We are connected, my child and I, By an invisible cord not seen by the eye. It's not like the cord that connects us at birth. This cord can't be seen by any on earth. The cord does it's work right from the start. It binds us together, attached to my heart. I know it's there, though no one can see - The invisible cord from my child to me. The strength of this cord, it's hard to describe. It can't be destroyed. It can't be denied. It's stronger than any cord man could create. It withstands the test, and can hold any weight. And though you are gone, Though you're not here with me, The cord is still there, but no one can see. It pulls at my heart...I am bruised...I am sore. But this cord is my lifeline as never before. I am thankful that God connects us this way. A Mother and Child.......death can't take it away

Kit Address Born in 1979, Kit was 11 years old by the time I first met him in the yard of the family home in Wombleton – surrounded by horses, ponies, dogs, and chickens I remember a friendly lad with a sunny smile and already the mischievous grin of a free spirit. By then Kit had already been coping with the effects of diabetes for the last 7 years, together with the tough and uncompromising restraints imposed by a disease from whose shadow he was never able to escape. Simply put, a failure to be injected with insulin twice a day could have lead to death at any time – quite a tough call for a country lad with a sweet tooth and an appetite for fun. The denial of what most youngsters take for granted cannot exactly have been a walk in the park for Kit, but he faced diabetes with good humour, his customary giant smile, and a rebellious refusal to be denied what ever other schoolboy pleasures he could find to amuse himself. Even at an early of age the free spirit we all came to know so well was beginning to manifest itself – Claire remembers one day having to barricade her four year old son into the stable yard to curb his wanderlust, only for him to escape Houdini style and be discovered at the other end of Wombleton village being fed Easter eggs by a sympathetic old lady. But there was no malice in these escapades, indeed Kit was often found himself in deep water despite his very best intentions – such as the time when he and Charlotte removed the pile of newspapers waiting to be collected from the village shop, and worked their way up Wombleton high street, stuffing at least one paper down every letterbox in the village. This generosity of spirit was again in evidence a few years later when he raided the jar of cash his father had hidden in the kitchen to buy all the kids in Wombleton village a take away meal – as you can imagine this Robin Hood approach to life won Kit many friends and admirers, and perhaps the occasional unscrupulous character ready to take advantage of his unusual kindness. By the age of 6 Kit had been given a donkey on which he learnt to ride, purchased for £25 from Pannal horse sales. When his father was killing poultry that Christmas came the worried plea, “don’t kill the donkey Dad, will you?”. Kit soon graduated to a pony called Bertie, although he was far too laid back to really enjoy the cut and thrust of competition he loved the hurly burly and the freedom of the hunting field, although I suspect he wondered just what all the fuss was about after he was blooded one winter Wednesday following the meet at Salton. He probably wondered what all the fuss was about a few years later when his black lurcher Tex took off after the hunted fox near Nawton village and robbed hounds of their reward. “What was I supposed to do about it”, was his perfectly reasonable response to the rantings of a frustrated huntsman. I suspect this was not the first time in Kit’s life that he had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time through no fault of his own. A few years later Kit returned home one day to find his bedroom had been allocated to the hunt’s new whipper-in – but typically, Kit was quite unfazed by this injustice. Kit was never that fond of school, in fact it would not be entirely inaccurate to say that he devoted more energy to avoiding lessons than attending them, much to his father’s frustration. But just as Michael knows that you can take a horse to water but not force it to drink, he was soon to learn that whilst Kit could be frogmarched into the classroom no-one was going to force him to learn about subjects that held no interest. He was far more interested in the school of Life than the academia. However he had a talent for art, which was recognised by the presentation of an award for his work by the Duchess of York. On leaving school a stint at Scarborough College was followed by a career shoeing horses, a trade he learnt from his father, and his friend Sparky E-H. Sparky remembers shoeing a Shetland pony called Jimmy for Celia Raines not long after Kit had begun work as an apprentice blacksmith, and when the pony started to play up was pleased to see Kit using his head and moving round to Jimmy’s other side to calm him down. “ I was just thinking that Kit was beginning to get the hang of this shoeing job at last when Jimmy let fly with both hind legs and caught Kit fair between the legs”, Sparky remembers. “He turned white as a sheet”. I think its fair to say Kit never looked on Shetland ponies in quite the same way again after that experience. I have told you my memories of Kit from his early years. When he was 18 years old I moved away to Leicestershire and about that time Kit discovered a talent and passion for music, something that his friends insist was Kit’s true vocation. You speak fondly of the “the mad, fantastic party nights” he conjured up as a DJ – I knew of Kit’s reputation as a party animal, now of course I regret never having witnessed his skills first hand. But I have read some of the tributes sent in by you his friends, and can see beyond any shadow of doubt that those traits of kindness and compassion so evident in the early years never deserted Kit as a man in later life. You write of his generosity of spirit, and his big, expansive – almost goofy – but undeniably infectious smile. You also write of his refreshingly non-judgemental outlook on his fellow human beings and his willingness to extend the hand of friendship to all. It seems that in life Kit touched many a chord….easy, warm, unfazed, laconic and always generous with his time for others, he possessed many of the attributes conspicuously absent in modern man. Remember we are gathered here today, not only to say goodbye to a son, brother, grandchild and for many here a very special friend – but also to celebrate the life of a warm hearted man and the pleasure he brought to so many through simply being Kit Brown.

THE BROKEN CHAIN We little knew that day that God was going to call your name, In life we loved you dearly, in death we do the same. It broke our hearts to lose you, you did not go alone, For part of us went with you, the day God called you home. You left us peaceful memories, your love is still our guide, And though we cannot see you, you are always at our side. Our family chain is broken, and nothing seems the same, But as God calls us one by one, the chain will link again.