I’m not going to do my father justice with this piece. It’s almost impossible to find words that can convey the depth of his selflessness and love.
Love’s a funny word, and people don’t instantly associate it with men from my era, let alone my father’s. We older men aren’t exactly demonstrative in shows of affection. My father didn’t need to be overly demonstrative; he just lived his love for others every day. Every single day.
That’s not to say my father was soft, far from it. He was a man’s man, with a refined, dignified touch. He was good with his hands. Diligent at his job, not afraid of hard work, and wasn’t one to shirk an issue. He also loved music and would never say no to a beer.
But from my point of view, the key thing was that Dad was just about the perfect father. He was a great role model (except for his love of the monarchy – that was a bridge too far, Dad), but he never insisted that we pursue a particular path. He let us find our way; still, he was always there to help when asked. He’d offer suggestions, but he would never press the point.
He could take the piss better than most, and it took me well into my twenties to understand how delightfully funny he was, often willingly making himself the tagline, while at other times winding me up like one of those old battling tops. But there was always a kindness and gentleness about him, even when he was winding me up.
I have so many memories I want to share and no real way to string them together, so I’m just going to throw it all out there in a wild sort of memory dump.
Music
I owe my love of music and musicianship to my father. When I was a kid, the Corio Shire Band seemed to be a permanent fixture in our life. Dad played the E-flat bass (more commonly called a Tuba). It wasn’t the most prestigious part of the band, but an essential cog. He loved being part of it and was an integral member. They would practice every Sunday morning and one weeknight out at the stables at Osborne House in Corio. But Dad’s love of music did not end there. He was always playing jazz records, everything from Glenn Miller to Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra. His all-time favourite, though, was the one and only Louis Armstrong. Sometimes he would take the time to explain to me what was going on with solos. He taught me to read music when I was no more than seven, and he soon had me knowing how to get some sound out of a tenor horn and later a baritone. My brother and I became junior members of his brass band, but sadly, neither of us really “got” the whole brass thing. Still, he shared music with us. He made a rudimentary string bass out of a tea chest, and once sent me off to primary school carrying his homemade lager phone ( a rather large percussion instrument consisting of a pole with dozens, perhaps hundreds of beer bottle tops attached to it)
He passed that love of music on to both Grant and me as we pursued our own paths through the guitar. When I was in my late teens, he took me to see the Tex Beneke big band play, and later that year I convinced him to accompany me to see Rory Gallagher (still the best concert I ever saw). I’m not sure how he took Rory ( it was loud), but he could appreciate the rhythm section of Ted McKenna and Gary McEvoy.
Collingwood and Australian Rules Football
We grew up in Geelong, and Dad had always barracked for Collingwood. He convinced me to do the same, and the game and the club have been an essential part of my life ever since. He brought a Sherrin football home when I was just four years old. The thing was never out of my hands, and when I expressed interest in playing Little League, my parents didn’t just encourage me; they attended every game. Within 12 months, Dad had taken on team manager responsibilities, and my brother was orange boy. For roughly an hour and a half every week, I was as close to heaven as a small boy could be.
He took me to my first VFL/AFL game when I was maybe four years old. Collingwood were playing Geelong, and I pestered Dad for about two weeks to go. We stood on the hill, and he made stilts for me to climb up so I could see. The next year he took me to Victoria Park. Later on, he scrounged some tickets to see a Preliminary Final. Every time, he went out of his way to give me an experience that was and still is treasured (even though the Pies lost that Preliminary Final). It wasn’t until much later that I realised that Dad wasn’t that much into footy. But he encouraged and fostered my love of the game anyway.
Volkswagen Beetles and Karmann Ghias
I know my parents owned a car before the little red Volkswagen Beetle, but I have no memory of it. The Beetle remains a firm childhood memory. I can remember going for drives in it and sitting in the front seat while Dad tested me on the make and models of all the approaching cars. Later, we traded the Beetle for a Volkswagen sedan. A Kingswood, then a Valiant followed, but it was the Beetle that I remember best.
The Beetle obviously meant a lot to Dad. When he reached middle age, he started to restore old Beetles to their original state. He was meticulous and exact, leaving no stone unturned as he faithfully restored these cars to original factory condition. His efforts earned him awards at Volkswagen and classic car shows, and he later moved on to a Karmann Ghia. The same methodology and patience were employed to deliver a restored vehicle that looked like it had rolled off the assembly line onto the showroom floor.
Politics
While I lived at home, Dad and I were at opposite ends of the political spectrum. We had some fierce debates. Dad always remained good-tempered, and at times wore an expression that said, “you’ll learn.” I don’t know if I’ve learned that much, but over the past decade or so, I’ve found we’re in furious agreement on most occasions.
As I was entering my teenage years, Australia was enduring one of its most turbulent and divisive periods in politics. I remember an ad the DLP ran that targeted entrenched Liberal Premier Henry Bolte. When I commented to Dad that I thought the ad was funny, he took a deep breath and patiently explain to me why he not only disagreed, but thought the ad was patently disrespectful. Respect was an enormous issue for Dad. People deserved it until they proved that they did not. In Dad’s eyes, the Whitlam government proved beyond a shadow of doubt that they were not worthy of his respect, the kicker being the abolition of God Save the Queen as the national anthem. He never forgave them for that.
Black and White TV
In the early days of Australian Television, Australian audiences received regular episodes of American TV “hits.” Programs like The Rifleman, Gunsmoke, The Texas Rangers, Robin Hood and Batman were on high rotation. Dad loved all the Westerns, but he especially enjoyed Batman. I realised years later that he was attracted to all the humour that went straight over my head. But Dad’s passion when it came to movies/TV was John Wayne. I will always remember my Dad whenever I hear or see the Duke in any movie, poster, or internet meme.
Random Memories
When I think of Dad, I feel a curious sense of warmth and safety, combined with a near “English aesthetic” (Dad wasn’t English, but he identified with the British monarchy and Empire). I remember him getting hold of large flags in all kinds of designs and putting them all over the backyard for a very early birthday party of mine. He spent years perfecting homebrewing, and I’ll always remember those early years of brewing hops, then fermenting the brew in a large plastic garbage bin, before bottling 48 bottles of beer and inevitably pouring the lot down the sink. But he got better, so much so that he considered it drinkable enough to share with his friends and colleagues. Someone printed up some labels for him. They called the brew “Ron’s Ruin.” I’m not sure when the labelling stopped, but I remember him being highly amused and proud. Then there was his beautifully preserved three-rail Triang-Hornby train set, which he shared with us when we were old enough to appreciate it.
Later, in the years just before I left home, he would urge me, “To drink some milk, and put a lining on my stomach,” before I went out. There was no sense of admonishment or correction, just an acceptance that I was going through a phase.
Later Memories
Once I was married and settled down in another town, Dad was always willing to help when asked. He helped build fences, paint houses and lay brick pavers. These were great days, with the two of us working side by side, sharing a laugh and looking forward to one or two cold ones afterwards. He never pushed me to do more; he made helpful suggestions without making me feel like an idiot, and he waited for me to decide what was next. He let me breathe, and that’s so important.
The only time he ever took the initiative was when I mentioned that I was thinking about building a cubby house. He offered to help and said he would be up the next weekend. He arrived with a trailer with the cubby basically pre-built. All we had to do was assemble it. My daughters loved that cubby and spent God knows how many hours in it. That was the point. He was grateful to be able to lend his expertise and know how to give his grandkids something special. He loved all his grandkids equally and willingly gave his time to each of them. They will all remember him with great love and affection.
So will I.
Goodbye for now, Dad.
I love you.