This letter was written to Dad on a writing pad using a pen almost thirty years ago. The
paper has yellowed and it is difficult to read so I have re-created it below.
15th November 1990
Hello Dad, I really don’t understand why I’m writing this and perhaps I’ll even say some
of these things at your funeral but, of course, I don’t think you’ll hear them then! So
maybe it’s a simple case of letting you know before it’s too late.
Perhaps too Dad, you know all this stuff, but I feel I ought to tell you anyway.
You know, looking back forty years ago or so, I can remember so many highlights and
happy memories that I could talk and write about them for hours. Maybe for days! I can
recall the precise second when you told me I was riding the bike without your supporting
hand on the seat. You were running beside me, it was dark, and we were close to Munro
Ave in Dent Street. I could ride a bike!
I can remember jumping up and down in a cot in a hospital ward when I knew you and
Mum were about to come through the door to take me home. I was almost jumping over
the rails of the cot with excitement.
Can you remember taking me to the old St Michaels hall to watch me in the school play.
I was seven or eight and I was to act as a cobbler along with three other kids. Graeme
Maloney upstaged me and I was terribly upset at not being the best actor on stage.
I can remember you walking in the back door or 37 Munro around 7pm and kissing Mum.
I can remember you walking in that door about five thousand times. And all of us kids
sat and watched you kissed Mum every time. And usually a few words of explanation, “I
had to walk from Warrigal road” or “I got a lift to Munro Ave” or “Gosh, I just missed
the bus and had to wait forty minutes.”
I remember you labouring away on your one day a week off and watching as you turned
our barren block of land into the prettiest garden in the suburb. I remember train rides
to the Oaks Day races with you. It was a once a year treat for you and me. And of
course I recall all those visits to the Melbourne Show on Tuesday afternoons. We were all
with you when I heard “Rock around the clock” in 1955 for the first time ever. Do you
remember muttering at breakfast about Elvis Presley (or Priestly as you pronounced it)
singing “Heartbreak Hotel?” “Good God Aggie, what kind of a name is that?”
Do you remember the talk you gave me about the facts of life? You were trying hard to
explain about moral standards. We were sitting by the ashes of our fire. It was the same
day as Graeme Rekdales wedding (which we had at 37 Munro). His bride was pregnant
and I didn’t understand what it all meant.
And what about the talk you gave me when I came home a little drunk after the “six
o’clock swill” in the early days of me working in advertising. I was so ashamed that I
could hardly talk to you. And I could hardly speak I was so tipsy. We were standing near
the front gates. Father to son. Another lesson.
I can recall you complaining about five lights being left on and about the fact that I
never helped out around the house or in the garden. Did I cop it more than the others
because I was the oldest?
And you probably created a world record with the number of time you helped me out of
trouble. There was London. You even knew the police were looking for me at one stage
and you never said a word but helped me escape. And Calcutta! You helped me again
with money or else I’d still be living in the streets of India. Then you helped me with E.J’s
Restaurant in Canberra. You had your doubts about it being successful but you were still
there again to help. And rarely did you criticise.
So Dad, without going on for another hour you have been one helluva good Old Man. You
did more than teach me right from wrong. You taught me fairness and kindness. You
taught me in the best possible way...by example. Mostly I didn’t realise that you were
teaching me at all but you surely did.
Thanks Dad for a lifetime of working without a word of complaint. One wage and six
kids. Endless slog and through it all I sensed your cheerfulness. Always amused in some
way at the goings-on with the neighbours and the world.
Thanks from the depths of my soul for not being a drinker. Thanks for not coming home
in some alcoholic rage and belting the hell out of me for nothing. And it seems we never
had any serious disagreements in forty years. Thanks for the touring and camping we
did. Every camping trip was a treasure. Thanks most of all for simply “being there”. You
were always there Dad.
Of course, all of this would apply as much to Bob and Colleen and the others. But this is
my personal “thank you”, my “thanks mate”. Some writer said recently that the happiest
people are those who have lots of happy childhood memories. He’s right. All your
children and grandkids are happy people. We are a happy mob.
So thanks Dad. For Being Dad.
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