our dad over the first 15 years of my life, but only a few come up regularly in my thoughts of the past. Hardly any of them are interesting to anyone other than myself or my brother Keith I think, but here goes: I have a few memories of the times he visited to take us on week-ends to visit his mum in Kilburn (always salad and sardines for dinner on Sunday night) and his dad in Hythe Kent (fresh runner beans from the garden). His dad and step-mum Betty called him "Oats", but I never really got a straight answer why. Just smirks, and knowing looks at each other. Once, he took us to the West Country, because I'd heard it was beautiful. It was everything I'd heard about and more, he bought me a pen knife that I was silently admiring in a little village hardware store where we stopped on the way. He explained carefully what each blade was for. I still have it, along with a much older pen knife that I took from his toolbox he left at home. When I left the UK for good in 1992, both knives were among the five white shirts, two ties, and three pairs of trousers I took with me for a completely fresh start. The "new" knife is still in my toolbox 54 years later, and the old knife is on my bedside table ready to take a stone out of a horse's hoof any time it is required. He really wanted me to play golf, but I resisted strongly. Quite possibly because my first lesson involved getting up at 3am on a winter morning, putting a ball in the top of an 8 foot chute and sitting on a cold concrete bench until 10:30 when it was our turn to tee off. Four hours later the ordeal was over. Never understood how that would appeal to a 10 year-old. "You hit a ball as far as you can, and if you find it the same day you have won." He also wanted me to learn to drive and buy a car as soon as possible. He gave me my first lessons when I was way too young, and of course being an advanced instructor he was really a great teacher and encouraging me, but I was only thirteen. One early morning about a year after those five or so clandestine lessons, he arrived to take me to grandpa in Hythe. He told me he'd come straight from a party and had been drinking, so better I slap on those "L" plates and head east. Don't worry, he slurred, I'll tell you the way says he, just take it slow. I'd never been on main roads during the day up to this point, and I'm just able to reach the pedals with the seat pulled all the way forward, slow but sure he guided me along the A40 making small hand gestures and curt instructions indicating keep right, next lights left ....... He lasted until Blackfriars bridge. Coming to that nightmare junction, I looked over to see him sucking air like a broken hoover. Talk about a baptism of fire. I got us there safely, but I was so stressed, I couldn't feel proud, just weak in the knees and needing to lie down in a dark room. He woke up as we pulled into the driveway. Totaly refreshed, stretched, yawned and hugged his dad and Aunty Betty and went inside to have breakfast. He left me in the driveway feeling like a beached whale and as far as I remember, he never mentioned the journey, certainly not to his dad, and neither did I. I wonder what he'd have said? I was a useless student. He tried to teach me fishing on another visit to grandpa. Never caught anything. I was reeling in my line idly one day, as I lost my bait for the umpteenth time. Utterly demoralized, pulling the float slowly out of the water close to the bank, then the hook, Dad looked over just then and started laughing hard. I'd accidentally snagged a stickleback on the tip of the hook, perched up there like a ballerina in a high lift. Dad staggered, lost his footing and ended left leg deep in the river mud. I never heard the last of it, as he told Grandpa, Betty, and even her family who were visiting. Dad took a tea strainer from the kitchen and put it on the table. "There's your keep net for next time". In the days before digital odometers in cars, dad asked me to remember the last three digits on the clock before a long journey. It was a borrowed 1949 Triumph Mayflower he was driving, and as we were tanking home along the A40, the bonnet flew up and completely covered the windscreen. As though this happened every day, without any sign of panic, he wound the window down, poked his head out and carefully guided the vehicle to a safe stop at the side of the road. I was shocked, scared and admiring the cool-headed bravery of my dad all at once. There was never been anyone I felt safer with behind the wheel than my dad. I was never really close to my dad in the conventional sense. He tried much harder than me, but bless him, it didn't work out for us. In a typical British stiff upper-lip style, we had a nodding agreement between men, that says everything, and nothing much at all. I was only about nine years old when he decided it was better to step back from our family and I know for my brother and I, this was a relief. When parents don't get along, the children suffer because they don't know how to cope with conflict among the people they love equally. I don't blame my dad for any of the decisions he made, I've had to make some of the same ones, and they are not easy. I think anyone who knew him saw, as I did, a kind man, a good man, without a bad word for anyone (just don't cut him up on the road), and a man of honour. I know he wanted the best for all his children and did his best to make it happen. This caused him a lot of heartache, I know, and we probably didn't make him feel good about it. Children are very good at that. He's not with us any more, but I know he instilled in us a sense of right and wrong, respect for all, and a sense of responsibility that comes to us naturally. It's in our DNA and that's because of him. May he be remembered by us all as someone we should aspire to be, and that we leave this world as he did, a little better place than when we arrived. Gary Charles Sayers Eldest son of Charles Gilbert Sayers

