He wasn’t just my Dad. He was Dad. He was our Dad. He couldn’t tie ropes very well and our
camping tent seemed to collapse regularly each January holidays but you couldn’t beat our Dad. We didn’t talk about it but we all knew and agreed.
He was The Best. Mum and Dad had six children. Dad worked. Mum slaved. She cooked, washed and ironed every day. No auto washing machines in those days. It
was all done by hand in a giant tub. Our house had three bedrooms, one bathroom and one toilet which was on the back verandah. The house was small. It felt large.Three brothers shared one bedroom. I had the top bunk because I was the eldest.
Our only sister had a room to herself and, of course, Mum and Dad had the largest bedroom. It was really great until two more boys came along. So a sleep-out materialised one weekend in the backyard and from then on number 1 and number 2 sons were sharing that as the fourth bedroom.
We knew some families which had seven or eight kids so we didn’t feel like a big family.
There weren’t many toys and most of what we had were made by hand for us. I
had a rifle carved from one piece of wood. Even so, I still shot a lot of Red Indians.
Mum knitted our first footy jumpers. We looked pretty cool in them. Gen Y can
have their lonely, separate bedrooms. They’ll never know the warmth and fun of
fighting each other for a bit of space.
In 1990 I was forty seven years old and Dad was Seventy six. He and Mum were
living in the family home in Melbourne and I was married and living on the Gold
Coast. It is difficult to recall precisely why I wrote that letter to Dad but there
was an awareness that life wasn’t endless and that I really should try and tell him how I felt. “Letter to my Dad” was the result. Without doubt, it should
have been titled “Letter to our Dad” and if we had all contributed, it would have
been six times longer, because we all felt much the same about him. Different
memories from different eras from each of us of course but we were all in agreement about his cheerful nature and his role in local society. We never heard a bad word about Alexander Wilson simply because there weren’t any!
I also knew that I had let him down somehow. His first son, a classic under- achiever (I
have a wonderful future behind me). He had high hopes for me and he, foolishly, kept them
to the end. So I wrote the letter to Dad. A copy is attached for the record and interest. I
have two children. They, no doubt, think I’m an egotistical goose but as I grow older they
seem to love me a little bit more. At least, I hope so.
If your Mother or Father are still alive, I urge you to let them know how and why you love
and appreciate them. A few words on a birthday or Mothers Day card once a year isn’t
enough. And please, don’t even think about sending an email. There is a power and a
beauty in a handwritten letter and the rarer they become with the passing years, the
greater the impact they’ll carry. Just do it. Write it from your heart to their heart. Any words
that you can feel or find. They will love it and love you for it.
John A. Wilson, November 25 2013
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