Had my Dad been around he
would’ve turned 104 yesterday. He died eleven years ago, not long after his ninety
third birthday, and it became a little ritual that I’d ring him and inform him
I’d held a respectful one minute’s silence at the appropriate time in honour of
his special day.
English born and bred, he
lived through the First World War as a baby and toddler, and worked in the
Portsmouth Docks as a boilermaker during the Second World War, resulting in
hearing loss as he and his colleagues went about the noisy business of maintenance
and fitting out of ships. No such thing as Workplace Health and Safety back
then.
If anything, gardening was
what filled much of his day, for he simply enjoyed the satisfaction of
nurturing a tiny seed to its full potential, then harvesting seeds from what he’d
grown to continue the cycle as the seasons dictated.
My Dad was a somewhat
solitary man, and not overt when it came to expressing his feelings. A product
of his era, he would find other ways of showing his love for those who meant
the most to him, such as hiding away in the shed for long periods before
presenting us with delightful birthday gifts he’d made.
Ever the Englishman, he
would never leave the house without being properly attired, ironed pants,
shirt, tie, jacket, often a waistcoat, and hat, even just going to the corner
shop to buy the newspaper. I adopted his love of waistcoats, I wear them over a
loose shirt which he would probably think inappropriate as he always looked
very dapper in his, and I kept one of his hats after he died, which I enjoy wearing
now and again when the mood strikes.
Happy Birthday Dad.
Father’s smart grey suit
clean shirt, tie, waistcoat
and hat
his suit of armour
