It Came Upon A Midnight Clear--The Loving Father
Without Prejudice
My Father and my siblings, round the time I was born, in Edinburgh . From left, Ian, Jackie, Jamie, (dec) and baby George. Note Dads dapper outfit .
I took a walk with my Father one more time, last night in my dreams. My hand in his, small, trusting, the tiny bones connected to trust, love, protection, plugged into my Father like a conduit to life and living, fun, music and laughter. He was a good man, a flawed man, as most men are, but a kind man, a compassionate man. I was very lucky.
My Dad worshipped women. His Mother, a Scottish lady who loved children and stood strong against her often brutal, pious, husband, my Grandfather. A man who was a wrestler, a strong man, so strong that legend has it he lifted up a car that fell on a man once in sheer adrenalin and saved a life. But a brute at home.
My Father dared to defy him once, Dad was 13 at the time and sitting at the dinner table with his two younger Sisters, Gladys and Heather and Brother Ian. Dad said the word " Fuck" and his Father felled him a blow that knocked my Dad across the other side of the room.
Right then and there my Father made a vow, that, ( as he wiped his bloodied snot from his face) he would never hit his children, not ever, no matter what. And it was a vow that remained true all of his life. Well, he had to clout George now and again on the bum, but he was a boy and could be down right annoying. George laughs about it, he knew he was annoying.
But for my Sisters and I, Dad was the ultimate loving Father. He just adored us, spoiled us, bought us treats, would not let the boys hit us or be nasty to us. This made for some fun times with my brothers as we could dob on them to our hearts content and we would be believed and they'd get in trouble. My older brother Ian, used to comment that he hated girls, because of his Sisters. I understand now why.
Mum would tell us to stop being little Klypies. A dobber is a Klypie, or tell tale Tit in Scottish )
She in turn adored the boys. She herself had a loving Father, George, who loved his brainy girl, Natalie, my Mother, and she had an older brother, Jack, who was funny, protective, a born leader and she idolised him.
I was blessed with great parents' a great start to any life.
The last walk I took with my Father was everything that he was as a Man and as a Dad.
He had a spare ticket to see The Phantom Of The Opera, he was romancing his new girlfriend at the time, a lady some 33 years younger than him. Her daughter couldn't go, so he asked me instead. It was Christmas. I didn't get out much as I was a Mother at the time of teenage girls. Big job on your own.
The theatre was up at the top of town, a tiny messy cinema and the only tickets available were up in the "Gods". We were perched up there, literally on the edge of our seats, to stop from teetering over, like eagles peering down from their eyrie at the stage below. Surrounded by guy ropes and the inner workings of a theatre.
Dad would lean over and say,
" Listen to this bit "
And close his eyes in reverie at the music.
Music, his Muse, his life, his love,
I closed my eyes and listened to " this bit " and " that bit "
And felt like the little girl that sat and listened to him rehearse on Sundays, after Church.
Thrilling to the chords he wrestled out of his 24 string Hawaiian guitar. Making it weep, soar, fly. My Mother in the background wishing he would stop dreaming of being a top flight musician and concentrate on his real job, panel beating. But she loved him and he her and although she wouldn't watch him rehearse, like us kids, she would hum along in the kitchen.
Up there in the Gods I was back to the Janette I was when I lived at home. Seeing my Father get himself ready for shows, church, his Masonic Lodge meetings, sitting on the side of the wide basin as he shaved and chattering to him. Smelling the Old Spice smell, watching as he carefully shaved his baby skin soft face. Fascinated.
He still smelled of Old Spice and California Oil and tobacco to me that night.
And after an after theatre supper we walked the Top Of Town, hand in hand. There was a church holding a Midnight Mass and we wandered in. It was full.. We stood back and joined in the beautiful old hymns, enjoying the warmth and light of the open doors, our voices joining in with the others. A drunken reveller singing raucously beside us. Just humans joined together in song, the great calmer of spirit.
" Are you happy, darling" he asked.
I said I was.
" Thars all I want " he replied.
And I knew it to be true. All he wanted for me, his daughter, was to be happy.
