Father’s Day 2011

Another Father’s Day with the memories and the grief of a lost opportunity.

The Living Years (Rutherford/Robertson)

Every generation
Blames the one before
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door

I know that I’m a prisoner
To all my Father held so dear
I know that I’m a hostage
To all his hopes and fears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years

In 1992 my father, Alex, died. It was the end of a long period of loss in my life that haunts me still. I really “lost” my father when I was a young teenager. We just stopped talking and I began to learn to live alone without an adult mentor.

Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye

I wasn’t there that morning
When my Father passed away
I didn’t get to tell him
All the things I had to say

My father was my hero. I was the eldest son and I suppose I cherished that early experience of “first claim” to his love and attention. In the shrine I designed to his memory there are two photos of Dad and me, just the two of us. They are the only photos ever taken of just us two. In one he is holding me  as a new babe and gazing down into my eyes. The other is a classic of Dad supporting me on his old “28 inch” bike with me in a baby dress of a typical one year old of the era!!! The bike was a great symbol of those early years. I have so many happy memories of Dad taking me for a “dink” sitting on the bar while he peddled. I still remember the nervous thrill of riding that same bike before I could even reach the seat. Somehow, once I learnt to ride on my own everything changed.

My father gave me inspiration. His faith was a traditional Catholicism with a passion for the poor and the marginalised. He would often take me with him to his voluntary work at the night shelter for the homeless in Geelong. Later in my teens I remember being in awe when I heard a testimonial to Dad and stories I never knew were made public of his commitment to the work of “Vinnies”

Our relationship was a strange bonding through unspoken words. I was a headstrong adolescent with a fiery temper that must have worried him. I was also an inquisitive young gay boy which I suspect he knew and carried inside with great anxiety and fear. Our religion and our culture didn’t allow us to explore the curiosity and libido inside me.

I miss my Dad, I miss all we could have been for each other. As he lay dying the  “Living Years” lyrics were all around me like a spirit calling me to face the loss of so much. His funeral was a great tribute,although i do wish we had  played the song he told me he  wanted: Nearer My God to Thee.

Though like the wanderer,
The sun gone down,
Darkness be over me,
My rest a stone,
Yet in my dreams I’d be
Nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer to thee!

I am like my father in many ways. I have his strength and resilience. I have his passion and I suspect I share much of his quiet reserve about his inner life………..yet in a way this writing is a long step from “quiet reserve”!! He served in Borneo and  PNG during WWII. Yet he never marched in an ANZAC parade and never really spoke of what happened to him during those frightful years. We both hide much of our lives deep inside where no-one has access, except perhaps the spirit of healing who alone can break through the heavy heart .RIP my loving Dad. I miss you still.

A week after my father died, my youngest brother,  married. The memories of piggy-backing the my favourite brother to bed and our friendship across eight years of difference has also changed with the passage of time. As a gay man who came out late in a very conservative family I have had to learn to live alone in lots of ways. Neither our religion nor our family heritage encouraged difference. Sometimes it’s tough being the “Rainbow Sheep” in the family.