These are the things I knew about dad's childhood:
His father was very strict and harsh on him. If dad didn't clean and polish all the family shoes before he went to bed, his father would wake him up and make him get up in the cold and dark and polish them. Once dad and his brother Jim went to work with their father in Bluff, and were told to meet him at 4pm, no later, to go home with him in the car. They were late and their father just left them in Bluff to find their own way home. Once dad got 98% in a maths test at school and his father was only interested in "why didn't you get 100%?". He was harsh, and spent Sundays at his mother's house without nana and the kids. He used to be a Baptist, but became a Catholic so he could marry nana. That seemed to explain everything -- although I hate to write that, it's what I thought when I was a kid -- if he had been a real Catholic, he wouldn't have been like that.
It's interesting that I didn't hear these stories from dad. Mum told them to me. Maybe dad told them to her. I do remember feeling that these stories were told to make us feel a bit sorry for dad -- to explain why he was quite strict with us. But it was also to tell us how lucky were -- how charmed our childhood was. There was definitely a theme going on there. Poor dad has to work so hard to pay for all the stuff you kids need, and poor dad had a harsh upbringing, and you've got nothing to complain about.
So recently when Jim wrote down some of his memories about his father, I was surprised to read about what an interesting, well-rounded, and genuinely caring man Sid (their father) seemed to be. I asked Jim about the stories I'd heard growing up, and he had a totally different slant on them.
Dad and Jim did lose track of time that day in Bluff, and did indeed miss the ride in the car with their father, who had to be back in Invercargill for some business. Sid gave his business partner money to buy them bus tickets back home -- they were not abandoned cruelly, in Bluff, to find their own way home.
The best one though was the 98% maths result. Apparently Sid got obsessed with this test because he thought dad actually got all the answers right, and that the teacher made a mistake giving him 98%. He should have had 100%! He went through and through the test, convinced his son was wronged with the result, and was going to take it to the school and set things right. Apparently nana also went through the test, saw exactly what mistake dad had made, and stopped her husband from making a spectacle of himself. Wow. What a different story. A father ignoring his son's achievement and focussing on the failing -- OR, a father convinced his son had been short-changed and determined to put things right.
So, it's with that in mind that I resume my story telling. At times I may have got the totally wrong end of the stick. That's the charm of memories and experiences I suppose. I still feel nervous about people reading this and thinking "WTF? That's not what happened!" We all want to know the truth. But we all carry around a different version of it.
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So was dad really strict? I don't think so. It's not in the top 5 things I'd say about him. He expected us to behave ourselves, but he was very clear about what that meant -- he was fair in that way. I don't ever remember getting a smack or any physical punishment from him. I do remember him sitting me on his knee, telling me what I had done was wrong, and why, and why it was a disappointment to him. (I have no idea what I did. I was obsessively law abiding as a child.) And I remember feeling utterly mortified and ashamed, and saying "Can't you stop growling, and just give me a smack and let me go?" And I think dad laughed. He laughed when he told that story in later years, the time Susie asked for a smack!
Dad was predictable and reasonable. At least to me. He felt like a stable force in a chaotic household, where mum was often a disturbing emotional whirlwind, difficult to navigate around. I would never say I felt close to dad, but I was desperate to be close, and I tried different tactics to achieve it. As an adult, I really did feel like dad was my only sane connection to the family -- he was rational and trustworthy, and I could relate to him, I could hide behind him a bit, and he gave the whole thing a sense of normalcy that was decidedly lacking without him. I was devastated when he died. My whole family connection disintegrated, and I felt exposed and terrified. My whole connection with the family had, until that time, been conducted through mum and dad. I didn't know my sisters as adults. My relationship with mum was shallow -- we were complete mysteries to each other. But more on that later.
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Dad was very against tertiary education, and he made no secret of the fact that he thought going to university was a complete waste of time. He used to complain loudly about the students he was forced to hire in the university holidays, who "think they know everything and know nothing". Total waste of time! When I eventually got up the courage to leave home and make my own way in the world, opting to start with a university degree to propel me into my bright new future, he argued against it. "Why would you leave a perfectly good job to do this? You'll spend three years and a load of money, and you'll get a degree, and then if you do find a job, you'll earn less than you're earning now!!" All true. But I wasn't going to university to get a degree. I was going to university to get the fuck out of the house that was suffocating me. University was a safe choice because the nearest one was several hundred miles from home! I went. Mum and dad never really knew what I was studying. They always asked me, every holidays, "what are you doing there anyway?" I paid for my own education, but when the holidays were over, and it was time to go back, dad would say "how are you getting back to Christchurch?" And I'd say, "I thought I'd hitch-hike." And dad would mysteriously have a win on the horses that day, enough to buy me a train or plane ticket. It was a bit of an in joke. I never intended to hitch-hike.
Mum and dad did come up to Christchurch for my graduation though. I was really surprised. Dad took time off work, they left the other kids behind, and came to the ceremony and the dinner with my friends and their parents. I really was surprised about that.
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I don't remember these incidents, but they are things I've been told many times. When I was a baby I liked to sleep in the bed with mum and dad. One night I had very wet nappies, and sat down heavily on dad's face while he was sleeping, and gave him a good soaking. I also projectile vomited on his face. (I think most babies do that to their parents, but in my own mind, I was a champion at it.)
Eventually I was banned from sleeping in their bed, but I got up in the night and crawled down the hall way, towards their room. I didn't make it the whole way, being content to put my head on dad's shoes and sleep on them instead. Just for the record, dad's shoes were in the hall way because they smelled bad, and they didn't want them stinking up the bedroom.
The whole smell thing is very potent. I still smell dad occasionally. If I'm close enough to someone who's drinking beer, the smell takes me right back to sitting on dad's knee as a little kid. And there were times when I was drinking regularly, when I'd smell my own sweat and totally smell dad. I think it must be the smell of alcohol being processed by the body. I don't have that smell any more. Another trace of dad gone.
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Apparently dad's feet smelled bad because when he was a kid he ran barefoot through some ashes and burned the bottom of his feet. Ever since then they sweated a lot and smelled funny. Hmmm. Don't know about that one. I think nylon socks and vinyl shoes might have been the reason.
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Me: This writing is feeling kind of lame today.
She: Don't judge it. Your job is just to write it.
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