Frank Lee was born at High Melton Hill into a bustling, boisterous family. He was the son of George Lee and Mary Shaw, and one of fifteen children—though only eleven of the siblings made it through to adulthood. It was a different time, and hardship was part and parcel of life for many. Frank’s mum, Mary, sadly passed away when he was still a child, a loss that shaped his early years.

After her death, and following a family incident, young Frank was sent to live with his grandad in Mexborough. His grandad was a ferryman—a man of the river—and it was here that Frank learned resilience, self-reliance, and how to keep things ticking over in a tight-knit working-class community. He returned to Denaby and Conisbrough for most of his growing-up years, places that would always feel like home. He attended Northcliffe School, though truth be told, he wasn’t all that fussed about it. The classroom just didn’t have the same pull for him as real life did.

Frank left school and began working life as an apprentice builder. But it wasn’t long before he swapped bricklaying for a very different kind of uniform. He joined the British Army, where he served in the Royal Armoured Corps as a driver. While out in Malaya, he transferred into the Special Air Service—the SAS—where he served under the likes of Colonel ‘Mad Mike’ Calvert. It’s not every man who can say that. Frank served with distinction across Hong Kong, Malaya, and Singapore, before returning to the UK in 1953. He was officially discharged from the Army on 20th July 1954.

The nickname “Panga” followed him home from his time in the service—so much so, in fact, that there was even a newspaper cartoon strip about a character called Panga and his parrot that ran in Edlington. It always gave the locals a laugh, and for those in the know, it was a wink and a nod to the legend who walked among them.

Before his return from the Army, something else momentous had happened in Frank’s life. He met Barbara Hughes at the cinema. He was sat behind her, and like any proper cheeky lad, he pulled her hair. And that, as they say, was that. A spark lit that day and never went out. They courted for a few years before tying the knot on the 15th of August 1953 at Denaby Main Church. Their first home together was on Chestnut Grove, while Frank was still in uniform. Then came Montague Avenue, Maple Grove, Woodset Walk, and eventually Micklebring, where they settled into a bungalow in later life.

Frank and Barbara were blessed with three children: Philip, Adrian, and Brenda. And from there, the family tree grew ever stronger—with grandchildren David and Gavin, and great-grandchildren Reuben, Theodore, and Benjamin, all continuing his legacy.

Once Frank had finished his time in the Army, he returned to a different kind of front line—the coalface. He worked as a miner at Cadeby, Denaby Main, and Edlington. A hard graft, but Frank was made of tough stuff. He worked through the good times and the bad, right up until he retired shortly after the miners’ strikes, when redundancy was offered. It was the end of an era, but also the beginning of a new chapter.

With retirement came more time for family and fun. Frank and Barbara made the most of it. They loved their holidays, both home and abroad. Family trips took them to Chapel St Leonards, Caton Bay, Bridlington, and Blackpool. There were also the legendary Derbyshire Miners’ trips. It was on one of these that Brenda was warned about naughty kids being taken away in the fluff and dry laundry vans and washed in the sea. That, apparently, explained all the sea foam. And if that wasn’t enough, misbehaving kids were also threatened with being sent to the workhouse—which, to Brenda’s delight, was actually a sweet factory nearby. She quite fancied it!

In retirement, Frank and Barbara enjoyed a month every January in Tunisia. They also had a timeshare in Tenerife and a caravan in Skegness, heading off for weeks at a time. When Frank would ring home from Tenerife, he’d go through a checklist with Adrian—the house, the garden, the weather—before finally asking how he was. Classic Frank. On one memorable Tunisia trip, a language barrier in a local café meant they had no idea what they’d ordered—until the table was full to bursting with food and drinks. Brenda, who joined them once, wasn’t quite as impressed—especially with the toilet facilities.

Back home, Frank had a proper Yorkshire sense of humour and was well known for being a wind-up merchant. He had a twinkle in his eye and charm to spare. Even when he was in hospital, he was still sweet-talking the nurses. He could be cheeky, like the time he told his pit boss Barbara had leukaemia just to get a day off work. The boss turned up with flowers, and Barbara hadn’t a clue what was going on. Nearly cost him his job!

He had a passion for horse racing, spending time at The Grove, where they even had their own in-house bookie. He loved a pint of John Smith’s—“it’s like wine,” he’d say, just to wind Adrian up. He was a regular at The Grove on Sundays and the Ivanhoe pub on Mondays with his mates. There were racing trips, fishing tournaments, and card games galore—solo and whist being his favourites.

Frank was a keen fisherman and often went to Cusworth Hall for a quiet cast. He enjoyed snooker and cricket, even captaining Conisbrough Cricket Club in his younger days. And then there were the greyhounds. Frank, Jimmy, Albert, the kids, and the dog would all somehow cram into a Mini to head off to races. Brenda used to get told off for feeding the dogs sweets—she thought they were family pets. Turns out, they were dinner. Jemima the duck, Brenda’s favourite, made it to the table too. A true Yorkshireman, Frank made the most of what they had. He was practical, proud, and resourceful.

He kept a thriving garden—growing tomatoes, leeks, runner beans, and marrows. He was proud of it. One time, he took Brenda and Philip out in search of sheep poo, convinced it would help his tomato crop. They ended up in a cow field. As the cows got closer, Brenda raised the alarm. Frank told her not to worry. But when even he realised the cows weren’t stopping, he legged it—sprinting past both kids in a blur of panic and pride.

He’d send Brenda down the butchers with a shilling to fetch dog meat. The butcher always knew better and gave her a bone for the dog, knowing full well the meat was for tea. It was a time of getting by, of helping one another, and Frank never forgot his roots. He even acted as a local money lender among his mates. Nobody dared cross him—he was ex-SAS after all.

There were softer sides too. Frank loved to tell stories, especially to Philip. One of his favourites was the tale of parachute training. “You jump from 1,000 feet, then 2,000, then 3,000… and then, at 10,000 feet, that’s when they finally give you the parachute.” Classic Panga. He also took Adrian to see Star Wars and Jaws, sparking a lifelong obsession with one, and a deep-rooted fear of the other.

Frank Lee lived life to the full—on his own terms, with courage, humour, and love. From ferrying across the river with his grandad to serving with the SAS, raising a family, and becoming a beloved part of the community, Frank never lost sight of who he was. He was a husband, dad, grandad, great-grandad, mate, miner, mischief-maker, and a legend in his own time.

He may have gone, but his stories, laughter, and legacy will echo on for generations to come.

Before we move on to the reflection, for those of you who have one, you will have noticed a slip on the inside of the order of service. It’s a special thank you from Brenda to Adrian and it says this.