MEMORIES & DREAMS

Nearly fifty years on from his death, memories of my Dad are different for each of his four children, very precious and still tinged with sadness. His irreverent sense of humour and tame jokes, his courage, his great enthusiasm for life and his love for pretty much all people have gone forever.  I am the eldest child, so I was lucky enough to have benefited from his youth, patience and the strength he had before illness catapulted him into premature old age, causing him to become irritated and frustrated.  When I remember what a wonderful father he was during the years of my childhood, I am filled both with gratitude and joy. It was Dad, who, when I was at Primary School struggling with arithmetic, brought his till home from the business after work.  Night after night he helped me to learn to count and to give change.  We also played cards, and cribbage (on the board he had made himself during the war out of wood and bullet casings) so that I would learn to count and multiply

It was her ears that saved her. The census collector saw them sticking up out of long grass as she was driving slowly along the country road, and stopped to investigate.  There, in a paddock surrounded by cows, abandoned to fate, was a shivering little scrap with dog bites all over her.  She was promptly uplifted by this kind woman and taken to her home.   As luck would have it – or maybe it was destiny - the census collector lived next door to our daughter and took the puppy over to show her, saying she would take it to the SPCA on Monday.  But Jen, knowing I had long yearned for a dog, phoned me immediately and said, ‘Mum, come over right now, I have a puppy for you.’  When Mr B and I got there we saw a broken, sad, hungry little pup wrapped up in a towel, being cuddled and kept warm by our son-in-law.  “I suppose you want it”, said Mr B.  It wasn’t really a question – he knew I did – even though he was reluctant.  And so, with great excitement on my part, some trepidation on hi

It was always going to be a winner, that shocking pink dress.  I LOVED it from the moment I saw it.  It was a loose shift-type of dress in crimplene with a tie belt in the same material.  My 16-year-old light must have shone like a homing beacon and I felt fabulous.  Being the era of mini skirts, the dress was, of course, far too long for my liking, but I could sew reasonably well and took the hem up to a (just) acceptable level.  I bought some perfume – Shocking by Schiaparelli – which came in a shocking pink box.  It was musky and sweet and I doused myself in the scent until it made me cough and sneeze. 1968 was a great year.  I was coming slowly out of my little-girl shell, learning about being a young woman.  Mum gave me a book on etiquette – how to stand tall; how to peel your gloves off with aplomb (one finger at a time); how to walk with an umbrella; how to use cutlery and glassware correctly, etc.  I practised conscientiously until I had everything just so. School w