When you are older than your Father.
I had been anticipating November 26th for about three months. In the event the day came and went, and it was not until this evening (29th Nov) that I remembered the significance of that date.
For on November 26th I became older than my father was when he died. That’s given me pause for thought.
Dad was born in November 1910. He died in May 1974.
He was born into a world in which Britain ruled the waves, and the British Empire had never been more “glorious”. That Empire wealth was leached away in the Great War -1914/18, a war from which the comparatively few “heroes” returned to a Britain which was beginning to go broke.
They came back to be heroes, and were greeted with massive unemployment for all but the reviled and despised military “Officer Class”.
Winston Churchill was discredited on account of the disastrous Dardanelles campaign against the Turkish Navy. The working people never forgot that Churchill had mobilised troops against strikers in 1910/11.
By 1926 when Dad was 16, there was a General Strike in Great Britain. This too was broken by Churchill’s skill at propaganda when he launched a government newspaper “The British Gazette”. Troops again were mobilised, and warships were tied up in our home City of Bristol as well as in other places. This was Dad’s world.
Then came the Depression. Dad had planned to become an Engineer, but as family lore has it, the money my Grandmother had saved to finance Dad’s education had to be plunged in to the “family business” of plumbing. Dad became a plumber, trained by his father, who had been trained by his father. Three generations of plumbers. Dad lived a life of lower middle class respectability, without much money. His parents were fervent teetotalers, and Dad “took the pledge” which he honoured until quite late in his life.
He attended lectures and concerts at the Methodist Central Hall, and developed a lifelong love of classical music. He once attended an evangelistic campaign led by “Gypsy Smith”, and “went forward” at the Altar call.
He and Mum met in the same Methodist Church (respectable to say the least) and got wed on December 26th 1936. Less than three years later his father (my grandfather) was killed in a road accident, and Dad inherited the struggling family business.
When Dad was 29 World War II broke out. By this time Dad and Mum had two children, my sisters Maureen and Jean.
Dad could not serve in the military as he was blind in one eye. This was a source of great frustration and disappointment to him. He was a plumber and fire-watcher throughout the war, and was once taken to court and fined for leaving a light on overnight at his place of work.
My twin and I came along in 1944 (another older sister, Sylvia, had died soon after her birth).
The end of the War did not mean the end of hardship, and the British economy limped along until the mid sixties. By that time we were a family of nine children. Money was short.
Our earliest memories of Dad were of an angry loner. He played a very small part in family life, but would spend endless hours in our kitchen listening to classical music on the BBC.
Sunday dinner was often the occasion of some irritation which set Dad off in a rage. And they were dreadful.
I have often wondered about Dad’s anger. I think that it was born of frustration and disappointment. Life for him had always been hard.
But in the last 6- 8 years of his life, a new Dad emerged. He and Mum took vacations together, often with my five younger siblings. He would occasionally have a glass of lager. His humour came to the fore. He became much more sociable. He knew so much about so many things.
We came to enjoy our Dad, and he came to enjoy us. And it was at that time that he was taken away from us, dying of cancer. We were pissed about this. Mum was broken-hearted. He was so young, just 63.
And now I am 63, and older than Dad was when he died. That has given me pause for thought.
I am grateful for the simple things which Dad liked - a watercress sandwich in brown bread would bring him great pleasure.
I am grateful for his love of classical music which I inherited, at first by osmosis, (though Dad did not care for Chamber Music and Opera, which I adore.)
I will never forget his pride in me when I entered Seminary and was on track to be ordained. He longed to see my ordination, but never did.
Many times I think “Oh, Dad told me that, or taught me that”.
When I was 14 Dad was “moonlighting” by doing some plumbing for the parents of my school friend, David Rodgers. David and I were “hanging out” when his father said, “come and see this”. What we came to see was my father wiping a lead joint with a blow-lamp (blow-torch) in one hand, and a moleskin in the other. It was a work of art. I treasure the memory.
And now I am older than Dad was when he died.
