Unforgettable Nat King Cole
Without Prejudice
Every time I hear Nat King Cole sing " Unforgettable " I hear my Father sing. That is exactly how he sounded, dulcet tones, guitar playing and I once again am the little girl child sitting on the floor, listening. Every Sunday in Port Augusta before Jamie died. I would have been five.
I was probably wearing my Annie Oakley cowgirl outfit and at least one of my brothers would have his Davey Crockett with raccoon tail, cap on.
Dad would stamp one foot for rhythm, his glasses pushed up on to his head and he would make marks on the music sheet. All neat and perfect. Jackie my older sister would sing at 10 and Ian too. Far better than me, I was a backing singer at best.
Perry Como and Johnny Ray were there in old records played on a record player. The man down the street had a proper gramophone with the huge needle and big fluted speaker. I was fascinated by it. It was so very old. My Dad was young then, handsome and funny, always funny. His Mother was to die soon after and I will never forget him standing in the hall, leaning into the wall in grief and crying.
We had only been in Australia two years then and Scotland where my granny died was an ocean and a life time away. I had no recollection of her or of Scotland where I was born in the beautiful city of Edinburgh. She was a McKenzie, my Granny Bruckshaw. A lady, Dad said. Unlike his Dad who was a bit of a brute and raised his family in a table thumping, strict Presbyterian almost pious way.
He hit my Father at 14 once, knocked him from his chair at the family dinner table for swearing. Dad did it deliberately as he hated him. As he picked himself up off the floor in the dining room he made a vow to never hit his own children. He never did, except to give George a whack once or twice but George was a bugger of a kid. My Mother's blue eyed boy.
Legend has it my Grandfather Bruckshaw, a coach, builder, lifted a car off a man once, the adrenalin kicking in, giving him the strength of ten men. Legend has it that he was also a wrestler, my Grandfather Bruckshaw. A man of sheer strength.
Not a pleasant man. When Dad took my Sister Jackie to meet him in Scotland he answered the door with a
"What are you doing here ?"
Dad and his Dad having not laid eyes on each other for at least ten years.
But they went to the cave of Robert The Bruce at least, so the trip to Scotland from Yorkshire was not a complete waste of time. Dad telling us the tale of Robert The Bruce and the spider. Jackie and Dad may have travelled up from Sunderland where they played a lot of shows at Working Men's Clubs. Tough crowds.
To be continued.........
Every time I hear Nat King Cole sing " Unforgettable " I hear my Father sing. That is exactly how he sounded, dulcet tones, guitar playing and I once again am the little girl child sitting on the floor, listening. Every Sunday in Port Augusta before Jamie died. I would have been five.
I was probably wearing my Annie Oakley cowgirl outfit and at least one of my brothers would have his Davey Crockett with raccoon tail, cap on.
Dad would stamp one foot for rhythm, his glasses pushed up on to his head and he would make marks on the music sheet. All neat and perfect. Jackie my older sister would sing at 10 and Ian too. Far better than me, I was a backing singer at best.
Perry Como and Johnny Ray were there in old records played on a record player. The man down the street had a proper gramophone with the huge needle and big fluted speaker. I was fascinated by it. It was so very old. My Dad was young then, handsome and funny, always funny. His Mother was to die soon after and I will never forget him standing in the hall, leaning into the wall in grief and crying.
We had only been in Australia two years then and Scotland where my granny died was an ocean and a life time away. I had no recollection of her or of Scotland where I was born in the beautiful city of Edinburgh. She was a McKenzie, my Granny Bruckshaw. A lady, Dad said. Unlike his Dad who was a bit of a brute and raised his family in a table thumping, strict Presbyterian almost pious way.
He hit my Father at 14 once, knocked him from his chair at the family dinner table for swearing. Dad did it deliberately as he hated him. As he picked himself up off the floor in the dining room he made a vow to never hit his own children. He never did, except to give George a whack once or twice but George was a bugger of a kid. My Mother's blue eyed boy.
Legend has it my Grandfather Bruckshaw, a coach, builder, lifted a car off a man once, the adrenalin kicking in, giving him the strength of ten men. Legend has it that he was also a wrestler, my Grandfather Bruckshaw. A man of sheer strength.
Not a pleasant man. When Dad took my Sister Jackie to meet him in Scotland he answered the door with a
"What are you doing here ?"
Dad and his Dad having not laid eyes on each other for at least ten years.
But they went to the cave of Robert The Bruce at least, so the trip to Scotland from Yorkshire was not a complete waste of time. Dad telling us the tale of Robert The Bruce and the spider. Jackie and Dad may have travelled up from Sunderland where they played a lot of shows at Working Men's Clubs. Tough crowds.
To be continued.........
