Happy Birthday, Dad

Happy birthday Dad. You would have been 81 years old today.

 

 

It is almost eight years since you died but the memories as, ever, are strong. Perhaps the strongest, the one which resonates through all aspects of my life, was the joy of reading you kindled. Mum bought the books but you read them to me. In fact, I have no memory of Mum ever reading to me. It was always you. Snuggled into your arms, on your lap, a Little Golden Book in your hand.

You were not overly educated—the Brothers suggested strongly to you that you should leave school as soon as you were fourteen—but you had enough learning to run your own business from the earliest days of your married life until your death. And, although you were not much of a reader yourself, you read to me, and had a good storytelling voice. My strongest reading memory was when I was five and in hospital for tonsils, I think. That bit is not important. The thing that is important is I woke up on the night of the operation and I started howling, as ‘My Dad’ was not there to read me a story. No matter how late you came home, you always read to me. But you were not there that night. Where were you? ‘Where’s my Dad?’ I howled. Perhaps it wasn’t tonsils, then, but the time I had my appendix out. How many five year olds could howl after having their tonsils out? And howled I did. Continuously until the poor demented night nurse rang you up and told you ‘to get down here and shut that kid up.’ And you did. And you read to me. The Taxi that Hurried. My favourite book.

 

 

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That copy, of course, is long gone but sometime after we married, David picked up a copy at a fete, or garage sale, or some such. I sat down to read it and, do you know, despite the many times I had demanded it, and you patiently read it, I could not remember one single word? I could not even remember the pictures. All I could recall was the fact of you reading it. The warmth of your arms and the sound of your voice, hesitating a little over the words, the sight of your hands as you turned the pages.   

This replacement copy sits on my bookcase, face out, along with your glasses. When the great sort-through-and-toss-out occurred after your death, I could not bear to throw out something so intimate, something that was so much a part of you. Every wedding photo had you with your photosensitive lenses. They were always perched on the end of your nose as you poured over the race guide or the paper. Funny, though, my favourite photo is one of the rare ones without your glasses!

So your glasses sit in my bookcase, reflected in my wardrobe mirror so I can see them as I lie in bed reading. Reminding me of you, and the part you played in my reading life. Because as soon as I could read myself, I was off! You stopped reading to me but I had grown beyond the Little Golden Books. And at that point, our closeness stopped. I was still your little princess but my sister became your favourite as she shared your interests more. I became more my mother’s daughter. I may have left your lap, and my sister may have tagged after you as your little helper, but you never stopped loving and supporting me.

I still turned to you when something needs doing. How do you go about doing home repairs? Renovations? What is the best brand of this that or the other. All the things a handy father knows. And although they may have passed to some garbage tip or op shop somewhere in my travels, I still remember my first adult bed you found listed in the second hand section of the Telegraph. You drove from Orange to Sydney to organise it. You found a freezer when I moved into my first flat on my own. It too was second hand and lasted longer than the first marriage and well into the second. The dryer fell apart at the seams and when we bought a replacement, it never occurred to us, as it had to you, that dryers need to have a special tumbling action if you want creaseless clothes. We hardly ever use that dryer! You even organised the mate of my former husband to cart the new (used) fridge you found me, again, scrutinising the second hand pages, with your glasses falling down your nose, back in Orange, while I was in Sydney wondering how I would go about buying a fridge.

And even more recently, you loaned us the money to start the book shop while we were broke and desperately trying to sell the post office. We only ever paid back some of it as we struggled to establish the new business while trying to get rid of the first. But we tried. You never saw the new shop but you were there helping as ever. You mixed the paint for my brother who  painted it. I picked up a swatch and decided that was what I wanted. It was not the brand you favoured, it was for outside use, it was just not suitable for what we wanted, but you mixed the colour perfectly. Every time I walk in there, I think of you.

You kindled the love of reading in me and that took me places I never would have imagined. Neither you nor Mum had a great education but you wanted me, your first born, to go to university and be a teacher. I disappointed you, but I, at least, woke up to the fact that I was not cut out to be a teacher. But I continued to read, for pleasure, for enjoyment, for escapism. I cannot even sleep if I have not read at least a few pages (and generally a few chapters). A legacy of not being able to sleep until My Dad had read me a story? I would not be surprised.

