Things My Father Told Me

To be honest, my father never really told me very much at all.  When I was growing up my dad worked twelve hours a day, six days a week. The seventh day was spent recuperating and recharging his batteries for the next onslaught.  So, there really wasn't a lot of time for talking.

Anything I ever gleaned from my dad was more by a process of osmosis than any other means.  He is a stickler for keeping promises and never letting people down, something that held a lot of sway as I was growing up. If dad said he was going to do something, then come rain, hail or shine, he did it.  I don't remember him ever putting it into words but it must have rubbed off on me, as I pride myself on my reliability to this day.

Although my dad never offered much advice to me there was something he was supposed to tell my elder brother when he was about eleven: the facts of life. My mum had already discussed the female side of things with me, their only daughter, leaving me slightly stunned and horrified but strangely smug to be part of that elite club in the early sixties, 'Girls in the Know.'

For some reason, presumably to soften the blow, dad was dispatched to a newly built hotel in the Lakes (where he and mum had previously enjoyed a rare childless weekend - I'm not sure whether this was significant) with an unsuspecting and very excited eleven year old boy.  I, of course, had no idea of this cunning plan, and probably did a lot of whining about missing out on what sounded like a fun trip. It was years later that my brother confessed they had spent a wonderful weekend, eating posh food, going for long walks and rowing on the lake, and as they neared our house on their return, dad patted Geoff on the shoulder and muttered, much to my brother's bemusement, 'Anything you want to know, son, just ask.'

The whole episode was to be repeated a few years later with my younger brother, only this time our next door neighbour (who subsequently turned out to be quite a 'ladies man') inexplicably decided he would accompany them.  John had a whale of a time and the threesome returned home without the birds and the bees ever having been mentioned.  My father might not have told them but they didn't do so badly finding out for themselves.

One thing I do remember my dad telling me about was space, the planets and natural elements.  Even at a young age I realised how interested and knowledgeable he was. He had a big book, full of brightly coloured photos, that absolutely fascinated me.  I don’t know whether it was the colours or the drama of the images but I do know I would sit, long before I could read, flicking over the pages and marvelling at the vastness of a desert or the vibrant orange hues of a dramatic sunset.

In fact, my dad was knowledgeable about a lot of things (a source of many an argument when I was in my teens).  He was an expert in mathematics and spent hours reading books and pondering on mathematical problems.  All of which should have been a great asset when I needed to catch up on two years of Advanced Maths before the ‘O’ level exam.  What I had omitted to tell him was that I had absolutely no understanding of any of it and had spent most lessons in a state of terrified petrification, desperately trying to copy the answers from the boy next to me.  The planned extra lessons with dad lasted a total of approximately forty five minutes, most of which was taken up with dad nearly exploding with frustration and me in tears.  When the exam came I wrote my name at the top of the paper, then sat for two hours, staring at the rows of bent backs in front of me.

Driving lessons followed a similar path.  In dad’s defence, I have to admit I was a worrying combination of nervous and temperamental.  In my defence, dad never did have a lot of patience.  With hindsight, a recipe for disaster.  It started off quite amiably, with my mum taking each of us to one side before we left, and offering helpful advice.  We had a mission this day.  We were taking my brother to the tube station.  I wasn’t too happy about having a second passenger but settled myself into the driving seat.  Dad said, with a false calmness, “All right, when you’re ready.”  Apprehensively I switched on the engine, put my foot on the gas and took off the handbrake.  The car lurched forward, Geoff nearly shot out of his seat, dad’s head missed the windscreen by about half an inch, and I burst into tears.  I threw the door open and marched back to the house, passengers’ laughter ringing in my ears.  Dad drove Geoff to the tube and I never had another lesson.

My dad’s ninety now, still doing the Telegraph crossword every day, still pondering maths and philosophical problems and, above all, probably mightily relieved that he doesn’t have to deliver the facts of life to eleven year old boys or teach a stroppy teenager to drive.

My dad, who made me half of what I am

I wrote this a while ago for a Fathers' Day competition in the Guardian.  It was composed following an emotional afternoon going through old photos, with the last line added for my dad's ninetieth birthday celebrations, earlier this year.