God Bless, " Papa " at Christmas, love Janette xoxo
My Father and my siblings, round the time I was born, in Edinburgh . From left, Ian, Jackie, Jamie, (dec) and baby George. Note Dads dapper outfit .
I took a walk with my Father one more time, last night in my dreams. My hand in his, small, trusting, the tiny bones connected to trust, love, protection, plugged into my Father like a conduit to life and living, fun, music and laughter. He was a good man, a flawed man, as most men are, but a kind man, a compassionate man. I was very lucky.
My Dad worshipped women. His Mother, a Scottish lady who loved children and stood strong against her often brutal, pious, husband, my Grandfather. A man who was a wrestler, a strong man, so strong that legend has it he lifted up a car that fell on a man once in sheer adrenalin and saved a life. But a brute at home.
My Father dared to defy him once, Dad was 13 at the time and sitting at the dinner table with his two younger Sisters, Gladys and Heather and Brother Ian. Dad said the word " Fuck" and his Father felled him a blow that knocked my Dad across the other side of the room.
Right then and there my Father made a vow, that, ( as he wiped his bloodied snot from his face) he would never hit his children, not ever, no matter what. And it was a vow that remained true all of his life. Well, he had to clout George now and again on the bum, but he was a boy and could be down right annoying. George laughs about it, he knew he was annoying.
But for my Sisters and I, Dad was the ultimate loving Father. He just adored us, spoiled us, bought us treats, would not let the boys hit us or be nasty to us. This made for some fun times with my brothers as we could dob on them to our hearts content and we would be believed and they'd get in trouble. My older brother Ian, used to comment that he hated girls, because of his Sisters. I understand now why.
Mum would tell us to stop being little Klypies. A dobber is a Klypie, or tell tale Tit in Scottish )
She in turn adored the boys. She herself had a loving Father, George, who loved his brainy girl, Natalie, my Mother, and she had an older brother, Jack, who was funny, protective, a born leader and she idolised him.
I was blessed with great parents' a great start to any life.
The last walk I took with my Father was everything that he was as a Man and as a Dad.
He had a spare ticket to see The Phantom Of The Opera, he was romancing his new girlfriend at the time, a lady some 33 years younger than him. Her daughter couldn't go, so he asked me instead. It was Christmas. I didn't get out much as I was a Mother at the time of teenage girls. Big job on your own.
The theatre was up at the top of town, a tiny messy cinema and the only tickets available were up in the "Gods". We were perched up there, literally on the edge of our seats, to stop from teetering over, like eagles peering down from their eyrie at the stage below. Surrounded by guy ropes and the inner workings of a theatre.
Dad would lean over and say,
" Listen to this bit "
And close his eyes in reverie at the music.
Music, his Muse, his life, his love,
I closed my eyes and listened to " this bit " and " that bit "
And felt like the little girl that sat and listened to him rehearse on Sundays, after Church.
Thrilling to the chords he wrestled out of his 24 string Hawaiian guitar. Making it weep, soar, fly. My Mother in the background wishing he would stop dreaming of being a top flight musician and concentrate on his real job, panel beating. But she loved him and he her and although she wouldn't watch him rehearse, like us kids, she would hum along in the kitchen.
Up there in the Gods I was back to the Janette I was when I lived at home. Seeing my Father get himself ready for shows, church, his Masonic Lodge meetings, sitting on the side of the wide basin as he shaved and chattering to him. Smelling the Old Spice smell, watching as he carefully shaved his baby skin soft face. Fascinated.
He still smelled of Old Spice and California Oil and tobacco to me that night.
And after an after theatre supper we walked the Top Of Town, hand in hand. There was a church holding a Midnight Mass and we wandered in. It was full.. We stood back and joined in the beautiful old hymns, enjoying the warmth and light of the open doors, our voices joining in with the others. A drunken reveller singing raucously beside us. Just humans joined together in song, the great calmer of spirit.
" Are you happy, darling" he asked.
I said I was.
" Thars all I want " he replied.
And I knew it to be true. All he wanted for me, his daughter, was to be happy.
God Bless, " Papa " at Christmas, love Janette xoxo
