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I must confess that my father and I have had a strange relationship over the
years. Circumstances happened as such that my father had to raise me by
himself and as he had to work not only his day job, but also in the evening
for us to get by. I was usually left to my own devises. I think that most of
my childhood was spent with the pages of books, for you see within those
pages I found that I could travel the world, do amazing stunts, and even be
part of the perfect family. Times got hard and my father was made
redundant and we ultimately emigrated from England to California in the
1980’s. I understand now how difficult it must have been for my father, a
man in his fifties, to move to a foreign country far away from all he knew
to attempt to make a new life for himself. But attempt it he did, and what
is more, he succeeded beyond what he ever considered. He soon found that he
was living the American dream to the fullest.
My father was born into a working class family in England in 1927. His
father passed away when he was just eight of lung cancer caused no doubt
from his short lifetime of working with coal. This left his mother all by
herself to raise him and his older brother and sister. A hard task even
today, but far harder back in the days when women were still often regarded
as second-class citizens to men. This meant my father had an incredibly
tough childhood as even the basics were hard to come by. There were many of
times he went to bed hungry, in their small council house, and cold. Yet, I
realized that this created a fire inside of him. By the age of fourteen he
and his older brother were working full time and supporting the family.
My father is a private man and much of his love of the written word was
hidden until recently even from me. A short time ago we had a man-to-man
conversation. It appears that he is proud beyond compare of my success at
writing. (And I use the word success in the broadest of terms.) He, with
tears in his eyes, explained that he too spent his childhood lost in books,
going to the lending library several times a week. I also discovered
another secret he had never before shared with me; that he also had a great
passion for writing at a young age. However, in a poor working class family
in the 1930’s Britain this was frowned upon, for writing was not deemed an
appropriate interest and certainly not a career choice. A few years later he
finally found music as a way to express himself—and had some great success
at it—alongside his full time engineering career.
As we chatted, like we had never done before, I asked him what books he
enjoyed as a child. He told me that his earliest memories were the Just
William series by Richard Crompton. He explained how later on in
life he became enamored with the Welsh working class hero Thomas Dylan…I
nodded to myself thoughtfully as he spoke. I was definitely my father’s son.
Several weeks ago I realized that Father’s Day was fast approaching and I
wondered what on Earth I could buy this self-made man who now had
everything. Then I had a beautiful idea.
Yesterday, as my eleven-year-old son and I watched with great
interest, my seventy-seven year old father unwrapped his Gifts…The first
present he pulled from the gift bag was as you might have guessed; book— a
magnificently illustrated compilation of poetry with a father /son theme…His
eyes seemed to sparkle as he opened it and he gleefully read aloud the first
poem that he caught his attention..
I then prompted him to delve further into the gift bag. Several seconds
later he retrieved a second book, clumsily wrapped in gold tissue. My son
and I watched on in anticipation as a look of curiosity washed over his
face. Then with still strong hands he gently tore away the paper. It was a
beautiful moment when he comprehended what he was holding—a 1926 first
edition of Just William which I had discovered over the wonderful
internet at an English bookstore. I have to admit I suspected that he would
appreciate the gift. Yet, I had no idea just how moved he would be. The
incredible, albeit faded, book even contained advertisements on the back
pages. My father, with an almost childlike laugh informed me that he would
have held the identical book in his hands almost seventy years ago…
Yes, it was a very special and memorable Father’s Day...
© 2006 P. S. Gifford |