For on November 26th I became older than my father was when he died. That’s given me pause for thought.
Dad was born in November 1910. He died in May 1974.
He was born into a world in which Britain ruled the waves, and the British Empire had never been more “glorious”. That Empire wealth was leached away in the Great War -1914/18, a war from which the comparatively few “heroes” returned to a Britain which was beginning to go broke.
They came back to be heroes, and were greeted with massive unemployment for all but the reviled and despised military “Officer Class”.
Winston Churchill was discredited on account of the disastrous Dardanelles campaign against the Turkish Navy. The working people never forgot that Churchill had mobilised troops against strikers in 1910/11.
By 1926 when Dad was 16, there was a General Strike in Great Britain. This too was broken by Churchill’s skill at propaganda when he launched a government newspaper “The British Gazette”. Troops again were mobilised, and warships were tied up in our home City of Bristol as well as in other places. This was Dad’s world.
Then came the Depression. Dad had planned to become an Engineer, but as family lore has it, the money my Grandmother had saved to finance Dad’s education had to be plunged in to the “family business” of plumbing. Dad became a plumber, trained by his father, who had been trained by his father. Three generations of plumbers. Dad lived a life of lower middle class respectability, without much money. His parents were fervent teetotalers, and Dad “took the pledge” which he honoured until quite late in his life.
He attended lectures and concerts at the Methodist Central Hall, and developed a lifelong love of classical music. He once attended an evangelistic campaign led by “Gypsy Smith”, and “went forward” at the Altar call.
He and Mum met in the same Methodist Church (respectable to say the least) and got wed on December 26th 1936. Less than three years later his father (my grandfather) was killed in a road accident, and Dad inherited the struggling family business.
When Dad was 29 World War II broke out. By this time Dad and Mum had two children, my sisters Maureen and Jean.
Dad could not serve in the military as he was blind in one eye. This was a source of great frustration and disappointment to him. He was a plumber and fire-watcher throughout the war, and was once taken to court and fined for leaving a light on overnight at his place of work.
My twin and I came along in 1944 (another older sister, Sylvia, had died soon after her birth).
The end of the War did not mean the end of hardship, and the British economy limped along until the mid sixties. By that time we were a family of nine children. Money was short.
Our earliest memories of Dad were of an angry loner. He played a very small part in family life, but would spend endless hours in our kitchen listening to classical music on the BBC.
Sunday dinner was often the occasion of some irritation which set Dad off in a rage. And they were dreadful.
I have often wondered about Dad’s anger. I think that it was born of frustration and disappointment. Life for him had always been hard.
But in the last 6- 8 years of his life, a new Dad emerged. He and Mum took vacations together, often with my five younger siblings. He would occasionally have a glass of lager. His humour came to the fore. He became much more sociable. He knew so much about so many things.
We came to enjoy our Dad, and he came to enjoy us. And it was at that time that he was taken away from us, dying of cancer. We were pissed about this. Mum was broken-hearted. He was so young, just 63.
And now I am 63, and older than Dad was when he died. That has given me pause for thought.
I am grateful for the simple things which Dad liked - a watercress sandwich in brown bread would bring him great pleasure.
I am grateful for his love of classical music which I inherited, at first by osmosis, (though Dad did not care for Chamber Music and Opera, which I adore.)
I will never forget his pride in me when I entered Seminary and was on track to be ordained. He longed to see my ordination, but never did.
Many times I think “Oh, Dad told me that, or taught me that”.
When I was 14 Dad was “moonlighting” by doing some plumbing for the parents of my school friend, David Rodgers. David and I were “hanging out” when his father said, “come and see this”. What we came to see was my father wiping a lead joint with a blow-lamp (blow-torch) in one hand, and a moleskin in the other. It was a work of art. I treasure the memory.
And now I am older than Dad was when he died.
Hi Bro. Great piece on Dad, it turns out we had the same Father. The last 6 years with him were the best. How often I to have thought "Dad taught me about that"
ReplyDeleteI to am glad that you are now older than him.
M