When my brothers and I were growing up, our dad would regale us with stories about his 1950s childhood in a small town called Ellwood City in the Western Appalachian Mountains of Pennsylvania.

He told us about the ‘soap box derby’ a local downhill race he won in a handmade go-cart, about playing the flute in the high-school marching band, of summers spent on his uncle’s dairy farm and the dog that would turn the wheel to churn the butter. About being a volunteer fire-fighter in Oregon, or about his veterinary training and the time he took the stink out of a skunk, or when performed a cat-to-cat blood transfusion. Though his childhood and family in the US were far away in time and place, they were always close by in his heart and mind and became vivid to us through these stories.

Our dad came to Edinburgh in 1965 to pursue his love of science, but he ended up finding, and forming, our family there. When he met our mum Teresa, at an aprčs-ski tea dance during the University Ski Club’s New Year trip, he found not only a love that was to last and grow for the rest of his life, but also a connection to a Scottish family who welcomed him with open arms. Our grandfather, John McMahon, was so impressed by this young American, on the path to become a doctor and endowed with a generous grant, that he was able to overlook the inconvenient fact that he was protestant. Our mum found in him someone quite unlike the local Glaswegian lads she had known until then: an unusually funny, bright and forthright individual. ‘We should get married’ said Eric to Teresa in Autumn 1966: his parents were coming to visit for Christmas, they could kill two birds with one stone.

My parents did not end up moving to the US, as my mum had originally envisaged. Instead they ended up in Manchester, our dad following his close friend and colleague Bill Ford to the Manchester Medical School in 1975. He became a British citizen in 1973, and although he lost his American accent quickly, certain Americanisms remained: ‘terrific’ was one of his favourite words, and he never quite mastered the English pronunciation of the word ‘tube’, as in ‘tube of toothpaste’, or ‘tooba toothpaste’ as he put it.

My parents, Brendan and myself moved into the house in Bowdon, just down the road from here, and a few months later Bruce was born. Our dad was an attentive, boisterous, funny, engaged and loving father. He played the monster at birthday parties, chasing squealing children around the house, put up tents on family holidays, made endless jokes, laughing heartily at them all, and could pull off the tip of his own thumb. He must have read the Tale of the Little Mermaid to me a thousand times. As my brothers and I grew up, he was non-judgmental and wise about the inevitable mistakes we made along the road. He was supportive of our decisions, our friends and our choices. His strong ethical core and fine moral compass was present in all of his advice and opinions and he showed us through example how to live a good life.

This moral compass extended to all other aspects of his life. His political views were always clearly expressed no matter whom he was talking to. They were socially engaged, with compassion towards others less fortunate or in difficulty. Our family dinners throughout the 1980s were characterized by lively political discussions, and he took us all out to dinner, a rare treat, on the day that Margaret Thatcher resigned. During his years as a Magistrate, he put his compassion into action. He loved animals, and was devoted to each of our pet cats. He was passionate about trees and the environment, whether as a member of the Bowdon Conservation Group or a volunteer gardener at Denzel gardens. Over the course of many years, he would remove tiny saplings that had grown from stray chestnuts or acorns in our garden, and transplant them to the Devisdale.

Our father was a man of great integrity but he wasn’t stuffy or rigid and knew how to engage enthusiastically and enjoy the good things in life. He was clear and passionate about his research and teaching, but also knew how to keep his students’ attention, whether through the psychedelic paisley neckties that would peek out of his white lab-coat, or the comedy slides he snuck into his lectures. He loved art, music and culture, having begun his further education with a liberal arts degree at Oberlin College in the US. He was a dedicated handyman – builder of bunk-beds and cabinets, of dolls-houses and multi-story car-parks, a committed painter and wall-paperer, an all around Mr. Fixit, who never threw away a piece of wood that could come in useful one day. His twin passions for gardening and animals are manifest in the cat-shaped topiary still thriving in the back garden at 15 Winton Road. He was a passionate stamp collector, hiker, whisky-drinker, whistler, and card player. He was even clear and passionate about how best to stack the dishwasher.

Kind, funny, charming and fundamentally decent, our dad left a strong impression on those he met. Even in his later years when his health had started to decline, he would come out with a witty remark, a sharp observation or a peal of laughter and lighten the mood of our mum or his carers. He was an excellent role model as a father and as a grandfather to his eight grandchildren.

Our dad, Eric Bell, was a loving and beloved grandfather, father, husband, brother and son. He was a treasured colleague, friend and neighbor. He will be greatly missed, but the memories and wisdom he left us with remain. We are grateful to those who have come here today to remember him together.

I1 Brendan John Bell, born 04/18/1969.

I2 Kirsten Elizabeth Bell, born 02/17/1971.

I3 David Bruce Bell, born 11/09/1975.