In Honour Of Father's Day

In honour of father's day I would like to go back to my father's diaries, to his recollections of his own father, who sadly died a few years before I was born.

I was child number 6; there were 3 more children after me, making a grand total of 9 children. My sister Violet was child number 5, but she died in infancy. She was born earlier in the war, filling the 6-year gap between Gordon’s birth and mine.

Two children born in the middle of a war; why was Father not fighting in the trenches? Luckily for his family, Father was in a “reserved” occupation (he and his boss were responsible for maintaining the roads in Droxford and region), and it was considered more important for him to be doing his job in England than to be sent to France as “cannon fodder”.

Only one incident from my early years stands out, as sharp now as when it happened. I suspect it remains clear because I am reminded of it whenever I visit my old home, where my brother Gordon’s widow, Esther, still lives.

It is a small house, but it has a large garden of mature fruit trees: apples, plums, and one large pear tree. In those days, the pear tree bore excellent fruit that was only accessible with a ladder. One day, Father was way up the ladder, with little Sid on the grass below. “Throw me down a ripe one, Dad,” I said. Dad did, and the pear struck me square on my nose with the force of a bullet. Loud wails from me and blood everywhere. It took hours to stop the bleeding, with lots of cold, wet flannels. “Put a key down his back”, was suggested, and a large iron key was found and duly slipped under my shirt. When the bleeding finally ceased, the key was retrieved, and Father was severely scolded by Mother who commented, “You should have had more sense!”, or words to that effect.

The pear tree is still in the garden, but it is now old, ivy-infested, and slowly dying. It must be all of one hundred years old. Occasionally it still bears fruit but the pears are mean little things and tasteless. One day soon, it will fall over.

Another memory relates to the pear tree – Father was not a religious man but he followed the biblical command: Six days shalt though labour and rest on the seventh. Just once he broke that rule. The week had been wet and on Sunday the sun shone. The pears needing picking, so I suppose Father hoped God would forgive him if he just once worked on a Sunday. He set the ladder against the pear tree. Part way up the ladder, a rung broke and Father slithered down to end up on his back. He swore it was God’s punishment for doing work on a Sunday and never broke his rule again.

Happy Fathers Day !