Dad

A year ago, or so it seems, I posted an entry about the last time I saw my father. I truthfully described getting away from him by stranding him on a ferry by getting on just as it was about to pull out, walking to the other end and disembarking, by jumping to the wharf. That was in Circular Que(sp?), Sydney, Aust.

That was written in just one mood. One has many moods. In the father department I was extraordinarily lucky. (1) He truly loved my mother and was faithful to her. (2) He was non-violent. (3) If I do say so myself, one look at my children shows he passed on fabulous genes: beauty, brains, strong bodies, height and vivid imaginations. None of his progeny are fat, not one! Ha ha ha ha. 

He was a drunk with amazing recuperative powers. He died at age 76, sober. A Catholic nun was so grateful and inspired by him she came to my home in NYC to convey a message. The Nun had a choice between going home to Ireland on vacation, or coming to New York. Apparently my father helped construct a Catholic school house in the country by offering his services, free, as an architect. Because he was quite tall, she arranged to have adjusted the drawing board at which he worked. To my over-heated, torrid imagination it seemed they loved each other: no harm, his wife, my mother, was long dead, and who says anything improper took place? Not me!

My younger brothers never seemed to get over their hatred for our father. I think they damaged themselves with their judgmental dismissal. Yes, he was a drunk. True he abandoned us when our mother died. He did to us what his English parents had done to him. Our father fled from England by 'Transporting' himself  (Ha ha) to Australia when in his 20s. The English never seemed to get the hang of family cohesion. Take a gander at the Royal family! What a cold-hearted, passionless mess! Yuch!  Whatever the case, my English father, always somewhat removed, always, lifelong, intimidated by social rank, money and position, had biology on his side even if his parents let him down, he had no religion, and punished himself for his failures by simply disappearing. The only thing he seemed to love about England was Charlie Chaplin and would reduce himself to helpless laughter by describing and acting out Charlie in the pawn shop.

I loved, and love you Dad. You had all the qualities I most prize: brains, imagination, daring, and consistency, and tenderness.

 

Barry, son of

             John Carrick Rennie Bartle