The following anecdote I wrote soon after the fact.
Christmas Day 2011 Dad took the dog for a walk after dinner and had him a tumble. A local man appeared at the door with the dog and said dad was down the road but not dead, he had somehow punched his own face with the pavement. The medic, already there, said it looked worse than it was, as a face bleeds profusely. He had cut his lip (punctured it with his teeth) and gashed his brow. He was disorientated, giving the medic a home address of some 20 years ago. A short trip to the hospital for stitches and he was back. We told him to take pain killers, because if it didn’t sting then, it would hurt like hell during the night.
That man is an ox. He never did complain about the pain, but he was curious about the swelling. The next morning I saw him checking his face in the mirror. I didn’t catch it that time, but I had my camera ready and primed for the next. I got this shot the second day after the fall.
Dad died on Nov. 1, 2015. I gave this speech at his funeral.
When I was old enough to really know dad, he was already the age I am now, halfway through his life. He’d gone through school, started the job he would always hold, working for British Rail. He had already become the person he would always be, had got married, adopted a child, and had five children of his own by that point. But I feel he was a very private man, and kept many things close to his chest. And although we think we know everything about our parents, there is so much about their early, formative years that we have no idea about.
When I was a grown man, I used to think of dad, sitting in his chair, lost in thought, or absorbed in watching sport, which he loved, on TV. And I would think, ask him. Ask him about who he is. Ask him about what he is thinking about. Get to know him, properly. I didn’t. And after the stroke in 2008, that question would become complicated, anyway.
Two days ago, I asked his brother, John. And this is what I found out:
As a young man, dad was an avid reader, a popular, well-liked young man with a playful, silly sense of humour, always larking about. This sense of humour he inherited from his father. He was very much into sports, mainly cricket and football. He played both. He loved watching county cricket. He was noticed for having real potential as a cricket player, and for a time was on the Rochford Athletic cricket selection committee. He left school at 15 and went straight to the Railways. Then, at the age of 16, he had a serious accident, and ended up spending six weeks to three months in a London hospital. That accident affected him. He became a completely different man, much more serious. The photo on the front of the order of service is dad in his work clothes at the age of around 20, a few years after the accident.
John inherited his practical side from their father. Dad, not so much. He had very innovative DIY methods: why place an electrical socket dead square when it can be on an aesthetically more pleasing kilter? And when he said painting the window, he meant… [at this point, I saw my mother mouth the finish of the sentence]
Work and home life were kept separate. He loved being at work with his mates, and was very popular at work, but his association with those mates did not survive his retirement. He worked very hard, always doing overtime, earning money to support his family.
We children have many fond memories of dad. Keith remembers his quirky sense of humour. Cathy recalls the many days out we had. Bernard asked me to mention the magic shows he gave, and of the time he took him, Eden and me to see Star Wars in 1977. I remember his generosity and his support. Many of us have benefitted from his generosity, and if ever we got into trouble, or let him down in some way, he gave us his quiet, unquestioned support, and never did he judge us.
All of us children, Bernard, Eden, Catherine, Rachael, me, Keith, Jonathon, all carry aspects of dad with us. His strengths, and his flaws. His sense of humour (Eden, I’m looking at you); his fierce loyalty and his moral compass, Cathy; his demand for respect, often not forthcoming; his occasional intransigence and sheer obstinacy, Bob, that’s yours; his fondness for solitude and wariness of strangers and utter lack of patience for those who he felt had let him down in some way, to which I own up to; his generosity and selflessness when needed, Keith; his insecurities, his keeping to his comfort zones, Rachael; his love for sport, Bernie; and his understatement of his love for, and pride in, his children, Eden, Cathy, Bernie.
Dad is in our blood, he’s in our bones, he’s half of us, he’s still there. We don’t need to ask him who he is, because we carry him around with us.
Dear XXXX,
Nice to hear from you. I guess from the sentence that you sent you are still finding it difficult to adjust to life in a world without your dad. That must be very difficult. I hope that you will be able to find some equilibrium with the new reality over time.
I won’t say that I know what you’re going through, because for some reason I don’t seem to have been struck in such a way by my own father’s death. I looked at some photos of him from a few years ago. He was smiling but looking slightly uncomfortable because I had a camera in his face, but that rather sheepish smile was him through and through. And then I saw a photo of him just after his stroke, smiling again, but naturally this time. And while these are very dad, and remind me of him, I don’t get the sense that he is gone. That is, I don’t feel it. I know he is no longer here. I’m not sure if I understand that. I always thought this would be so much more difficult to deal with.
Keep passing the open windows, XXXXX. Let me know your news.
Paul
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