You were not overly demonstrative and never told me you were proud of anything I had done. I had to hear it from my Godmother. Despite knowing how important books were in my life (did I ever forgive you for throwing our my Enid Blyton books? It is totally beside the point they went mouldy, you still tossed them) you never seemed to understand why I started to write my own books. When I gave you a copy of my first journal article, in the published journal, you asked what would you want with that? That hurt. But I realised afterwards it was just your way. Mum was the same. She would not tell me that she was proud, but she would skite soon enough to her friends. She could not get on the phone fast enough. Of course, she did not live to see those first articles, or the first book. Nor did you see the first book. But I at least had time to tell you before you died that it had gone to the publisher.

There was not much time before you died to tell you anything really. I often relive those last moments. The last time I spoke with you. It was a Tuesday. It was such a rushed trip back to Orange. We arrived to pick up the girls, who were coming to spend a few days with us. Their great adventure in Canberra. We were a day late as Tiggy, our beloved cat, died the day before. We had a rushed lunch, a few hurried words, I cannot even remember what about. We admired the new kitchen which you had just had done. Collected the girls. And you gave me a set of sheets. I treasured them, even though they were the roughest I have ever had! And they dyed every pair of white knickers mauve! Because naturally I washed navy sheets with my whites. I am a bit dim that way. And then we headed off. I cannot remember if we hugged or kissed as we were not an overly demonstrative family and rarely did anyway. I did not ring you that night, but the girls did.

We had a grand but tiring week. You were never far from our thoughts. I suggested to the girls that they buy you a little something with their holiday money, and they rang to tell their Pop what they were doing. Then their father came to take them home so I did not see you again. That was the Sunday morning, the 10th. Then on the that Sunday night, I was just going to bed. I was cleaning my teeth, of all things, and David came in with the terrible news. You had gone to bed, and never woke up. Aunty Zanna said you were not in pain, if you had a heart attack, and that is what they supposed, you did not wake anxious and struggling to get your tablets, which were all lined up there next to you. I never saw you, but I can see you, curled on your side, with your hands to your face, snoring. Then not snoring.

I remember the time you and I and my sister went on a holiday together. The first time, your snoring and her snoring were so loud you kept me awake. The second time, I was wise to it, and you two shared, rather than we three or the girls. I slept in peace and you two slept despite your best efforts. I had said on the last trip, as we sat on the veranda of some plush golf course near Cairns, that we could now look forward to our next holiday in fourteen years. It was about fourteen years since the last one, so now we had a tradition. You said you would not be here for it. I did not believe you. You were right.

And so, curled up on your bed, you slept and never woke. My life had changed, irrevocably, again. I was an orphan. The second life line of a parent had gone. It was a terrible, dark period and the only joy during that time was your final gift. Misty, the little Siamese you had bought for Mum before she died, who I said I would take after Mum died, but you said no, finally came to me. She brought with her memories of her first Dad to give us much delight. She obviously used to watch the greyhound racing curled up with you because she would often bound from the imaginary starting cage down the hall. Given a choice of listening to David’s radio tuned to the sport or mine to music, she always gravitated to the sports channel. I know how you were curled up in bed because I have one of my last photos of you, curled up on your bed with Misty beside you. That image has transferred to a place and time where I never was, but I can see it so clearly.

And there are the dates I don’t want to remember. The horrible day we returned to Orange. And you weren’t there. Those afternoons when the condolence calls had to be made. We avoided them. And the funeral. That dismal day where the sun struggled to shine but the rain was kept at bay. We horrified the family by committing the heresy of not attending the wake. I cannot stand those. We took the girls to the race course and said a little prayer there. Releasing some petals from the funeral flowers in the wind. I think, for me, that was a more fitting memorial that any gathering which I would have only endured.

But there is the date I do remember, the 16th, when Misty came home with us. A constant reminder of you, and Mum. (Sadly, Misty, too, has now gone.) And there are the things I will always remember and treasure. There is The Taxi that Hurried, perched up on the book case, reflected in the mirror. There are your glasses, through which you looked at me as I grew and went on to live my own life. And there is my second book, dedicated to my parents. Thérèse and John.

You exist now only in memory and frozen image, but also in a strange confused reincarnation when I watch a Bing Crosby movie—you have the same sticky-outy ears; the same high forehead—and when I hear Bing sing—you had the same Bing-dip in your voice. And of course, you liked Bing so it is not too much of a leap for Bing to remind me of you. Even if you don’t really look like him.

 

 

Happy birthday, Dad. You may be gone, but you are still here in my memories that come at will, or unbidden, or triggered. Your love, unsaid, but proven many a time, is still alive.