Our Dad I'm sure that if I try hard, I have many memories of our dad over the first 15 years of my life, but only a few come up regularly in my thoughts of the past. Hardly any of them are interesting to anyone other than myself or my brother Keith I think, but here goes: I have a few memories of the times he visited to take us on week-ends to visit his mum in Kilburn (always salad and sardines for dinner on Sunday night) and his dad in Hythe Kent (fresh runner beans from the garden). His dad and step-mum Betty called him "Oats", but I never really got a straight answer why. Just smirks, and knowing looks at each other. Once, he took us to the West Country, because I'd heard it was beautiful. It was everything I'd heard about and more, he bought me a pen knife that I was silently admiring in a little village hardware store where we stopped on the way. He explained carefully what each blade was for. I still have it, along with a much older pen knife that I took from his toolbox he left at home. When I left the UK for good in 1992, both knives were among the five white shirts, two ties, and three pairs of trousers I took with me for a completely fresh start. The "new" knife is still in my toolbox 54 years later, and the old knife is on my bedside table ready to take a stone out of a horse's hoof any time it is required. He really wanted me to play golf, but I resisted strongly. Quite possibly because my first lesson involved getting up at 3am on a winter morning, putting a ball in the top of an 8 foot chute and sitting on a cold concrete bench until 10:30 when it was our turn to tee off. Four hours later the ordeal was over. Never understood how that would appeal to a 10 year-old. "You hit a ball as far as you can, and if you find it the same day you have won." He also wanted me to learn to drive and buy a car as soon as possible. He gave me my first lessons when I was way too young, and of course being an advanced instructor he was really a great teacher and encouraging me, but I was only thirteen. One early morning about a year after those five or so clandestine lessons, he arrived to take me to grandpa in Hythe. He told me he'd come straight from a party and had been drinking, so better I slap on those "L" plates and head east. Don't worry, he slurred, I'll tell you the way says he, just take it slow. I'd never been on main roads during the day up to this point, and I'm just able to reach the pedals with the seat pulled all the way forward, slow but sure he guided me along the A40 making small hand gestures and curt instructions indicating keep right, next lights left ....... He lasted until Blackfriars bridge. Coming to that nightmare junction, I looked over to see him sucking air like a broken hoover. Talk about a baptism of fire. I got us there safely, but I was so stressed, I couldn't feel proud, just weak in the knees and needing to lie down in a dark room. He woke up as we pulled into the driveway. Totaly refreshed, stretched, yawned and hugged his dad and Aunty Betty and went inside to have breakfast. He left me in the driveway feeling like a beached whale and as far as I remember, he never mentioned the journey, certainly not to his dad, and neither did I. I wonder what he'd have said? I was a useless student. He tried to teach me fishing on another visit to grandpa. Never caught anything. I was reeling in my line idly one day, as I lost my bait for the umpteenth time. Utterly demoralized, pulling the float slowly out of the water close to the bank, then the hook, Dad looked over just then and started laughing hard. I'd accidentally snagged a stickleback on the tip of the hook, perched up there like a ballerina in a high lift. Dad staggered, lost his footing and ended left leg deep in the river mud. I never heard the last of it, as he told Grandpa, Betty, and even her family who were visiting. Dad took a tea strainer from the kitchen and put it on the table. "There's your keep net for next time". In the days before digital odometers in cars, dad asked me to remember the last three digits on the clock before a long journey. It was a borrowed 1949 Triumph Mayflower he was driving, and as we were tanking home along the A40, the bonnet flew up and completely covered the windscreen. As though this happened every day, without any sign of panic, he wound the window down, poked his head out and carefully guided the vehicle to a safe stop at the side of the road. I was shocked, scared and admiring the cool-headed bravery of my dad all at once. There was never been anyone I felt safer with behind the wheel than my dad. I was never really close to my dad in the conventional sense. He tried much harder than me, but bless him, it didn't work out for us. In a typical British stiff upper-lip style, we had a nodding agreement between men, that says everything, and nothing much at all. I was only about nine years old when he decided it was better to step back from our family and I know for my brother and I, this was a relief. When parents don't get along, the children suffer because they don't know how to cope with conflict among the people they love equally. I don't blame my dad for any of the decisions he made, I've had to make some of the same ones, and they are not easy. I think anyone who knew him saw, as I did, a kind man, a good man, without a bad word for anyone (just don't cut him up on the road), and a man of honour. I know he wanted the best for all his children and did his best to make it happen. This caused him a lot of heartache, I know, and we probably didn't make him feel good about it. Children are very good at that. He's not with us any more, but I know he instilled in us a sense of right and wrong, respect for all, and a sense of responsibility that comes to us naturally. It's in our DNA and that's because of him. May he be remembered by us all as someone we should aspire to be, and that we leave this world as he did, a little better place than when we arrived. Gary Charles Sayers Eldest son of Charles Gilbert Sayers By the way dad, the number was 270, but I guess you won't be needing it any more...