Well what can I say about my father.
He is a man of extreme emotions.
He is probably the most pig headed, hard arsed bastard you've ever met. But as a kid, just when you were about ready to run away from home or take a vow to never speak to him again, he'd do something really funny or thoughtful.
You know he used to yell at our friends when they came for sleepovers if he thought they needed it. Usually over something stupid. I think one time someone ate the last of the bread and he went off. He would swear and yell and rant. They must have been terrified of him. I remember him giving a guy staying with us a terrible verbal because he rode the motorbike like a dickhead and scared cows I think it was. It was certainly something I didn't experience when I went to my friends houses. Having their fathers yell at me.
But then there was also the time when I was out driving around the farm with him, heading towards dusk, and he said he had something special to show me. I was about ten I guess. He went and parked near one of the dams and told me I had to be really still and quiet and when it was almost dark hundreds of kangaroos came down to the dam to drink. I'll never forget that.
Or the time he went out with the gun to shoot a feral cat that was hanging around, only to come back in and say he couldn't do it because the cat stayed right where it was and looked him straight in the eye. Within six months that cat was called Thomas and was sitting in the kitchen every night waiting for dinner.
So happy fathers day to my dad, a complicated, annoying, charming, intelligent, pig headed old bastard.
For fathers day I had a rummage through his old metal tin he keeps photos in and made him some tiles that Mum had mounted on black board.
Here he is with his Mum. He told me his Dad though he looked like s girl with his blonde curls so took him to the barber and had it all cut off.
This one you've seen before probably. Here he is with his Mum and Dad.
And with his friends before he left for Australia
He remembers this day well. Happier days I think, before the war started.
This was a shop that was owned by his grandfather. it was all destroyed during the war. He wrote about staying there
In the summers we went to the small island of Sark for our holidays. We used to spend two months there at my grandfathers weekender. It was a bungalow with a shop at the front and consisted of one big room with four little bedrooms around it, each one fitted out like a ships cabin with two bunks and a little porthole to open. The island was a lovely place. I could run wild, it was very safe for a child. We could walk to the beach and the fishing was good out in the boat and it was I suppose a bit of a fools paradise really.
After the war we went over to Sark to look at our lovely old bungalow. Well it was burnt to the ground, not a thing left. So there were no more holidays in Sark. I think Dad was sick at heart. Those were nasty blows for my father.