Dear Dad,

 You are the slim young man with the thick wavy hair, caught forever in the 1940s, strolling with mum along the prom at Margate 

You are the proud father of one, two and – whoops – three babies, reluctantly posing against the1950s décor 

You are the stressed looking thirty-something, sprung to life in a fading Polaroid, with three grinning teens in ‘60s shades

 You are the pale, gaunt figure, with empty eyes, in the grip of a nervous breakdown - knife poised purposefully above the Silver Wedding cake

You are the handsome dad, smiling self-consciously at your sons’ weddings, then beaming at the congregation as you walk me proudly down the aisle  

You are the relaxed and happy grey-haired man in 70s sweater, gazing fondly at the first of eight grandchildren 

You are the proud husband at the end of the century, fifty years married, squinting as the sun makes a sudden break through the clouds, and your family laughs around you 

You are the octogenarian magician, mesmerising great-grandchildren. 

You are the slightly stooping, white haired man, serenading mum on your Diamond Wedding Anniversary, as I wipe away tears

You are my 90 year old dad and I love you. 

Thanks for reading        Jill

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A Spring In His Step

Two walking sticks hang forlornly on the banisters; a walking frame with wheels and padded seat is parked in the bay window. My dad, just turned ninety, sits in the chair that at the touch of a button will propel him, if not upright, then at least into a standing position.  

This is the dad who always had a spring in his step. Physically.  He bounced as he walked.  I can see him now, his head bobbing up and down as he strode through the park on his way home from work, briefcase swinging by his side, suit jacket hanging loose. He was nearly 80 when he finally retired and the spring in his step might have become a little rusty by then, but still the bounce remained. 

When he was seventeen dad and his best friend, John, walked twenty five miles around London in six hours.  A twelve hour, fifty mile walk through Hertfordshire followed, and (no pun intended), dad took it all in his stride: that's what seventeen year olds did in the 1940s.  The spring in their steps would have been obvious: two young lads, on the cusp of adulthood, their whole lives before them; an escape from the relentlessness of war for a few hours, a physical challenge, a day out with the best friend, a chat, a laugh, no doubt a pint and a pipe at the end of it.  And, for my dad, maybe the thought of his best friend's sister, who, a few years later, would become my mum. 

Metaphorically, though, my dad hasn't always had a spring in his step. He suffered bouts of severe depression in his forties and fifties, and went through a very bad time. I was away at Art College, and like most teenagers, I was pretty self obsessed and selfish, ignoring the GP who advised me to come home and be with my dad. That advice seems quite strange to me now, but this was the same GP who took his own life not long after that, so I suppose he was ultra sensitive to the needs of a depressed patient. 

Happily, my dad came through the depression and got the spring back in his step. Life was good again.  There were children, grandchildren and great grandchildren to guarantee that. The walking continued, both near and far: the head that bobbed across London, also bobbed up hills and down dales in the Peak District and Lakes. 

My dad was a walking, spring stepping, head bobbing giant. 

Two weeks ago, on his daily walk around the block with a stick, dad had a funny turn. His legs slowed down and refused to go on. Exhausted, he was rescued by a Good Samaritan and brought home. It looks like dad's solo walking days are finally over. 

As I get ready to leave my parents' house after a visit last week dad presses the button on the chair, steadies himself and shuffles up the hall with mum. Arms around each other, they wave and blow kisses as I set off down the road, a scene frequently repeated over the past fifty years. 

I reflect on my visit as the train draws into Blackpool. 

“I'm happier now than I've ever been,” my dad had said emphatically when I'd expressed sadness that his walking had been curtailed, “I have my crossword, food which I love, the computer, books…..Oh and mum.” 

The spring in his step is still there, safe in dad's head. 

My elder son is meeting me at the station. I spot him in the distance, head bobbing up and down as he bounces towards me……. 

 

 

A Spring in the Step

It’s the little things, the daily rituals

That now put a spring in his step…
 

Mid morning cafetiere

Warmed and coffee measured just so

Its smoky aroma wafting sensuously through the rooms

Teasing and promising in equal measure

Old feet meet in the kitchen

Coffee poured and sipped

In comfortable silence
 

Crossword clues fight for attention

In a brain that still remembers

Every detail of his childhood

The chemical symbol for sodium

Pythagoras theorem

And that his first house cost more

Than the car he bought 40 years later
 

The prospect of kippers for dinner

Ground black pepper, a tomato quartered

Brown bread sliced thin and butter thick

Strong tea in a pot

He lets his mind wander

To teas long ago

Jelly, tinned fruit , pink salmon, blancmange……
 

Seated opposite

Mary, his best friend's sister

The girl of his dreams at seventeen

His sweetheart for seven decades

Eases herself up

Touches his hand as she goes out of the door
 

He smiles, life's good,

There is still

A spring in his step.

 Jill Reidy

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